Stop me if you've heard this one: A nice guy, a bald guy, and an underwear model walk into a bar...
Regarding the fact that LiveJournal is not a site I’m supposed to fiddle with while I’m at work, I’m finding that, today, I just can’t give a damn. Can’t. Just absolutely cannot.
I just spent the last 25 minutes or so listening to the guys who work on the other side of my cubicle partition. A few of those guys I like; most I don’t, although that is here inconsequential.
Apparently, the Astros are playing this afternoon. Not one to care about this kind of thing, this was (unsubstantial) news to me. But the boys began debating ditching work to go to the game. The one heading this discussion was Gary. (Gary is someone I wouldn’t immediately help out of a bear trap on account of the fact that he talks too damn loud and annoys me, simply put.) But Gary is all talk. Because everyone else he was trying to coerce into going was ready to do it. Their supervisor-technically one of my supervisors, too-declined the invitation but told them they should go for it. Yet Gary couldn’t seem to grab his balls and commit to going himself.
“I can’t think of a good reason not to,” he said. “And Tom (the supervisor) already said he didn’t give a shit.” I knew for a fact that if the others-John (who I like) and Aaron (who could model underwear but won’t condescend to speak to the likes of me)-hadn’t decided to go, Gary wouldn’t have gone either, but instead would have whined about not going and blamed everyone but himself. I also knew that if they did go, Gary would forever claim the idea as his own.
I wanted to stand up on my desk and look over the wall and tell them all to stop being pussies and just go. Why the fuck not? It’s a nice fucking day, their supervisor “doesn’t give a shit,” and Clemens is pitching, which is apparently some orgasmic detail that means little to me. Had I had the balls to do that, they would have been stunned first, then maybe amused. Hell, they might have decided that I was on the same plane as they were-evolutionally speaking-and invited me to join them.
I was afraid they wouldn’t go, for the simple reason that I didn’t want work to win. That was why I had to fight so hard the urge to taunt them.
Then John and Aaron decided to go, Gary rushing to get his computer shut down to go with them. (Read in a childish voice: “Hey guys, wait up! You guys!”)
Then it was quiet. And for a moment I felt triumphant because stupid work got its ass handed to it. Then I remembered that I was still sitting at my sit-stand desk, and the only real victory that I could claim was that Gary was out of the office and I wouldn’t have to listen to his loud idiocy for the rest of the afternoon. And that didn’t even feel like much of a victory. But meh.
So while The Nice Guy, The Bald Guy, and The Underwear Model are cracking open their first beers as Clemens throws the opening pitch on a day that’s not too, too hot, I’m going to get some semblance of work done, and appease myself with daydreams of a vacation that simply can’t come soon enough.
I just spent the last 25 minutes or so listening to the guys who work on the other side of my cubicle partition. A few of those guys I like; most I don’t, although that is here inconsequential.
Apparently, the Astros are playing this afternoon. Not one to care about this kind of thing, this was (unsubstantial) news to me. But the boys began debating ditching work to go to the game. The one heading this discussion was Gary. (Gary is someone I wouldn’t immediately help out of a bear trap on account of the fact that he talks too damn loud and annoys me, simply put.) But Gary is all talk. Because everyone else he was trying to coerce into going was ready to do it. Their supervisor-technically one of my supervisors, too-declined the invitation but told them they should go for it. Yet Gary couldn’t seem to grab his balls and commit to going himself.
“I can’t think of a good reason not to,” he said. “And Tom (the supervisor) already said he didn’t give a shit.” I knew for a fact that if the others-John (who I like) and Aaron (who could model underwear but won’t condescend to speak to the likes of me)-hadn’t decided to go, Gary wouldn’t have gone either, but instead would have whined about not going and blamed everyone but himself. I also knew that if they did go, Gary would forever claim the idea as his own.
I wanted to stand up on my desk and look over the wall and tell them all to stop being pussies and just go. Why the fuck not? It’s a nice fucking day, their supervisor “doesn’t give a shit,” and Clemens is pitching, which is apparently some orgasmic detail that means little to me. Had I had the balls to do that, they would have been stunned first, then maybe amused. Hell, they might have decided that I was on the same plane as they were-evolutionally speaking-and invited me to join them.
I was afraid they wouldn’t go, for the simple reason that I didn’t want work to win. That was why I had to fight so hard the urge to taunt them.
Then John and Aaron decided to go, Gary rushing to get his computer shut down to go with them. (Read in a childish voice: “Hey guys, wait up! You guys!”)
Then it was quiet. And for a moment I felt triumphant because stupid work got its ass handed to it. Then I remembered that I was still sitting at my sit-stand desk, and the only real victory that I could claim was that Gary was out of the office and I wouldn’t have to listen to his loud idiocy for the rest of the afternoon. And that didn’t even feel like much of a victory. But meh.
So while The Nice Guy, The Bald Guy, and The Underwear Model are cracking open their first beers as Clemens throws the opening pitch on a day that’s not too, too hot, I’m going to get some semblance of work done, and appease myself with daydreams of a vacation that simply can’t come soon enough.