Bosses and Asses

                   I sat in my cubicle staring at the computer screen; it was going blurry and then back in focus as I moved my head and adjusted my eyes.  I had probably been sitting like this for fifteen minutes when I heard the dreaded words "Monica is on her way back!" being repeated from cubicle to cubicle like a cascade of water spilling from one to the next.  The panic was spreading like fire in a paper factory. 

Suddenly there was the quick rapping of keyboard keys and the frantic clicking of mice.  Papers were being shuffled and desk drawers were being slapped shut.  My trance had been broken but I didn't really move.  I felt like I was in a dream; my mind was picking up on every sound and I was imagining what was happening with out looking.  The fear that this one woman brought to the office was unparalleled to anything I had ever seen.  It was really as if someone yelled the word “Godzilla” in downtown Tokyo.

         For many employees at Burnam and Hash Monica was the Devil in the flesh.  The mere mention of her name made people physically ill.  I thought she was hot and had great tits.  She was in her late thirties and had the body of a 2o year old co-ed.  She was tall and had silky brown hair that always looked perfect.  I think the little fag Marcus that followed around like a Bijou tended to her hair and make-up all day.  Whenever she would talk at me I would stare at the little bit of tit meat that was showing and I would try to make a logical prediction if she was a shaver, a waxer, or an amazon.

         I found it amusing that my co-workers, some of whom I actually liked, would get so upset by this woman’s presence.  No matter what she said at me, near me, or over me, I was thinking about licking her ass.  I literally imagined myself in a squat position behind her forcing her over the desk with her pretty panties, the color changing at each imagining, down not completely to her knees, just kind of yanked down and twisted on itself.  My tie would be flung over my shoulder and I would be buried between her ass cheeks like a WW II bombardier looking down on his intended target.

         Today, when the panic ensued I could not find the energy to move.  I sat there in my gray and off white cubi-cell staring at the paused video game I was playing.  Amongst the thick layer of dust that covered most of my desk, my copy of Playboy magazine was open to a big tittied co-ed spread out on the pages, there were empty coffee cups strewn about and there were weeks old coffee stains and napkins littering the place.

         I just couldn’t find the motivation to care.  I had been coming to work for weeks and just sitting in my chair and staring off into the nothingness.  I had not completed an assignment in over a month.  In fact, I don’t remember the last time my immediate supervisor even asked me to handle something.  For a moment I thought she might have died and that is why I didn’t have any work.  Then I realized that she had walked past my cubi-cell the other day and didn’t stop to annoy me or anything.  I think she might have had to take a dump because she was moving at a pretty good clip, and I would swear I heard her fart as she banked to the left of the aisle.  The Super bathroom was over that way now that I think about it. 

I should take the time to explain The Super bathroom. This grand porcelain palace was always clean and had plenty of toilet paper, soap and paper towels, which doesn’t seem like a big deal until your missing one of them.  It was also down at the far end of the office and away from everyone else.  It was possible to drop a four second 8 note fart on that bowl and no one in ear shot would hear it or have to smell it for that matter.

What made the bathroom even more special was that you had to have a special key for it.  It seemed the more important you were to the company, the more important it was for you to shit comfortably and discreetly.  It should then come to no one’s surprise that pretty much everyone in the office had basically procured a key one way or the other, including myself.  It was such a coveted toilet that I heard that a certain intern gave Gary in Accounts a hot blow job in that very bathroom for a copy of the key.  I would love to know how Gary got the key.

I had been given a key very early on in my tenure at Burnham and Hash.  It was by no means for my aptitude, attitude, or perceived potential.  I got it like I got everything else in life: luck, bullshitting, and sexual deviancy.

I was hired in October of that year and I was very shy and quiet and worked hard to please my bosses and to mind my business.  I kept to myself and did what ever was asked of me, and so no one trusted me.  I was not in the kitchen gossiping with them, so obviously I was the plant.  I was deemed an ass-kisser and pretty much ignored.  In retrospect it was fantastic.

It was around the time the office was getting geared up for the holiday season and the obligatory Christmas party that I became acceptable to the other members of the office tribe.  The Holiday Spirit was abound and I guess I was being tested when I was asked to buy some school fundraiser candy from Shelia and I gladly obliged.  I like chocolate covered raisins.  Then Mary, the cute, skinny, pretty and mousey introvert that every fat girl in the office felt obliged to protect from men, asked me for a donation for the homeless.  I liked the way Mary smelled and her ass looked great in a pants-suit.  I gladly gave her a ten so that she would come in my cubicle.  She smelled delicious and it gave me more material for the Spank Bank.  I liked to use references when I jerked off to real people.  My willingness to give freely apparently appeased the group and I was readily accepted as one of their own.

Like anything else, there are tests that one must pass in order to be accepted at the highest levels.  I was a “good” guy for my generosity, so my second test would be my willingness to participate in planning for the party.  I had been involved in some very good parties while in college and so I felt I had at least the credentials to be involved.  Although I never vocalized my thoughts I soon realized I was in way over my head.  It turns out that what I thought made for a great or at least passable party was no where in the realm of an office type Christmas party.  My suggestion for greased-up nude female midgets would have gone over like a lead zeppelin.

I smiled and nodded and agreed with the biggest and brashest of the beasts.  I made an effort to make some very clean witty jokes, and the herd was pleased. 

My description of my co-workers could be seen as harsh and offensive.  I, myself, taking a critical view of these statements might say that it was undue and just a way for a disgruntled young man to express his own anger at his short comings.  It could be.  Or I could be one-hundred percent correct about the animals that clothed themselves and stood upright to come to work each day.

The work that I do is simple, repetitive, and wasteful.  My entire existence at Burnam and Hash could be eliminated with one good computer program.  Why they have a staff as large as they do is beyond me, but I have no need to question it because it provides a paycheck and benefits.  The money is not really very good, but the salary supports my low-key lifestyle.  And to be honest, I don’t deserve to be paid any better for being as useless as I am.  And no one in my office deserves to be paid anybetter.  Not one last fast slob does.

The fact that the herd of beasts I work with drone on endlessly with complaints and problems baffled me.  And then I realized all people, or at least those that I come into contact will always complain.  About everything.  No matter what.  It doesn’t matter the profession, or the pay scale, people will complain. 

There are some jobs that one would think acceptable to complain about.  For instance, the guy that cleans septic tanks, the exterminator, the little Asian lady that has to give happy-ending hand-jobs to fat guys with little pricks.  You see where I am going with this.  Why, does it matter if the guy is fat and has a little dick you ask.  Well, if you have to do something like that, where you really aren’t getting off, but you have to get someone else off, of which men have no idea, then it should be at least pleasurable.  I would think giving a baby oil hand-job to a well kept guy with a six pack and a huge crank has to be so much more enjoyable than trying to get a grip on a guy’s four inch slug at the same time pushing his hairy belly fat up.