Desk Jockey

10thMar. × ’09

I like to be a nice person, I give money to homeless people, despite my friend saying “they’re only going to spend it on drugs.” (Between you and me, if that piss riddled dude can score drugs with the $2 I gave them, then my dealer is ripping me off like a mother bitch) I apologise when I bump into strangers, I always ask before taking the last piece of food from a plate and I believe that on the whole, people are more good than evil.
That was until I worked in this office. You know how most people will try to convince you that their job isn’t as shitty as it clearly is, by clutching at the straw of “Well, the people are really nice.” Well, I can’t even do that. Although when you think about it, that’s as bad as introducing your new girlfriend to your parents and saying  “Well, she’s got thumbs.

I currently sit in a cubicle, that for the lack of a small indonesian child, you’d swear was a sweatshop. Surrounding me is a small greek dwarf and a lanky man with undescended testicles. Both have the most excruciatingly high voices and all they do is moan about interest rates. For some reason once you pass forty, conversations about interest rates become the norm. Personally, I don’t have any interest at any rate. It’s more of a national obsession than football and they treat it in much the same way. They boo when it’s bad and yay when it’s good. They’re just happy to be on the home team.
The more they lower the rates, the more I turn up the volume on my headphones. Sadly one of the two has a unique frequency to his jockey pitched whining that cuts through the noise cancelation feature on my earbuds. His mosquito whinge penetrates through electro, prog rock and post punk – nothing can stop it. It’s doing my head in. On a scale of one to ‘die you chubby castrato’… well… you can guess.

I think the problem is exacerbated by his inability to use a phone. He talks louder depending on the geographical location of the person he’s chatting to. If they’re on the other side of the country,  he feels he has to yell so they’ll hear him. He’s the type of guy that orders chinese food by miming the animal he wishes to eat. I’ve begun to fantasise putting child porn on his computer and telling our boss. His voice is so shrill that I imagine he’s had a string of pet dogs that have all mysteriously committed suicide, just to taste the sweet kiss of silence. I can see him at the back door scratching his spherical head in amazement that another dog has managed to find a gun and somehow chew down on the barrel. Again.

In short, the next time you see a homeless guy who smells like week old chicken, give him $2 for drugs – he probably worked in an office.

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One Comment

  1. pgirl
    Posted March 18, 2009 at 7:35 PM | Permalink

    You, sir, are a god of dry wit. You may never discontinue this. I will read on and look forward to doing so.

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