Wife Imprisonment

Oct. × ’09

I often wonder what it would be like to be married. To have that person you’re content with and slowly graduate through the ranks of coupledom. Going from not breaking wind in each other’s company, to brushing your teeth whilst they poo and discuss last night’s episode of the West Wing. I suspect you give up the occasional ecstatic highs for a more consistent baseline contentment, and I’m fine with that. It seems like a good deal really. Although sometimes I chat with the guys in the office and it makes me think twice.

Last night I stuck around for some after work drinks. We were highly conscious of being those people that meet up to pit our annoyances against each other. Much like a game of snap we were matching up identical grievances, sharing in the mutual frustrations of our day. Eventually Mark, a short deliberately British man whose life motto is ‘it’s never too early to start worrying’, insisted we stick to non-work related topics.

There was a heavy silence, dominated by the realisation that most of our life was woven from reports, unanswered voice mail and strategy meetings. Mark broke the quiet with the announcement of a game of golf he intended to play this weekend. He told us that all he had to do was finish up some of his ‘man chores’. I asked what constituted a ‘man chore’. Mark explained that for every man chore he finishes, his wife allocates a golf credit, get enough of those and he’s allowed to play a whole game of golf. Around the table you could audibly hear eyebrows raising, even those in wedlock were wide-eyed with disbelief. Mark just grinned back at us, looking awfully pleased with the number of credits he’s earned.

I asked “What else is in the jar?

Mark asked what jar I meant, to which I replied “The jar your wife keeps your testicles in

We all erupted into laughter, except for Mark. His only comment was that his wife didn’t like him to use the word testicles, instead he had to call them ‘knicker glands

Being ejected from a bar because you can’t stop spraying beer out your nose is oddly satisfying.

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The Last Walt

Oct. × ’09

I realise that I really shouldn’t drink coffee at work. Riding the agitated chemical wave makes my chest tighten and I’m more than a little disturbed at the Pavlovian response of my bowels. Just the smell of Colombian juice gets my sphincter twitching like a junkie’s eye. Still, when my boss actually offers to buy me a cup, it’s such a rarity that I can only jump at the chance to be reimbursed for the huge number of skinny-lattes I’ve bought for him.

We crossed from the elevator to the café at the bottom of our office building and my boss asked if I saw the email that just went out. I haven’t, but apparently Walt has resigned. These resignations have been happening with alarming regularity, only they’re never referred to as resignations. We just get an email saying “…will no longer be with us and we wish them all the best” No explanations. Were they fired or did they resign? Who knows, they’re just gone and that seems motivation enough for everyone to stay tight-lipped.

Walt is a mainstay of the company, I think he’s been there since year one. He’s a little deaf and was one of the first people to receive a cochlear implant. I always liked him because he swore like a sailor. Worse than in fact, he’d start talking and sailors would take out a pad & pen, jotting down phrases like “whore-knuckle” and “poof-lips” for future use. Although, he’d say it with the distortion of a deaf person who overly commits to vowels, which upgraded his word filth from crass to charming.

I asked why Walt left and my boss laughs like a ruptured bastard. They’ve never gotten along and he proceeds to explain that at last week’s once-a-month cake meeting, which I missed out on, he told people Walt had tended his resignation. The rumour caught on, and fuelled by the sugary high of fake cream, ended up reaching our CEO. The boss of bosses made a huge speech about the number of years Walt put in and how sad he was to see him go. Apparently some of the ladies from accounts teared up at the news of his departure. The poor fellow ended up going along with it, because he didn’t have the heart to correct all the well wishers.

I can’t tell if my boss is an evil genius or a gifted idiot. He had someone removed from the company without lifting a finger and still freaks out when that same finger nudges the insert key and “the computer is stealing his words

Oh and guess who forgot their wallet and had to buy their boss a coffee – again.

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You Are Who You Eat

Oct. × ’09

At least once a week I join my colleagues for a two-beer lunch. This had started out as purely a Friday affair, but has now bled over into Monday. I’ve also been rounding up everyone to go ten minutes earlier so that we’re not followed by one of our IT guys, Ulrich. I’m not that fussed if he comes, but he seems to put everyone on edge. Particularly when he giggles to himself over anyone eating anything even remotely phallic. Our lunch crew has learned to stick to burgers, salads and soups, although we avoid any soup described as ‘creamy’ for just the same reason.

I think he’s cottoned on to our escape plan, as he was already at the pub when we arrived for lunch. Nina, our receptionist, was meeting her sister there for lunch so we had a few of the more attractive girls from our office eating with us. Ulrich suggested we all try the sausages. No one ordered them.

There is no secret that Nina is a bit of a looker. Not only did God deem fit to bless her with the pouty looks that fuel male adolescent pant fizzing, but he also made a back up copy. Yes, Nina has an identical twin. You’d hope a second version of herself would diminish her beauty due to it being shared between two, really, it only amplifies the fact.

