Friday's are the shit in most cases. They are the beginning of the weekend. If you work a straight up 9 to 5, Friday is nirvana. But if you're me, and one of your staff people keeps begging you to come over for dinner so they can kiss your ass on "some Friday", it's pure hell. Especially since they remind you weekly that they'd really love to have you over, and also since it's this guy.
But I had this guy go above and beyond for this project. "Thanks, Dub, I owe you one." Why the fuck didn't I choose my words more carefully? "Well if you'd really like to pay me back, take me and my wife up on the dinner invitation."
I'm thinking, if this cat had a inkling of who I am, he'd leave me the fuck alone. I like people who allow me to be anti-social. But I'm not trying to hurt his filthy feelings. I accepted and went over to their crib for dinner on Friday.
What do I have in common with a 60 year old white couple and their 30 something son? Nothing. It was painfully clear. They were grilling this eve and the joy juice was plentiful. So I drank away the pain. Everything was a lot more bearable.
Sweet, sweet TAD was trying to help me out by calling me claiming to be stranded by the road and needing help. I fucked that up by not feeling the phone vibrate when she called.
His little round wife asked if I like asparagus. I responded affirmatively, vigorously. Dub C, my staff person, went to take the veggies, covered in olive oil, out to the grill in a dish. He made a pit stop. That's right, to the restroom, before he took them out to the grill. He came out of the bathroom post haste. I heard the toilet flush as he opened the door. No sink faucets were turned.
He made his way out to the grill, placed the dish by his side and began to manipulate the olive oiled veggies to make sure the were properly lubricated. With his hands. His bare hands.
I watched as he put the asparagus on the grill, once again with his bare hands, in horror. All I could do was pray.
Fuck these dubs, and fuck hospitality. People are fucking disgusting, and I'll be damned if I accept another invitation to a horror show. Satan's Anus earned it's name that night, with the inane conversation and the hours filled with "how did you get to upper management from the ghetto" type insinuation about my background.
I don't wanna talk to you about my life, I don't wanna hear about yours, and stop trying to feed me pissy asparagus!
That's all I got.
KZ
But I had this guy go above and beyond for this project. "Thanks, Dub, I owe you one." Why the fuck didn't I choose my words more carefully? "Well if you'd really like to pay me back, take me and my wife up on the dinner invitation."
I'm thinking, if this cat had a inkling of who I am, he'd leave me the fuck alone. I like people who allow me to be anti-social. But I'm not trying to hurt his filthy feelings. I accepted and went over to their crib for dinner on Friday.
What do I have in common with a 60 year old white couple and their 30 something son? Nothing. It was painfully clear. They were grilling this eve and the joy juice was plentiful. So I drank away the pain. Everything was a lot more bearable.
Sweet, sweet TAD was trying to help me out by calling me claiming to be stranded by the road and needing help. I fucked that up by not feeling the phone vibrate when she called.
His little round wife asked if I like asparagus. I responded affirmatively, vigorously. Dub C, my staff person, went to take the veggies, covered in olive oil, out to the grill in a dish. He made a pit stop. That's right, to the restroom, before he took them out to the grill. He came out of the bathroom post haste. I heard the toilet flush as he opened the door. No sink faucets were turned.
He made his way out to the grill, placed the dish by his side and began to manipulate the olive oiled veggies to make sure the were properly lubricated. With his hands. His bare hands.
I watched as he put the asparagus on the grill, once again with his bare hands, in horror. All I could do was pray.
Fuck these dubs, and fuck hospitality. People are fucking disgusting, and I'll be damned if I accept another invitation to a horror show. Satan's Anus earned it's name that night, with the inane conversation and the hours filled with "how did you get to upper management from the ghetto" type insinuation about my background.
I don't wanna talk to you about my life, I don't wanna hear about yours, and stop trying to feed me pissy asparagus!
That's all I got.
KZ
