Coffee Pirates vs. Cheap Scotch

WebDocs Health Report, June 22, 2007: “Coffee may contain an ingredient that protects the liver against alcoholic cirrhosis, a new study shows. The study indicates that among more than 125,000 people studied for up to 22 years, coffee drinkers were less likely to be diagnosed with alcoholic cirrhosis.”

Coffee Pirates (In Your Liver): Yarrr! Get ye back ye scurvy rotten cirrhosed liver cells! Yarrr!

Cheap Scotch (In Your Liver): Och aye, we’ll be needin’ to eat ye liver like a fookin’ haggis, yon bonny coffee pirates be damned!

Coffee Pirates (In Your Liver): Yarrr! Avast! Prepare ye to be boarded, ye cancerous cankers o’ bile and spleen! We’ll be eatin’ yer types fer lunch before yon hour is out! Yarrr!

Rene Harlin: Okay, guys, now here’s where we have a car chase scene around the gall bladder, and then some sword fighting on the duodenum. Annnnnnnnnnd . . . Action!

Coffee Pirates (In Your Liver): Vroooooom!!!! Vrooooooooommmmm!!! Skreeeeeeeee!!!! Vrooooommmmmmmmm!!!

Cheap Scotch (In Your Liver):
Clash! Clank! Clankity clash! Slash! Epee! Saberize! Snick!

Your Duodenum: Aghhhhh! I am slain!

Rene Harlin: Great! Great! That’s a wrap!

Cheap Scotch (In Your Liver): Beggin’ ye pardon, Master Harlin, but if’n ye aren’t needin’ us nae more, we’ll be on our way up to the brains for to seein’ if we can’t sponge and addle ‘em a bit.

Coffee Pirates (In Your Liver): Yarrr! Victory! Yarrr! Now, we be thinkin’ its time to go tickle ye kidneys a bit. Yarrr!

Your Kidneys: Hehe! OMFG, like, I am so totally gonna piss myself laughing and stuff! OMG! LOL!

Your Brains: Welcome! Welcome, Cheap Scotch! Welcome!

Cheap Scotch (In Your Brains): Och aye, me laddie. Here’s what ye be wantin’ to do. Get ye on yon telephonin’ machine and call that wee lassie what slapped you last week. Be sure to let yon tears flow like whiskey when ye be talkin’ tae her. Nae, ne’er ye mind that it’s three o’ clock in the marnin’!! Yon wee lassie will be rejoicin’ to hear ye voice!!

Your Brains: I lurve you’s, Cheap Stottiches. You allas gib’s me the bests advices!!! I’lla go make that call right now, yes . . . I’MA LOVES YOU, BABY!!! I’MA LIVES FOREVERS WITH MY NEWSLY HEALFY LIVERS!!! THE SCOTTICHES SAYS SOES!!! Hello? Hellos? I musta gotsten disconnected. Bring me more Scottiches!!! Dass what I needs!!! Den I calls again!!!

Your Genitals: Damn, Brains. You’re never gonna shake the rust off us, are you? Whah? Whoh! No, not that way! Noooooo!!!!! Stooooooopppppp!!!!!

Your Brains: I’MA LOVES YOU, GENITILES!!! WISSA HEALFY LIVERS I’MA TAKE CARES ON YOU ALLAS NIGHTS LONG!!! ISNA WE BOOTIFULS?? STOTTICHES SAYS WE BOOTIFULS!!! TELLS US WE’S BOOTIFUL!!!!

Your Genitals: Ow! Careful! Ow! Stop! HEEEELP!!!

Cheap Scotch (In Your Brains): Och aye, laddies. Ye moral o’ yon story is: Do nae fook wi’ Cheap Scotch!! Cheap Scotch wins alla’ time!! Yon message are brought tae ye by Ye WebDocs Health Reports, and yon letters “C” and “S,” and by the number “80 Proof”. Ta!