As we waited for our food to arrive, he kept putting both hands below the table and sipped from his beer by craning his face down into the glass. Ulrich was firmly engaged in a staring competition with Nina and her twin Erica’s nipples and he was determined not to blink first. Most of us were asking polite questions about what it’s like to be a twin and the girls spat out well rehearsed lines at us. Ulrich decided he would ask a question of the pair,  the twins, not the breasts.

So if you both share 99.9% of each other’s genetic make up, if you went down on each other, that’d technically be masturbation right?”

I don’t think they ever rehearsed the answer to that one.

They certainly had nothing to say after

Oh man, if you cross your eyes a little, there are four of them! Mm… top of the range

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Darth Punk’d

Sep. × ’09

My boss mentioned that he’ll be holidaying in Thailand for a couple of weeks and in that time he’d like me to take over for him. He looked around, making sure no one was listening, and with a wink and a whisper, he said he’ll show me all I need to know to be a good manager.

I followed him over to the other side of the office and we stopped next to a group of empty cubicles. Then he told me that when he gave the signal I was to turn around and look at Mike, nod in his direction, then look at my shoes and shake my head and say something. I did just that. Then he stared at Mike for a bit, nodded ominously and made the throat-cutting gesture.

All day long Mike has been asking if I’ve heard anything about his performance review. He’s been so helpful too, he even offered to buy me a cup of coffee.

I can’t help but wonder if this is how Anakin Skywalker felt before the helmet.


Yo! Where my tweeps at? – http://twitter.com/DUFL

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Who’s Your Deity?

Sep. × ’09

I’d like to tell you about an entity we are all touched by from time to time. You might chalk up a wondrous experience to luck or fortune, but you would be wrong. When something happens to you that can only be described through a series of awkward dance moves, then he has embraced you. He is Radicles, the Greek God of Rad. Should you be blessed from on high by Radicles you will be able to kick-flip over anything, even if you’re not on a skateboard. Radicles is a God who can give you much radness, sometimes at the cost of those around you, which when you think about it, is pretty rad.

It all began with one of the guys from Marketing. I don’t even know his name I think he’s a junior. His fashion style is best described as polyester with vinyl overtones and the peroxide streaks in his hair would cost more than my whole outfit. Poor Junior needed to ask Steve about something. Steve is a Salesman. He’ll only acknowledge you if he needs something from you and unless you punctuate your sentences with the words “breasts” or “revenue streams” then his already vacant eyes withdraw to his happy place. I imagine Steve’s happy place to be filled with gyrating strippers who seductively whip delicate lacies from their bodies before spreading their legs and shooting hundred dollar bills out of themselves like a malfunctioning ATM. His eyes rolling back in the bliss of fluttering currency.

Like the rest of our sales guys, Steve talks in Caucasian Ghettonese. It’s a mish-mash of MTV dialects, and if you’re young and white – he will speak to you like you’re a card carrying member of the Black Panthers. Someone should have warned Junior, I certainly could have, but who am I to play in the realm of the Gods? As Junior tapped Steve on the shoulder, he whirled around on his chair and said

S’up my negro?

Junior’s head tilted to the side, his face turned a colour called ‘hint of unimpressed’. He told Steve rather flatly that he thought his remark was offensive. Quick as a flash Steve launches back with a grin

I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I didn’t realise you were such a fag

Turns out the guy from Marketing is gay, turns out Steve might get fired, turns out I’m having a wonderful day.

Thank you Radicles, you high-fived my heart.


Yo! Where my tweeps at? – http://twitter.com/DUFL

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The Family Manager

Sep. × ’09

Craig isn’t someone I often speak about, mainly because I endeavour to have nothing to do with him whatsoever. He’s one of the upper management team, silver-haired, bloated and grey from wine. The only times I do have to converse with him are when I help him use his iphone. He bolsters his ego with the latest micro-gadgetry, possessing absolutely no knowledge on how to work them. Consequently he’s at war with these objects that all set out to undermine him. It’s as though each shiny toy pumps breath into the ego-balloon only to have it deflate the moment he tries to work the knot.

Although a better way to sum up Craig’s character is to relate the time that he told an overweight girl in our office that she shouldn’t wear skirts until she’d had a food abortion.

I had been called into Craig’s office to show him how to use the speakerphone, but when I arrived I found that he wanted me to download an application that made a picture of a woman become naked by shaking the phone, which flung her clothes off.

As I showed him how to download the application, I noticed some photos of his family. He picked up the one with a smiling girl in it and offered it to me. As I admired the pretty young girl in the frame, Craig said to me

That’s my daughter. She’s legal now

I’ve heard the phrase bite your tongue before, but this is the first time I realised it in my own mouth. I searched for some sort of silver lining in what he’d said to me. I figured that maybe she was from another marriage, after all she seemed attractive for one thing, and if she was, then it would only slightly lessen the amount of disgust I felt. I asked if she was his step-daughter and Craig replied

Ha! I wish!”

