I can see you nodding from here. "Oh yeah. The dead bird in the dryer incident of aught three. Good times. Good times." Yeah. So now, the aminals are following me to work.
Remember that episode of the X-Files when it was fear itself that was the monster of the week? And whatever you were afraid of ended up killing you? Remember? And the one woman was like "What if it's the hanta virus!?" And Scully was like "It's NOT the hanta virus!" And then, it totally was the hanta virus? Remember?
I don't want to die of the hanta virus. Which is why I think my office should really start paying attention to things that could cause the hanta virus.
Every year at around Christmas, we have a silent auction of all the free shit that shows up at the Lifestyle Editor's desk. (If you ever wanted to get, like a LOT of free lotion, this is the job for you.) Some of the stuff is really nice (Gift basket of Lush/Stella McCartney perfume, both of which I was outbid on) and other things (Pile of crappy Valentine's Day schmaltz from Hallmark with a misplaced Lush shower jelly that I got for $6) are not. But I really wanted that shower jelly.
So I hauled the pile of valentine plush toys and crap back to my desk. By the way, gents, if you're looking for a gift that truly says "I forgot. I mean, holy shit! Is Valentine's Day TODAY?" then nothing could possibly say it better than a pair of fuzzy dice with hearts on them. Unless it is a plush alligator that sings Sam Cooke's Cupid. And if that alligator is wearing a pair of wings and holding a bow and arrow in its alligator hands (Oh yeah. Anatomically correct too!) then so much the better.
Anyway. The auction is for charity. So that I got a pile of stupid crap JUST so I could get a Lush shower gel doesn't mean SHIT, okay? Think of the children! I had planned on giving the Valentine's stuff away. And if the Business Editor didn't want a pair of flannel boxer shorts covered in hearts, then they'd just have to be sent to a home for wayward gifts somewhere until they could learn to be something better. Like an iPod.
So this pile of crap is sitting right beside me on my desk for the better part of a day as I typity type away and take messages (You don't think it's fair that the Il Divo tickets are going on sale early for American Express cardholders? Oh. How sad for you. Let me just get on the phone to the fake popera appreciation society and make sure your concern is voiced.) and read copy from writers more concerned with getting out of the office early so they miss rush hour than actually writing anything good.
Then the reality TV writer (Oh yes. We have one. Think about how that reflects on your viewing habits for a minute. You are the downfall of civilization Dancing With the Stars audience.) moseys over and asks what I got for my auction efforts. I move to hold up my stuffed alligator and explain how I did it all for the Lush products, when I notice the alligator has kind of been chewed on. It's plushness is sort of flaking away. It's like the alligator has some sort of weird skin disease. Fasciitis croconecroticans.
"That's weird. It looks like a dog has been chewing on this."
"Well it probably came straight here. That can't be."
"Huh."
"Strange. What else did you get?"
So I hold up the boxer shorts and notice they are actually covered in faint, brownish stains. Again: Huh. And ewwwwwww! I dropped them. And took a closer look at the alligator. It had little brown seed-like lumps on parts of it. And so did the boxer shorts. And so did the gift bag all this crap was sitting on. And... holy fuck, that's mouse crap!
So I gingerly carry aaaaalll the stuff over to the garbage can and drop it in and spend the next 20 minutes bleaching my hands and standing in the shower and crying while wearing a catcher's mask. Maybe not. But I did go through half a tube of those germ wipe things in order to sanitize my desk.
But I still kept the Lush goodies. What!? It wasn't even technically WITH the other stuff! It was just misplaced!
So I told my boss about the mouse crap. We've known there's a mouse in our office for quite some time. The copy editors on the Rim caught it once and somehow managed to let it escape before taking it outside. All this stuff from the auction was sitting under a desk for months. Who knows what else this thing has been pissing and shitting on, ya know? I don't even want to walk by those desks anymore.
I mean, perhaps we could clear out the giant boxes of yellowed newspaper and recyclable materials and GARBAGE from under our desks to see just how much mouse shit we're all inhaling every day? And then, maybe after we do that, we could all, oooh, I don't know, eat in the cafeteria instead of at our desks like fucking drones? Because crumbs and food attract vermin (other than our regular conservative newspaper columnists, that is) and that is effing disgusting.
So the editor says not to worry. There are traps set up. Great! Awesome! How long have they been there? Is this mouse just supposed to ignore all the non-bait food sitting around for the taking and only eat the cheese on a dangerous looking contraption? I'm sure he'll go for that. I'm not saying mice are that smart... I'm saying the rest of that logic is stupid. How about you clear some CRAP out from under these desks, call an exterminator, wash the carpets for the first time this century (I bet I'm right) and encourage people not to be such incredible slobs. How about that?
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I'm gearing up for Christmas procrastination season. That means not: Writing cards, gathering addresses, setting foot in a mall, baking, cleaning, seeing terrible, terrible, TERRIBLE holiday movies or wrapping anything.
I'm so GOOD at this! I should hire myself out. Need something NOT done this season, but you just don't have time to not do it yourself? I can totally not help you with that. I know, I know. I have a schedule that is positively PACKED with stuff I'm already NOT DOING, but there's always room for more laziness! Never underestimate what I can put off today! And tomorrow! And very probably next week!
While you're busy doing things you hate, I will be here, not doing things you hate even more. I will not mail those stupid Christmas newsletters out for you. I mean, come on. I'll do it later! There's no way anybody's going to be upset that they don't know what your babies Ron and Jeremy are doing now that they've graduated from your basement to a run-down apartment with a pot-leaf flag being used as a curtain.
I will also fail to bake those fruitcakes you send out every year.
You're welcome, entire world.
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Hey, so is anybody still reading this thing, or am I just talking to myself at this point? It's okay if I am. It's my fault. You know that thing above where I don't do things I hate? This was kind of one of them for awhile.
I just got bored with it and spent a lot of time writing other things and being exhausted and depressed by work (the rodent problem is seriously the LEAST offensive thing happening there right now) to the point that I just come home and watch TV.
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P.S. TomKat got married! Good for them! Now their little alien won't be raised in sin! Well, other than the sin that comes from being the child of satan himself, I mean! I still don't think that kid is Tom's. Want to know why? Because it would mean his sperm would, at some point, have to exit his penis while it was inserted into Katie's, aaaahhhh, vagheen, as Borat would say. And I don't think Tom, you know, likes the vagheen. Sure, sure, you could say they went the artificial insemination route, but come on! I think we all know the truth here.
What I'm tryin' to say is: Tom is still as gay as the day is long! Gay, gay, gay! And I really wish he'd just give up this giant facade. It's pathetic and insulting. And I would very much like to change the channel to a station where little Joey Potter is not suddenly a scientologist. What the fuck happened, Pacey!? I mean... what're you? Too BUSY to stop your girlfriend from joining some creepy pseudo religion!? I don't THINK SO! I mean, try not to let your giant part in Bobby stop you from swooping in and saving Joey from the only man MORE repulsive than Dawson Leery!
Geez.
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