Tales in Hot Pink is a semi- weekly column by our fearless leader. Like all management, he is not required to tell the truth, represent himself accurately, or trouble himself with reality in any way. And, in keeping with our corporate style, he is not bound by good taste or specific subject, so he may ramble wildly from topic to topic. As his employees, we encourage this, because the day is long and we are frequently bored.
|
Party
6:45 pm It's time for another annual Pink Productions holiday party, and I arrive unhappy and dreading the next few hours. The party was scheduled about two weeks after the holidays this year because, apparently, my book doesn't make a very good Christmas present, so I was forced to shoplift the party supplies. It's very difficult to fit a two liter bottle of Jim Beam in your pants without looking suspicious. I have a knack for it, though. That's why I'm a CEO. I arrive 45 minutes after the party starts. I have some mild swelling in my upper thighs from my recent trips to the liquor stores, and I am anxious to end what I anticipate will be a long evening of pretending to like the people I work with. I move quickly to the bar.
7:00 pm After downing a quick vodka followed by a tequila chaser, I find myself standing next to the new girl, Natalie. She and I appear to be the outcasts at the party. No one is talking to me because I'm the boss, and no one is talking to her because she's too ugly to have friends. I am desperately trying to think of a topic of conversation. The only thing that pops into my head, "What happened to your nose?", seems inappropriate. I decide to start slowly. "So," I sigh. She turns to me and gives me a polite, tight smile. "Hello," she says. "You're Natalie, right?" I ask. She nods. "I'm Tom," I say, offering my hand. "Hello," she says. "Do you work here, too?" she asks. I am uncertain of the answer. "I'm the CEO," I say, hoping that's enough information for her to make a determination of her own. "Oh," she says, with dawning realization. "I've heard a lot about you." "Have you?" I ask. "Oh yes," she smiles. I decide that the smile is not a positive one, and I realize that I am going to need much, much more to drink.
7:45 These people really aren't that bad. I've stumbled across little patches of interesting conversation and occasionally wheedled my way in to listen. One guy is talking about his tour in Iraq during Desert Storm, which sounds intriguing. I make a mental note to head back to that corner of the room after I get another drink. 8:15 At some point in the eavesdropping, I become overcome with jealousy, and decide that I need to tell everyone that I was the guy who was sent into Cambodia to kill Marlon Brando during the Vietnam War. No one is sure whether or not I'm kidding, so they choose to ignore me. It's the same response they have whenever I suggest something during working hours. 8:45 I notice, on my next trip to the bar for a refill, that Natalie has acquired some friends. She must not be that ugly after all. "Hey, Natalie," I say cheerfully. "Hello," she says, pretending not to be upset that I have rudely interrupted her conversation. "Natalie, Natalie, Natalie," I say. "Is that French?" "Yes," she says. "I speak a little French," I say. "Do you?" she asks, feigning interest. "Just a little," I say, trying to be mysterious. I take my drink from the bartender, who also cleans our toilets on Fridays, and turn to walk away. I trip over an office chair, fall face first into a computer monitor, and send it tumbling to the floor where it lands with an ominous crunch. The smashed computer monitor doesn't upset me nearly as much as the fact I've spilled my drink. I almost start to cry, but someone quickly hands me another one.
9:00 Don has found out about his computer monitor and he looks depressed. He knows how the book sales have been lately and he is intimately aware of how difficult it is to squeeze large items in your pants. He suspects that while I may be able to slide three bottles of Korbel down each pant leg, a twenty-three inch monitor may prove too much for even me. "Don't worry about it," I tell him. "What do you mean, don't worry about it?" he asks. "How am I supposed to work tomorrow?" "Just get me a screwdriver," I tell him. "I'll fix it." "You'll fix it?" he asks doubtfully. "Since when can you fix anything? You have to call me into the office to work the mini-blinds." "Don," I say, shaking my head knowingly, patting him on the shoulder. "Just get the screwdriver." 9:30 Apparently, I've been unconscious for a short period of time. I wake up with the screwdriver in one hand and the open computer monitor on my lap. The lights in the building have gone out and we have no power. Don tells me I was clinically dead for two minutes. Painful Life Lesson #372: Just because something is broken does not necessarily mean you can attempt to repair it while it's still plugged in.
9:45 Because she is a woman of such breathtaking beauty, I am trying to impress Natalie by saying things to her in French. Things like, "The cows have taken the beach," and, "I am not the pants." If I were sober, I would be able to tell by the look on her face how terrified she is. I am, however, not even close to sober, and I assume she is gazing at me with admiration. "My socks are restless," I tell her.
10:15 I become enraged when the Desert Storm veteran tries to tell me that my Vietnam experience is actually my dim recollection of the movie Apocalypse Now. I tell him that I've already killed Marlon Brando, one of the greatest actors of the century, so I wouldn't think twice about killing some low level accounts payable clerk. Especially since we don't pay anybody for anything anyway.
10:30 Now that I've wrapped my tie around my head and painted my face with red and green markers, I've scared almost everyone off and the party is pretty much over. Only the band is left, and we are at about the same level of inebriation. At some point in our slurred conversation, I reveal that I have never lit my own flatulence on fire. I confide I've always wondered if it was even possible to do it.
10:45 I am lying on my belly on the stretcher in the ambulance. I don't need to ask the paramedic how bad my ass is, because the ashen gray of her face speaks volumes. There is a smoky scent in the air, like burnt hot dogs. When someone who habitually picks up limbs on the side of the road after a traffic accident looks about to hurl, you know you're in for some pain when the booze wears off. I am crying. Not because my ass hurts, I can't feel my ass at all, but because I love the people I work with such ferocity I wish I could throw a party for them every day. I immediately make a New Year's Resolution that I will, in the future, treasure every precious moment with every valued employee, and I will never take their hard work or contributions for granted. And, unlike all the other New Year's Resolutions I've made, this is one I'm sure I'll keep. I want to ask the paramedic for another drink, but the wiring in my head short circuits and instead I wind up telling her "My dog is a policeman" in French. |
||
| A collection of more diseased madness below. Check
out a few, and then buy The Reluctant
Prophet. We won't tell
anyone what you spent your grocery money on. No one needs to
know. We can keep it just between us.
|
||
|
E-mail feedback, jokes or nekkid pickchures to Tom at: |
