Posts Tagged ‘Rant’

Hi There!

March 15, 2008

My name is Thinker St. James, and I really don’t want to talk to you!

Seriously. I sit in an office building from 9-5 sporting a smile so phony that when I pass mirrors, I mistake myself for Joan Rivers. A masculine, sexy male version of Joan Rivers. A Joan Rivers Phoenix, if you will. I can stretch for jokes with the best of ’em: thank you corporate America.

Anyway like I said, I really don’t want to talk to you, but knowing you, you’re going to talk anyway. And as luck would have it, I get to be the target of your oratory projections. Yay me! I tip my hat to you, annoying asshole; you fill the gap between my internet porn searches (ie. those vane attempts to get fired from this shithole job) and my daily contemplation of suicide (ie. literally getting “fired,” also an attempt to escape this shithole job). Like a good cubicle neighbor, you know all the right ways to invoke coworker necktie strangulation, or perhaps a letter-opener to the jugular, or even the rare but completely satisfying staplegun to the face (repeatedly). Of course I’ve only heard about such therapeutic qualities. No, I don’t know why Ted hasn’t been to work for the last week and a half.

Why do my vague threats always fail to make you sit the fuck down and leave me alone? Silly me, I can easily answer that question: no one else in the office is willing to listen to your marvelous (dare you say heroic) tales of last night’s cuisine a la Ralph, and at this point, it’s gotten so bad that you’re willing to forego the risk of bodily injury by unloading upon the last (captive) audience at your disposal. Ralph, let me be the one to break this to you in a way that every single living organism in this building wishes they could: NO ONE GIVES A FUCK ABOUT YOUR USE OF OREGANO. Not one, single, fucking, person, in this entire building, gives a rat’s ass about what types of tomatoes you used in your penne prima vera al dente minestrone lamponi fuckin’ prosciutto pimento specialé! Ralph, you’re Polish, okay? Stop pretending that you understand the Italian words you’re using! Jesus fucking Christ man!

Lucky me. God must’ve caressed my beautiful Joan Rivers Phoenix face, seating me in this cardboard square just a few feet away from you. Clowns to the left of me, the Iron Chef to my right. I wish I was Chairman Kaga, revealing that today’s secret ingredient is a 17th century war cannon, aimed squarely at your prematurely balding forehead. But no. No, no no, no…no. I just smile. Thank God I never come to work sober.

One day, this world is going to end. And on that day, every person will face a higher power, however you define it. Ralph, you’re going to be the one talking about linguine. Perhaps that’ll gain you entrance into the kingdom of the angels. As for me, I’ll be the gin-soaked drug user that looks Vishnu in the eye and says “Hey pal, you gave me this life. Fuckin’ ay, I lived it.” Courage before the flames of hell.

Now all I have to do is get the network administrator to notice the foot fetish porn I so very much enjoy and end my arduous tenure at this stupid fucking job.