School Days With Little Louie Shakes

Mom Shakes: Wake up, Louie . . . you’re going to be late . . .

Little Louie Shakes: mumble mumble Five more minutes mumble .

Mom Shakes: No, it’s 9 AM already! You’ve got to get up! Darn it, Louie, you’re going to miss the bus, and there’s no way Dad or I can drive you to school today!

Little Louie Shakes: Shut up, Mom! I hate you! Go away!

Mom Shakes: Don’t you talk to me like that, young man! Your father and I bust our butts to put food on the table and a roof over your head and this is how you treat us? Well, you’d better think again, mister. The gravy train stops today. If you can’t get yourself to school and get good grades then you can just leave now, get a low paying job and waste the rest of your life posting on dirty internet message boards. Is that what you want?

Little Louie Shakes: I hate you all! Shut up! I am staying home today and listening to Black Sabbath records.

Dad Shakes (bursting through the door and unhooking his belt): WHAT DID YOU JUST SAY?!?! [thrash!] [whip!] [pummel!]

Little Louie Shakes: Dad! No! I said I am getting up now to catch the bus and go to school to take math tests!! Stop!! Auuggghhh!!!

Playground Bully (later that same day): Hey dork! [shove!] Nice math books . . . in the mud! Haw haw haw!

Edward Sir Ellington O’Brien (Playing the Role of Guy Who Blocks The Flow): Oh, no. Nuh uh uh. This has to stop now. This is making me re-live my childhood, and it hurts. Stop it! Stop it now! There’s no happy ending to this story . . .

Louie Shakes (in 2010): Sure there is, Mister O’Brien. I swear to God that Playground Bully is now making sub-par home fries at Weezie’s Skillet Farms in Hoboskill, way out in Bumbledump County, while I live the good life of a toothless, meth-addicted, hepatitis-riddled, homeless person in Albany. That’ll learn him for messin’ up my books in ninth grade!

Playground Bully (in 2010): Would you like fries with your hamburger and shake, Mister Shakes?

Louie Shakes (in 2010): See, Mister O’Brien? And, uh, nah brah, no fries. I’d like some rock with that instead. You gonna hook me up, or what?

Edward Sir Ellington O’Brien: You’re the exception then, Louie. Once you’ve been a victim of bullies and domestic violence, then you’re always a victim as I see it. That type can smell the fear and weakness on you. It brings out the worst in them . . .

Lord MacCormack: Piffle, tosh and bumbledump, will you shut the hell up, O’Brien! You sicken me with your weakness and fear! Besides, I didn’t have to go through any of that stuff. I was home schooled. In home schooling, your parents are in charge of the traumatizing.

Viscount Mond: Then you know that the only thing better than beating up dorks at school is beating up home schooled kids in their own front yards.

Edward Sir Ellington O’Brien: But the problem with home schooling is that you then have to be bullied in college, instead of getting it over with in junior high school.

Lord MacCormack: Not if you go to home college.

Viscount Mond: What do you mean by “getting it over with,” O’Brien? [shove!] Nice face, dooder . . . under my boot! Haw haw haw!

Edward Sir Ellington O’Brien: Mmmgggppphhff!! Grrffff!!! Mmmmbbbpppp!!!

Viscount Mond: Who gets bullied in college, anyway? You just show up to class and leave, don’t even have to talk to anyone. Much different than grade school.

Edward Sir Ellington O’Brien: I’m guessing your college didn’t have a football team, did it, Mond?

Lord MacCormack: O’Brien’s right, dorks can certainly get bullied in college. Unless they go to dork college.

Edward Sir Ellington O’Brien: I went to dork college. I was surrounded by dorks. Computer science programs have a way of attracting them. But it didn’t change anything. You would think that the few jocks who stumbled in would be kissing dork butts so they could get their work done, but no, they hunted me down and shoved my $230 college textbooks into the mud just as they did in junior high school. Oh, the horror! Oh, the pain!

