Maiden Babe Vs. The Rocker & Mamma's Boy: Death by Mechanical Pencil Pt. 2

The Maiden expelled a sigh of relief upon seeing The Rocker vanish in a huff from the Purchasing Department; her thumb clicking the end of her mechanical pencil in rapid-fire succession coupled with the seductive thought of plunging it deep into The Rocker’s jugular. “Lucky fucker.” The Maiden murmured through clenched teeth. Now that The Rocker had left, she can focus on the remaining hour-and-half left in the workday and get the fuck out. As The Maiden quietly returned to her tasks at hand, The Rocker had just arrived to the Art Department rather breathless and agitated; his panting and wheezing breaking our happy silence. “May I have everyone’s attention!” The Rocker hacked up in a phlegm-coated rasp. (This was pronounced as if he owned the joint and carried with it a disapproving tone as if we had just done a group piss in his Cherrio’s.)

Myself and the other 5 artists barely gave The Rocker any inclination of attention to his dramatic entrance. We were about as attentive as Lindsay Lohan in rehab; we were there, but we just weren’t taking the message to heart. As The Rocker saw that he had a somewhat sliver of our attention, he began to blabber to us the new law From Up High about how we are to order things from vendors and, what we are supposed to do to double-check the order to avoid costly errors of the Purchasing Department.

It was at this precise moment that my Mega Douche Alarm went off and began my internal systems override shut down procedure: 1. Hearing briefly shut down 2. Motor skills engaged and chair spinning back to computer screen initiated. 3. Motor skills again called upon to initiate iPod ignition, selection and, volume control. 4. Motor skills tapped yet again for Ear bud insertion and play button activation. 5. Hearing is fully restored; the raucous explosion that is Pantera blissfully drowns The Rocker’s rant out. Being that I was in Systems Override Mode, I was fortunate enough not to hear The Rocker’s weeping Jan Brady performance. The others were not so lucky. From what I could gather (once my Systems Override was switched back to “normal” upon The Rocker’s exit) was that The Rocker, on the brink of tears and lips in full quiver, began to inform the Art Department crew that when ordering a material to be cut from a vendor, that all measurements must be noted as precise. As if his lips a quiver weren’t enough, The Rocker’s emotional plea for correct deciphering of his convoluted work orders was bringing about little pearly beads of sweat upon his upper lip.

Of course this had no fucking impact upon his now highly annoyed audience. The Rocker seeing the indifference to his plea, began waving Jazz hands about to really drive his point home. This last act only set into motion a group reaction of smirks and tongue biting to keep from laughing hysterically at The Rocker’s flailing appeals. Whilst the Art Department was thoroughly entranced by the comedic tour de force that stood before them, The Maiden, counting down the remaining hour left in the workday, was dealt another indignant blow. King of the Fucktards; the ineptness that is the Momma’s boy, sauntered into The Maiden’s space to push her to the brink.

You see, along with the inability to correctly read a tape measure, The Momma’s Boy also has the fucked up ability to request materials for order that simply do not exist. Further exacerbating the situation was that the Momma’s Boy was not only standing before The Maiden asking for this mystery request, he had also sent an e-mail that acted as a compendium to the oral diarrhea that as currently spewing forth before The Maiden.
Momma’s Boy, not exactly one of the strongest links in the Corporate Land chain, began getting flustered like Paris Hilton with the thought of wearing underwear. The Maiden began feverishly clicking her mechanical pencil as her mind raced with thoughts of dispatching Momma’s Boy with a few rapid plunges to his jugular and dispensing his lifeless body in the nearby storage room.

As The Momma’s Boy saw the half disdain, half confusion on The Maiden’s face, he began speaking faster in what doctors from Stanford Medical School call a “spastic fluster stutter.” The Maiden simply stated, “I don’t know what you want.” This only set about more convulsions of verbal hopscotch from the Momma’s Boy: “bbbbbb…but its in my e-mail … I don’t understand!” The Maiden, pen now clicking away at a seriously fast clip, countered Momma’s Boy with “You have requested something that does not exist. They don’t manufacture it. It. Does. Not. Exist. Whether you come down here and tell me in person or whether you send it in e-mail, it makes no difference. Got it?” Momma’s Boy, on the verge of tears spun quickly and briskly headed back to his department in an “I’m telling dad!” manner.

The Maiden, now fully perturbed by the tsunami of idiots, began croaking, “RedRum! RedRum! REDRUM!” all the while her mechanical pencil clicking away like Rambo’s machine gun. It was only when the pen’s spring heart gave out and its silence broke The Maiden from her murderous chanting. As The Maiden regained her composure, she pulled focus onto a photo upon her desk; an inviting shot of a sunny beach with aqua blue waters kissing its sandy edge. “Yes…Yes indeed.” murmured The Maiden Babe. She then rose from her desk and quietly walked to the HR office, a smile on her face getting bigger and bigger with each step. As she crossed into the HR office and closed the door behind her, she gleefully pronounced, “I quit! I’m done. I’ll give ya 2 weeks and then I’m heading to Jamaica!”

Corporate Land, being the heartless non-caring entity we’ve all grown to loathe, found it in its cold, black empty chest cavity to accept The Maiden’s notice and to pay her for the remaining two weeks and have her leave that day. A nice little paid “ Well fuck you too!”
It’s only fitting that The Maiden Babe chose Jamaica. That’s the perfect type of place for a sexy Bond Girl to hole up after a long stretch of bloodletting: a sexy fine thing lying ever so seductively on the white sand beach. You can buy her a drink, just don’t ask her about that pencil strapped to her thigh.

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