The Sweet Release of Death

Tales from the Crypt

Grunts, Groans & A Whispered Prayer For Fresh Air

05/20/2010 12:26 PM

Ever since I began this literary venting of work frustration, I’ve become even more aware of the goings on in my workplace… sometimes too aware. Strange thing is, this stuff doesn’t bug me as much as it used to. Mostly due to the fact that when something totally whacked out and unbelievable happens at work, I think “ that’s a post!” 2 years ago if I experienced something fucked up, I more than likely would have cursed a blue streak and punched a beam or nearby wall. So given my new found peace in sharing with you the tales of Corporate Land, I bring you yet another tale of reality drenched, workplace fodder.

If you read the title and said to yourself, “Whoa” good call oh ye of dialed in perception. It’s going to get um… out of hand. Take a look at the people that you work with. Take a real good look. You spend more time with these people than you do with your family. It’s a given fact. Now most of the gang I work with, they notice their co-workers in a different sort of way, the “ Damn! She’s got a great rack! He’s got nice abs… why does he need to wear a shirt?” sort of way. What they should really be focused on, is the “that’s the fucking nutcase that did a farmers blow over the sink and left a nasty booger on the faucet handle,” or this nugget overheard by the ladies lounge, “That stupid bitch didn’t flush down her tampon…Ugh!” that old chestnut.

Its not the prettiest of angles to observe you’re co-workers but that’s reality folks. The safe havens at work should be just that; safe havens. The bathroom, the break-room and–given the perfect weather conditions– the outside courtyard areas. These areas should remain “Savage” free, but these are tough times as they say and diligence in keeping these areas free of booger flingers and toilet chokers, has slipped in favor of boosting the bottom line by cutting costs, therefore no janitors to help in cleaning up after these biohazard crash-test dummies.

Case in point: I had to answer a call of the wild that required a stall to fulfill the task at hand. Now I won’t go into details of the proceedings in my stall, but I will most definitely share with you the play-by-play of the performance art that unfolded in the stall next to me. (Aren’t you glad you stopped by today?)

As I was performing my best Elvis, pre-heart attack stance upon my throne, a neighbor moved into the stall to my right. Instantly I was mortified as I still had yet to finish, and this cat is grunting like a first-time mother in a maternity ward. Happy Wednesday! “Ok” I thought. Wicked. More grunts and I mean, dead-lift 400 pounds caliber grunts. I contemplated breaking radio silence with a stern “Dude! Raisin Fucking Bran! Look into it!” but I kept to the mission at hand. More grunts and then some quick breathes between the grunts.

Well, now I’m roped into this drama as my mind starts wondering: #1 what does this guy eat? #2 is he giving birth to a Transformer? #3 by the sounds of it, that Camaro is definitely a breach-birth! I started thinking, “get out of here before the smell…” then it hit. Since LG has yet to develop a scratch-n-sniff monitor, let me relay to you a little potpourri snapshot of the breach-birth of Bumble Bee. Take one part rank burrito grease; add in 12 ounces of patchouli oil (fucking hippies!) one drop of concentrated garlic oil and finally, the contents of an over-stuffed bowling alley ashtray. Your welcome. The scent to this living theatre performance is what sent me over the edge. I vacated the Men’s room at break-neck speed. My exclamation of “Fucking Hell!” still reverberating off the walls as the door shut behind me. Starved for oxygen, I rushed outside to a low hanging Evergreen and clasped some of its pine needles into my hands. I put them up to my nose and whispered “ Thank you lord for this wonderful, fresh scent producing tree.” So as the failed Times Square Bomber has reminded us to be more vigilant and suspicious of characters with Nissans crammed full of Whistling Petes and Sparklers, so too shall we be as focused on the two-legged biohazards that work among us. Just some food for thought for you. Now with 20 % more fiber!

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The Minty Freshness of Monday

04/06/2010 05:43 AM

Monday. It’s like giving CPR to the cast of The View. Could it be worse? Yes it can, cause its Monday. Monday packs a nasty punch and if you don’t know your hooks from your jabs, you could be down for the count before you cream your coffee. So when I wandered into the production shop men’s room to answer the call, Monday broke protocol and delivered a green nugget of the human experience. Lying ever so comfortably up against the pee-puck basket, was a blessed little chewed-up slice of Wrigley’s minty best. Yes, some previous urinal patron felt that the neon pink pee-puck was just not enough to keep the porcelain prince fresh. So the mysterious patron just flapped open their maw and plopped out their neon green baby of freshness.

So this is surprising? Yes indeed. For this act of civil service from the mystery patron before me, was torn straight out of the Doublewide Bible. This act of pure “My day just sucks ass” is usually reserved for Thursday. By Thursday, there are usually one or two workers that just snap and take it out on the facility in their passive-aggressive way. Somebody’s gone mental from a bad week, so they blow up a burrito in the microwave, kill a pot of coffee, and jam the copy machine as a coup de grace. You know? Pissed-off cause its not Friday yet. So when a minty fresh nugget of “Kiss my Ass, World” shows up on a Monday, I fear the carnage that lay over the horizon of Wednesday.

But Monday’s surprise of gift giving is not over. Oh no, not in the slightest. For above the green nugget accessorized urinal, a clue to the Wrigley offender was left behind, not unlike that of his cave painting Cro-Magnon ancestors. A greasy palm print lay before me. The old calling card of the “lean to pee” gang. Oh Monday, you just keep dishing it out, when our plates are full. If I were to wish for anything in this situation (besides wishing to forget the green nugget and the greasy palm print) I’d wish for the Magic of Aladdin’s Lamp. I’d ruba-dub-dub and ask the Genie of the Lamp “Genie! I wish for David Caruso and his CSI Miami Forensic Team, Pronto! NOW!” As you wish atones the Genie. POOF! Caruso appears. He takes a look at the debauched urinal, the greasy palm print and slowly turns his head down to the floor. At that moment, one of the crew pulls the green nugget of Wrigley’s out of the puck basket; Caruso peers over his shades and purrs “ It looks like our perp liked a little mint with his pee” YEAH!!!!!!!!!!!!
Oh Monday, you’re the best thing not on TV.