Old-buddy Spartacus checked in
with a comment on yesterday's post – and let's assume it was out of
insomnia; if I even hint at insanity, he may sic his
wife-with-a-black-belt on me. This is double-plus ungood; I only have a
twelve-pound, floppy Maine coon cat to hide behind.
Anyway, Spark's
comment was:
Man, I'm glad I don't work with you guys--LOL!
My commute is
thirty-some miles longer than his… so I guess this makes us even.
(I was about to
send him a note back when I realized I could get a cheap, easy new posting out
of it… and mock him with the whole world watching – although they haven't
noticed either one of us yet. I believe I’m up to a readership of five
or six, so if I estrange the fellow, there goes 20% of my traffic... not
counting the judo practice his wife and kid will get out of me; pass. And it's
probable that three of those readers just pulled in to my exit to look around
on the way past.)
Anyway, yeah, Spartacus;
and what's worse is that this goes on a lot of the time, too. This afternoon Ben
– who sits to my right – was holding forth in Bettie's cubicle (on my left),
along with Priscilla and HeyJude, Chester's sister. He
was mentioning how, in his youth, he'd been fired halfway through his interview
with KFC. I forget now exactly what he'd said to torpedo himself; I believe
it was a strong declaration that he'd work for them if they paid him, not
because he'd love the work. The women responded with hisses and groans at his
brilliance.
Later I popped
in on his cubicle to lay on him the same line that had gotten Priscilla to kick
me out of Bettie's cubicle. "I figured out the trouble with KFC," I
told him. He lifted his chin to say Go On.
"You don't
push chicken. Pull-it."
AgingChild
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