Lord MacCormack: Those must have been scholarship jocks. They have assistants to kiss dork butts for them to get their work done, which gives them more time for the shoving of the books and the tormenting of the weak and fearful and whatnot. At least when you’ve got jocks in the classroom, you know that you’ve picked your courses wisely, and will definitely be getting a good grade there.

Edward Sir Ellington O’Brien: Wrong again. Professors have to show that they aren’t giving all A’s. So guess who gets the D’s to balance things out? Not the starting quarterback, I assure you. Nor the cheerleaders.

(Meanwhile, in a corner cubicle at the nearby public library) The Shower Drain Elves: Alright, Louie Shakes! We’ve got you surrounded! Come out peacefully or we are coming in after you. There’s a sick kid in Teaneck, New Jersey who needs a Christmas stocking and you’re not standing in our way! Chop chop!

Louie Shakes (in 2010): mumble mumble five more minutes mumble . . .

The Shower Drain Elves: No, it’s 10 AM already! You’ve got to get up! Dammit, Louie, you’re going to miss the Hoveround, and there’s no way we’re gonna be able to get this Christmas stocking to little Johnnie F in Teaneck if that happens!

Louie Shakes (in 2010): Shut up, all of you! I hate you! Go away!

The Shower Drain Elves: Don’t you talk to us like that, old man! The Parking Lot Monkeys and us bust our butts to put newspaper under your head and leftover hamburgers and milkshakes in the dumpster, and this is how you treat us? Well, you’d better think again, mister. The hamburger and milk shake train stops today! If you can’t get yourself to the parking lot behind the corner store and score the good rock, then you can just stay here in the library and waste the rest of your life posting on dirty internet message boards. Is that what you want?

Louie Shakes (in 2010): You know what I want? All I want out of life is a hamburger in a milkshake! Not a hamburger and a milkshake. Is that too much to ask? Why is The LORD so cruel to me?

The LORD (bursting through the door and unhooking his belt): WHAT DID YOU JUST SAY?!?! [thrash!] [whip!] [pummel!]

The Archangel McGabriel: Sorry, Louie, some things are beyond even The LORD’s power. Hamburgers and milkshakes must remain separate, world without end, amen. Now, would you like some fries with that?

Louie Shakes (in 2010): Nah brah, no fries. I’d like some rock with that, instead. You gonna hook me up, or what?

Ronald McChronic: I would hook you up indeed, yo, but that fat Mayor McCheese and his cronies done locked up the Hamburglar again! What’s a clown to do, Louie Shakes? What’s a clown to do?

The Shower Drain Elves (in 2010): Robble robble. Robble. Robble robble.

Coffee and Crystal Meth

Scene: Lord MacCormack’s fabulous, wood-paneled reading room, where Lord MacCormack and his posh friends, Viscount Mond, Edward Sir Ellington O’Brien, and Magnum Anvil, smoke cigars and drink cognac while reading their newspapers.

Lord MacCormack: Bunkum and bile, I hate it when I have to go into a Starbucks coffee shop! All I ever want is a “large black coffee,” and all I get is pedantic blowback or eye-rolling from the staff there, who are supposed to be serving me, about how I’m not placing my order correctly. I don’t give a hoot if the coffee comes from Sumatra or Subic Bay or Swaziland. And I don’t want anything dusted on top, or anything foamed, skimmed, curdled or whipped poured into it. I just want coffee, black, in a large cup. It is the coffee shop staff member’s job to provide me that. If they can’t handle that, then perhaps they should be working elsewhere, operating the deep fat fryer and not interacting with paying customers who are in a rush to assuage their caffeine joneses. But, no, clearly they think that it’s better to spend their time chit-chatting with their dirty, tattooed, white-dreadlocked, trust-fund holding, Volvo station wagon-driving “regulars” about all of their special coffee needs and the upcoming Hackey Sack tournament, while they endlessly swirl their little metal cans of milk under their little steam spout things.