Can you cite incestual harassment as your reason for leaving a job?


Yo! Where my tweeps at? – http://twitter.com/DUFL

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You Shall Not Password

Sep. × ’09

Whenever you’re lucky enough to be out of the office during work hours, you can’t help but feel relaxed. That is until your boss calls you, urgently needing a file that can only be found on your PC.

My password is Thisjobfistsmy5oul

No amount of existential lube is going to save me when I get back to work.

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The FAQs of Life

Sep. × ’09

While my office can’t afford to increase my pay this year, they can of course find the funds to buy a giant plasma screen television for the in office café. The thing is huge and I mean huge. My spatial recognition isn’t strong enough to give you a definitive measurement, but I can tell I could only buy it if both my parents died. I knew the TV would be like an attractive high school exchange student, with everyone wanting to crowd around it at lunch. So I took mine earlier, that way I would be able to watch what I wanted. Unfortunately Ulrich had the same plan and was on the couch busily cramming corn-chip triangles between his thin lips. I sat down and he barely acknowledged me, which trust me, is a good thing. He offered me the bag of corn-chips and I politely declined.

Good move, last time I had a pack of these, I fell asleep on my couch. Woke up with an orange penis

I buried the palms of my hands into my eye sockets until I could see fractals of light behind my lids.

It was like a cheese tan

I looked for the nearest window, but they all had Ulrich-proof bars installed. Shaking my head, I decided to ignore him and watch the television. There was a documentary on about the inner workings of the human body. We watched a microscopic scene of a fertilised human egg being set upon by a gang of exuberantly wriggling sperm. The announcer mentioned that humans had evolved to produce two different kinds of sperm, some act as blockers to repel any foreign sperm from other men, thus increasing the chances of conception. The second type make a bid for the egg. I had no idea how strategic semen could be, and that’s when Ulrich turned to me and said

Hey, if my father and I both have sex with the same chick, would our sperm fight it out, or would our DNA be so alike that they’d team up and go for gold?

I am terrified that he will seek out the answer. If your name is Pandora and you’re approached by an old man and a creepy Viking eating Doritos, please keep your box firmly shut.

Yo! Where my tweeps at? – http://twitter.com/DUFL

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The Pollygraph Test

Sep. × ’09

My boss tapped me on the shoulder and jerked his head in such a way as to imply that he wished to dent my face with private yelling. I fell in behind him and we stepped into the elevator to head down for some coffee. He was wearing his most stern face and shook his head like I had just made a paedophile joke in front of a close friend who was a recovering kiddy fiddler. He explained someone in our office had made an official complaint about me. I wasn’t that surprised, but I was shocked to find the reason given was my attitude towards women.

Polly or as I dubbed her Polly-mantis (which I just know will come back to bite me. Only I hope not from the neck up while she’s copulating with my twitching corpse) has been reviewing new applicants for a number of sales roles. The thing is, she won’t hire any men, because she thinks a man won’t follow a woman’s rules. I can hear the “pfffft” of a thousand husbands already. After she dumped that knowledge nugget, she commented that all the male applicants were too blokey and unattractive anyway. I asked if any of the female applicants were hot enough to use Excel.

This was the comment that landed me in hot water. My boss is so paranoid that she might take some form of legal action, so I’ve now been told not to bring up anything sexual in front of Polly in case it offends her.

Right, I’ll behave myself in front of a woman who got drunk at lunch and graphically explained how she makes anal sex work. Apparently it’s all down to breathing and just the right amount of chardonnay.

Even the salt shaker and the bread roll she used as a prop felt violated.

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Taxi Rancour

Sep. × ’09

Whenever I’m running late for work I find the best option is to just jump into a taxi. The problem for me is that each time I’m in one I always seem to make the same folly and that is to fill the B.O. soaked silence with a question. It’s usually one of two, the first is “How is your day going?” and the second is “Do you enjoy being a cab driver?” As soon as the words push past my lips, I instantly regret it, as I know I’ll be punished with a broken English rant about why learner drivers should have their genitals removed.

You get the exact same feeling of regret if you eat McDonalds or sleep with your best friend’s sibling. Five minutes after you’ve finished, you feel a weight in the pit of your stomach and you just know that it was a real bad idea.

Sadly, it was the latter question I asked of my driver. He explained that the taxi driving gig was just a job and not a career. He didn’t really enjoy it because he found sitting around doing nothing all day to be incredibly boring. I ventured to ask what his second job was. He told me he was an ATM security guard. I laughed quite loudly at his joke.

It wasn’t one. I counted the furrows in his brow and figured that for each one I would give him a dollar tip.

Maybe I’m wrong though and his second job is chock full of action. Although, to my knowledge, there isn’t a show called Law & Order: ATM Division.

Yo! Where my tweeps at? – http://twitter.com/DUFL

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