Unclean! Unclean!

I work in a large, enclosed office, you see. That's the problem.

I'm currently typing away on my computer at work, wearing rubber gloves, my jacket, and one of those face masks that painters wear to protect themselves from fumes. Now, to deflect those of you whose knee-jerk reaction would be to yell, "Freak!" let me assure you: I am indeed a freak. But this isn't why. This is a safety measure

See, my boss came to work today with a red, swollen eye, saying he felt like crap. He would have called in sick, but he’s out of Personal Time Off (that’s our twisted, New Age version of Sick time, Vacation hours, and holidays all rolled into one. Glee.) So, since he doesn’t get paid unless he’s here, he’s here…and possibly with PINKEYE!

So, great, I think to myself. He can’t leave because he’s got to get paid. I can’t leave because the ladies in our finance department would laugh themselves sick while docking my pay if I told them I was leaving because my BOSS was sick. So, I grab the sterile gear, and I figure I’m good to go.

Not so much. As it turned out, my face mask that painters use to protect themselves from fumes turned out to be really useful, because they painted the halls this morning and the whole place stinks like, well…I’m sure you can figure out the rest. Anyway, maintenance decides that the solution to this problem is to air the place out, so they open ALL the doors to the outside to create a nice breeze throughout the place. However, they have failed to remember that this means that all the warm air will be blown out, too, making it nice and chilly all through the first floor. Their offices are on the second floor, though, so they’ve been able to keep the matter in perspective all day while I freeze. This means I had to wear my huge, heavy trench coat to ward off the chill and a black handkerchief on my head to keep the wind from blowing my hair all over God’s creation.

Let’s recap. Black do-rag, black Trench coat, rubber gloves, and a facemask. I can’t decide whether this ensemble screams “paranoid hypochondriac” or “sociopaths serial killer.” Either way, when the head of our public relations department came into my office and said, “Josh, I’d like you to meet the new PR intern, Melissa,” I did not make a good first impression. In fact, I think I scared her to death. I personally think I peeled off the gloves with some degree of grace and removed the facemask with some level of dignity, but she still treated my handshake like someone had suggested she pet a dead cat.

Wow. And to think, I came to work freshly shaved, groomed, and attired. Obviously.

Nice Guys are WHINY PUSSIES

Greetings, fellow cosmic travelers. So, I just had a long discussion with my friend Joe. We've been talking about nice guys (like us,) women (that's the nicer shaped half of you readers,) and assholes (the kids that picked on me in grade school, people who kick puppies, guys who the women mostly date, anyone with the last name "Bush," etc.) As a result of this discussion, I have come to two inescapable conclusions:

1) I should have played Grand Theft Auto: Vice City instead, as I had originally planned, and...

2) We "nice guys" are WHINY PUSSIES who deserve a good, swift kick in the ass.

Not really what you were expecting, is it? Now, I'd say I was as surprised as you at the results of my introspection, but that would be a, say it with me now, FILTHY LIE.

For years, I've bitched, whined, and griped about how all the girls I know would rather go out with puppy-kickers that told them they were fat, as opposed to nice, gentle, handsome men who cared about their feelings (which is to say, of course, me.) The sad fact is that I was wrong, wrong, WRONG. Girls do not prefer assholes. They go out with guys that ask them out.

Gasp!

Concept!

Sweet Zombie Christ, who knew?

Guys (that's you other, not-so pleasantly shaped half of my readers,) this is the sad fact: she is not going to get struck in the head by lightning, undergo a radical personality change, leave the jerk she's with, magically decide that she loves only you, and proceed to shower you with home-cooked meals and passionate, frighteningly fantastic sex until the day you die while miraculously keeping her figure the whole time.

What she will do is avail herself of your friendship, appreciate your respect and concern for her needs and wishes, want to spend time with you doing fun things, and so forth. Basically, she wants to do the same things with you as she does with all her OTHER gay male friends, only she wants to have sex with you less. Much less.

The assholes get all the dates, not because they're more confident (which they're not,) or they have more to offer (which they don't,) or even because you're less handsome (which, in all fairness, you are.) They get more dates because THEY ASK THE GIRLS OUT. It's that simple.

I'm really quite annoyed, you know. Coming to this epiphany has now cost me one of my more cherished illusions, which SUCKS. Being accountable for your own problems is no fun, especially when there are convenient scapegoats on which to pin the blame. However, life's not fair, and anyone who tells you differently has watched "The Princess Bride" too many times.

Still, for all its unfairness, life is good. For instance, I have a HUGE bowl of fried rice and General Tsao's chicken, a pair of cool chopsticks, a bottle of Southern Comfort's "Southern Twist" Stonefruit Liqueur, and the entire "Red Dragon/Silence of the Lambs/Hannibal" trilogy on newly-acquired DVD. I'm not sure what, but I'll figure SOMETHING out.

((Final note: The author IN NO WAY endorses the kicking of puppies.))