Edward Sir Ellington O’Brien: They call them “baristas,” Lord MacCormack. And I don’t find them arrogant. Starbucks stores are sort of like McCoffee shops in a way, or something like TGIF or Applebee’s, rather than being like a locally-owned, real coffee place. The baristas there are just following a set of policies and procedures when they make those coffee drinks. Independent places are better about being flexible, though there tend to be a lot more of the trust-fund dreadlock kids there.

Lord MacCormack: But their policies and procedures are utterly absurd! “Small” is “large,” “medium” is “venti,” “large” is “grande,” or some other nonsense like that. I prefer to say “large coffee” to which they reply “Grande?” and I say “Large!” and they say “Small?” and I say “How about you fill up with coffee the cup that holds the greatest amount of liquid at sea level?” After a few rounds of this, they usually finally capitulate. Oh! And don’t get me started on their useless coffee lids that leak all over the place. How hard is it to put a lid on a cup that doesn’t leak when you drink it? Can one of you rocket scientists investigate that for me?

Viscount Mond: If I wanted to investigate a non-leaking lid system, I’d send some spies into the Dunkin’ Donuts at the corner of Lark and Madison, and steal their secrets. Dress your spies up as either bikers, cops or homeless crystal meth addicts. They’ll fit right in. I think the secret is in the difference between Styrofoam and paper cups. The leaks always happen at the seam on the paper cups. But good luck trying to get those tree-hugging, owl-loving Starbucks punks to use Styrofoam cups.

Edward Sir Ellington O’Brien: I’ve found a simple solution to the paper cup leaking problem: whenever the barista hands you your coffee, turn the lid to make sure the drinking spout is 180 degrees opposite the seam. It feels nicer when you drink it that way too, as your fingers can caress the seam thoughtfully while you sip. Fool proof!

Lord MacCormack: No, it’s not the Styrofoam vs paper issue, necessarily. It’s the issue of flat lids vs raised lids. Those stupid “dome” lids Starbucks uses just leak, period, because the coffee pools in them when you sip, and when you lower the cup, it drains out of the dome and out the pouring spout. Always get the flat lids if they have them available, the kind where the pour spout just peels back. They will reduce your spills dramatically, unless the wingnuts behind the counter overfill your cup. I might just have to follow your advice, Mond, and send an expert into the Lark and Madison Dunkin’ Donuts to see how they do it there. Anybody seen Louie Shakes around lately? Let’s see if we can raise him on the cell phone here. Hello? Louie? Are you out there?

Louie Shakes (On the Cell Phone): Here I am, Lord MacC. I’ve commandeered a computer at the library, but I’ve been waving an umbrella around and screaming for a few minutes, and the cops are probably gonna shut me down any moment, so I don’t know if I’m going to make it to Dunkin’ Donuts this afternoon or not. But, either way, I have a message for you fancy folks there in the reading room. Here’s what it is: we, the homeless crystal meth addicts, are completely disenfranchised. We have no voice in local politics, where that damn Mayor McCheese just deprives us of our rights, left, right, and straight up the center. So what I need to know is: who will represent us when the war with the Sith Lords finally comes to pass? And who will protect us from the Shower Drain Elves? I have to know, friends. I have to know fast.

Magnum Anvil: Hey, Louie, you know we’re on your side here. Why, didn’t I give you fifty bucks and a handkerchief to wrap around your head when you got that asbestos out of my basement for me? Who but a great friend of the common man would be so benevolent? And, now, next time I see you nodding out in front of a computer at the library, I’ll show you how to connect that computer to the internet. That way your voice will be heard better, without all the shouting and umbrella-waving, and the librarian won’t call the heat in quite as quickly. Hang in there, pallie! I know life has been tough since they banned ephedrine, but I hear Mexico has taken over the meth lab market, and business on the street should be hopping again soon. So you should be set in a few months, if you’re back out of the poke by then, anyway.

