In A Slump
April 24th is “Bring Your Kid To Work Day,” which is, like, a total rip-off because I, personally, don’t have a kid. I thought about bringing my four-year old nephew to work that day and introducing him to my coworkers, because it would be fun, when my colleagues said “I didn’t know you had children,” to reply “Yeah, well if my wife asks: I don’t!” But then I remembered that I don’t have a four-year old nephew, so that plan is shot all to hell.
Lacking an actual or surrogate child, I figure I should be allowed to do something else special at work that day. And I’ve been meaning to take up swooning as a hobby for some time now. So on that Thursday I think I’ll just spend the day passing out at the slightest provocation.
Supervisor 1: This report looks great, Matthew.
Supervisor 2: Yes, the Ballard division loves. it. Except …
Supervisor 2: Well, they wanted to know if the date could be right-justified.
Me: Right-justi –?! Ohhhhhhh… [slumps sideways in chair, falls off to floor]
Victorians used swooning as an additional punctuation mark, a kind of super exclamation point used to indicate overwhelming surprise, love, or large-hat wearing. But it’s since become something of a lost art. That’s why I’m going to do my part to revive this tradition on the 27th. In fact, it occurs to me that swooning could even have some practical applications:
That One Guy I Work With: [Coming into my office uninvited] Yo Matthew, did you catch ‘American Idol’ last night?
Me: Listen, I’ve told you a dozen times that I don’t have the slightest interest in —
That One Guy I Work With: Kimberly — the blond Kimberly, not the other Kimberly — was supposed to sing this one song, but then Clay —
Me: Please let yourself out when you’re done. [slumps sideways in chair, falls off to floor]
If you are likewise kidless and your office has thick carpets, consider joining me for Swoon With Alarming Frequency At Work Day, April 27th. I’ll be printing up “Swooners Do It In A Crumpled Heap On The Floor” bumper stickers shortly.
Memo To The Teen In The Elevator
You probably think that your t-shirt reading “Pimptown University” makes you look cool. And yet, despite the fact that I myself have remained steadfastly uncool for approximately 32 years, I can assure you, with absolute confidence, that it does not.
A Cutting Remark
My first job was as a meat carver at a buffet-style restaurant — you know, those guys who stand at the end of the line with an enormous knife and half a cow, and, upon request, will give you a slice of beef approximately seven microns thick? Yeah, that was me.
One day I recognized the big, burly guy coming down the buffet line as Mr. S, my second grade teacher. He had been one of my all-time favorite elementary school instructors, because was always cracking bad jokes and allowing me to skip classes to play chess with a friend of mine. I hadn’t thought of him in years, but, now that he was here, I was excited to meet him again as an adult.
I wondered if he’d recognize me a decade after I had been in his class. I assumed not, so as he approached I opened my mouth to greet him, to announce that I had once been his student. But before I speak he looked up, saw me, and cried “Whoa! That is a big motherfucking knife!”
Five Games You Can Play With Your Iraqi’s Most Wanted’ Playing Cards
- Operation Iraqi Freecell
- Gin Rumsfeld
- Hearts and Minds
- Haliburton’s Lucrative Contract Bridge
- Update: in the comments, Duane added “Go Fish For Weapons of Mass Destruction”