Louie Shakes: I dunno about that, Magnum. Mexico? All the way up to Upstate New York? Man, I gotta say, that still leaves me greatly concerned about the availability of my meth. And with my limited income, how will I keep up with the 30% mark-up on imported product? Or will the price be lower than that, and possibly stabilized, to ensure that local meth producers, should anyone choose to take up the gauntlet, can still compete? Time’s runnin’ out here, friends. I need me some answers and a champion.

Magnum Anvil:
I wouldn’t fret, my little speedfreak friend. Here in the great U.S. of A., the price of drugs always seems to go down no matter how much the supply chain moves around. Once the big brew-ha-ha comes to a close you should be sitting pretty. If not there’s always a lot of money out there for someone willing to fake their own death, or sell a kidney. Or both. You just keep waving that umbrella around until the cops show up, and then there’ll be three solid meals a day for a few months, and I’m sure that Local 962 of the International Brotherhood of Homeless Crystal Meth Addicts will have elected some new local leadership, who’ll get your rock prices steady, and maybe even get you a dental plan, by the time you get out. Failing that, there’s always Starbucks, my little junkie chum. There will always, always be Starbucks.

Louie Shakes: Hey, that sounds like a plan, Magnum. You fancy rich folks are always so great to me. I’m glad you’re in my court. Alright, here comes the heat. I gotta go now. See you all in a few months. Auggggggghhhh!!!!! You can’t catch me, coppers!!!! Augggghhhhh!!!!!!

Lord MacCormack: Say “howdy” to Officer Big Mac for us, Louie! And tell him not to put you in the stir with that bad old Hamburglar again!

Hamburglar: Robble! Robble Robble! Robble Robble Robble!!!! RRRRRRRRRRoooooooBBBBBLLLLLE!!!!!!!!

Stinking Vegans: Lord MacCormack vs. Sandy Twistedpanties

FRIDAY, Dec. 15 (HealthDay News) — As a child’s IQ rises, his taste for meat in adulthood declines, a new study suggests. British researchers have found that children’s IQ predicts their likelihood of becoming vegetarians as young adults — lowering their risk for cardiovascular disease in the process. The finding could explain the link between smarts and better health, the investigators say. “Brighter people tend to have healthier dietary habits,” concluded lead author Catharine Gale, a senior research fellow at the MRC Epidemiology Resource Centre of the University of Southampton and Southampton General Hospital.

Lord MacCormack: Oh, those stinking vegans! They got the cause and effect wrong! And their data is skewed, because poor kids don’t get their IQs tested, and kids with high IQs more often come from high income homes who can invest more in their education. High income people are more likely to become vegetarians because (a) it’s a trendy thing for rich people to do, and (b) it costs more than living on McDonalds and pork rinds and Kool Aid, like the poor kids do. Whoever did that study was just sloppy. I have a friend who is vegan who would love to read about this study and then preach at me about it. Except that he won’t get the chance, because I don’t do anything with him anymore since it’s such a pain in the ass to have to only go to the couple of places in town that cater to his ridiculous lifestyle.

Sandy Twistedpanties: I think you’re making assumptions about the study, Lord MacCormack. For goodness sake, take that lamb shank out of your mouth and think a minute before speaking!

Lord MacCormack: Balderdash! Poppycock! You and your kind are just weak! If humans were meant to be vegans we wouldn’t have incisors and canines. If you’d been in charge back on the Serengeti Plain, we’d still be saber tooth tiger food!

Sandy Twistedpanties: The very idea that what we perceive as “natural” is what’s “right” is just bunk. I know you are smarter than that, Lord MacCormack. Leave that natural law nonsense to the mystics and the moralists and the Christians.

The Christians: Whoh, whoh, whoh! Don’t pin that natural law stuff on us! We don’t believe in that either! We have incisors and canines because the LORD wanted us to have them.

The LORD: That’s right.

Lord MacCormack: Look, you little cabbage eater, you . . . if you deny that we evolved to be meat eaters then you are not using the superior brain that meat allowed you to evolve! Vegans are substandard humans! Soy eating wimps who have to lather on the patchouli to cut the stench of garlic! No vegan will ever be in charge of anything important, because they have tiny, shriveled, meat-starved gonads and bad priorities. You know what I want to do this afternoon? I want to go set a bear trap in Leicester Square and see if I can catch a dog, then field dress it, take it home and make dog sausage out of it. Then I will make passionate love to a fertile, meat-eating woman to let off all the testosterone raging through me that the fresh meat produces. Damn, all this meat talk is making me hungry. I’m going to have Roger make me a huge prime rib for dinner tonight!

Sandy Twistedpanties: I cry.

A Cow: I die. So that Lord MacCormack may eat prime rib. I am satisfied with my lot.

Another Cow: It would be a pleasure to have a bolt shot through my brain, then to have my entrails pulled out, then to be cut into pieces with electric saws, so that Lord MacCormack may have the best dinner possible tonight. I envy you, other cow. How I envy you.

Lord MacCormack: Yeah, whatever, I gotta go. My stomach is eating itself.

Lord MacCormack’s Stomach: Gnarr! Gnarr gnarr! Gnarr!

James Joyce vs. Breakfast

Nora Barnacle: Good morning, James. Would you like me to make you some pancakes?

James Joyce: och nae nah ah dint wint nae fookin pannynannykekkies come tuggle ruggle river red runner gunner yes. gimmae sommat fooktesticlees frothymarvel guinness ye gaddlin sprad!

Nora Barnacle: For heaven’s sake, James. I’m just trying to make your breakfast, you half-blind bastard. Where’s Michael Feeney when I need him? You drink too much.

James Joyce: orra gorra norra ye blastit titful of clams an oysterorra. i marrit ye, ye cow! ye’ll tackle on me joyceliness and be done wi ye aquatical beasties and rockhugging moneymanimonnikers! nae brang mae me frothybubblit, norra gorra orra!

Nora Barnacle: You know what you can do with your “frothybubblit,” you obscure little pedant, you! And while we’re on the subject of your obscurity and pedantry, what I am to make of this bit from your letter yesterday: “I would like you to wear drawers with three or four frills one over the other at the knees and up the thighs and great crimson bows in them?” Well, blast that nonsense all to hell! What sort of person writes such letters? And who would wear such things? I’m a lady, James! A lady, you hear?

Guy Who Blocks The Flow: Is all of James Joyce like that? I never read any of it, though I never tried to. And what is Bloomsday, anyway?

Guy Who Explains Things: Bloomsday is the day on which the events of James Joyce’s “Ulysses” occur, celebrated the world over every year by people who have honestly never even come close to having sex. Of course, I have sex all the time. In fact, I am having sex right now. In a manner of speaking. And by that I mean I am lying.

James Joyce: och an bleedyreedy buggerall rum tumblin tugglers ye sotted waisto’pants wi ye falsely flaccidonderry scandalous us mocktery o me quippy pun an me barby quips an me witty puzzle wuzzles! ifn i cae optic ye, ye’d be hornswilled in a calf’s pudnostrum!

Guy Who Blocks The Flow: Okay, I just went and read two pages of “Finnegan’s Wake.” And then I thought to myself: “I wonder what’s on Cartoon Network right now?”

James Joyce: e brang mae me frothybubblit, harlotcow!!!

One Day in Cubic Hell

9:02 AM: the woman in the next cubicle had garlic for breakfast again and the whole office stinks already. i have picked a bad day to run out of febreze.

9:19 AM: she is complaining because there are cookies and chips left over from a meeting last night in the conference room and she is trying to be good on her diet so she wants people to eat the leftovers now so they don’t tempt her. but she doesn’t really want them to. in an hour she will be in there snuffling around like a truffle hunting pig without a choke collar. then this afternoon we will have to listen to her whine about how she feels puffy because of her wheat allergy.

10:12 AM: she’s over there with her dream dictionary now talking to a friend loudly about talismans and archetypes.

10:19 AM: she has concluded that her dream is “the goddess” telling her to trust in her inner strength and beauty. i hear them hugging each other over there. hopefully tomorrow the goddess tells her to stop eating so much garlic.

10:37 AM: there she goes, off to the conference room.

10:39 AM: and here she’s come back, with a little bundle of snacks wrapped up in a napkin. she’s whistling to herself.

11:17 AM: while she’s in the ladies room, i creep over and rub the ham from my sandwich on her chai mug, because she says the smell of meat makes her sick. heh heh heh. i throw the ham away because the smell of chai actually does make me sick.

11:28 AM: she is drinking her chai. she does not notice the ham. victory for me! i am the king!

11:58 AM: the boss walks by during the 10 minute period when she seems to actually be working. why does it always happen that way? the problem is that the boss is in another part of the building so he doesn’t smell and hear what us cubic hell dwellers live with all the time.

12:16 PM: if something doesn’t change soon i think there is going to be a rebellion here because all of the other obnoxious, holistic people from other parts of the company keep stopping by all day to shoot the breeze with her and commiserate about their irritable bowels and moon cycles. her desk is time-waste central. they all just sit over there and talk, and laugh, and share stories about their families and pets and friends. yuck.

1:28 PM: she has just returned from old country buffet with a bunch of her cronies. she is feeling puffy and wonders if she accidentally ate some bleached wheat. she hopes she doesn’t have a reaction. i want to yell “of course you feel puffy, because you just went and ate at an all-you-can-eat trough!” but i don’t.

1:37 PM: the stench of creamy garlic dressing wafts through our cubicles. i ran out by myself to grab some febreze over lunch. i spray it into the fabric of my cubicle walls and sit in a private zone of freshness.

2:19 PM: am i crazy, or is there something not right about women who think it’s okay to talk about their periods in public because the “moon cycle” is a natural part of life? so is taking a dump, but we don’t talk about that in public. oh wait. yes, she does. never mind.

3:07 PM: she is telling one of her sales rep pals that spiralina (?) has more nutrients and healthy qualities than any other food. it is some kind of algae. it is supposed to suppress appetite. ooo, i can hear hugging over there again. why are those kinds of people so touchy feely? i hate it when people touch me.

3:37 PM: the goddess has told her that her cat needs to be a vegetarian! this woman is forcing her food preferences on her poor cat! what kind of goddess makes cats hunt for tofu???

3:48 PM: she says she gives her cat some supplement that supposedly gives it the extra vitamins it needs. she goes on and on about how cute he is eating olives out of the jar, while showing pictures to the mail clerk. i’m thinking the cat’s probably starving, and the salt in the olives reminds him of blood.

4:17 PM: she’s over there talking to someone about “aromatherapy” explaining that if they burn lang-lang (?) and bergamo (?) and other stuff i didn’t catch it will unlock their spirit energy or something. they’re going to go to the mall tonight to buy some of these things. all this is being explained in the middle of a garlic vapor cloud. the only aromatherapy i need is febreze.

4:29 PM: and she’s off. until tomorrow. she leaves with her posse, and their laughs echo in my ear as they finally hit the elevator and are out of my sight. i am relieved for a few seconds, and then i begin to dread tomorrow. what did i do to deserve this?

Guy Who Blocks The Flow: Wouldn’t it be funny if she were complaining to all of her friends, right now, about the sullen weirdo who sits at his computer all day in the cubicle next to her, and who has all sorts of stupid sensitive nose traumas? “He hates garlic! I mean, who in their right mind hates garlic? It’s so good for you!” But, hey, that’s okay, you can go home now and talk about her with all of your own friends, right? Right? Oh, uh . . .  wait. Sorry. Never mind. Have a nice evening anyway.