Superfreaks: The Haggis Award!

I enjoy my lunch.  I love a good sammich and maybe some Cheezy Poofs or sometimes I like to roam out and get a half slab of ribs, slathered in barbque sauce, washed down with two or three pints of...uh....ice tea.  Ya, that's right, ice tea.

But most of all, I like my quiet time.

What I don't like is being interrupted!  It's my lunch and you can't have it.

I work with a group of fucknuggets that feel this is their right though.  It seems that as soon as I duck out and head toward the break room, someone feels the need to follow me in.

Why?   How the fuck should I know.  But they do.

That isn't entirely true.  Sorry.  No, what usually happens is as soon I get my can of chili rotating in the microwave or have pulled my PB&J unwrapped and then pull my book or laptop from my bag and have settled in for a few minutes of 'my fucking' time, this is the point in which they come storming in.

"What ya reading?" Overtly Gay Chris asks.

"Well, you bag of rhino snot, I'm not sure yet, 'cause I just started reading it but I bet if I overtly shoved it up your ass you might have a better understanding, in order to let me know, because you know what?  I can't fricken read because you feel the need to bug the shit out of me each time I sit in this particular chair!"

Or this.  I sit down, pull out my laptop, my left over spaghetti with meatballs warming up and sure as Toyota has faulty brakes, here comes Jovial Lab Manager Guy.  "Hey, is that one of those fandangled doohickys that you can get the Interwebs on?"

"No, you asshamper, it's a box of deathrays, and if you don't move along right now, I'm going to fry that slug shaped brain of yours!"

"Uh...really?  It can do that?"

Not the most tech savvy guy out there.  There isn't much I can do about that, other than fuck with the computer in his lab.  Every once in a while I'll change the screensaver to read 

  'Superfreak'  

or I might turn the power button to off on his printer.  Fun stuff and keeps him reeling for hours, until, finally, I like to suggest to him that it "must be home office changing the configuration on your computer and you might want to give IT a call."  This always brings outrageous laughter and mean spirited criticism over the line from IT guys somewhere in Texas, which in turns, makes my day just that much more satisfying.

And while this is a shit load of fun, messing with Jovial Lab Manager Guy, it still doesn't answer the question of how to get him and Overtly Gay Chris to step away from my lunch break before I have to burn out there retinas with flaming, over nuked meatballs.

You are probably saying, "Ron, why don't you just tell them that this bugs you, that you appreciate your break time and unless you have something important to say, can you please let me enjoy your lunch, alone."

Well, I have, and thank you so much for trying to imply that you're a whole lot smarter than myself and that I don't have the cajewels to tell them to stab themselves with a large rusty pitchfork to their kneecaps. Well, I have, and in truth, I was a whole lot more graphic.

But, this only seemed to make them understand my need for privacy LESS! Since I told them I want to be left alone, they've become a hornets nest of aggravation in my life. Using that analogy as reality, I even brought a can of homicidal pest killer in to work, but that only pissed them off.

I'm at wits end people!?

Any help would be much appreciated in figuring out how to make them stop disturbing my lunch, or flat out killing them (if and only if their horribly ugly deaths can't be traced back to me because I can't spend another night any time in jail!)

But in the meantime, and since I have no idea how to finish up this post effectively, I'm giving Jovial Lab Manager Guy and Overtly Gay Chris The Haggis Award!

Hypermetropic Slutmonkey

I work in an optical shop where we not only sale eye glasses but produce them on site as well.  Usually our customers walk out with said glasses on that same day.  Of course sometimes it takes as many as ten days, and sometimes, our patients actually walk out being able to discern the pushy neighborhood Jehovah Witnesses that live at the corner house.  At this point, it's out of my hands whether they choose to use their vehicles as weapons of mass destruction.

It all sounds like it should be of the utmost professional environment, huh?  That I have an important job, making sure people leave our store not only able to see properly but aren't  cross eyed and falling down elevator shafts (in my defense it was only once, and it was only one floor).

So yeah, it is important, what I do, or so I think it is, but the problem is I'm of the thinking that people shouldn't have to see on Saturday, or at least bother me with their visual complaints on Saturdays.  Jesus, people, can't it wait til Monday?  Plus Saturdays, in my opinion are always the best day of the week to do something more productive, like....well shit, most anything would be better than squabbling with hypermetropic individuals with little white "sperm" swimming around in their eye sockets, who, overzealously  go on and on and on about having  macular dengeneration.

Whawhawha!  Quit your whining, you Nancy boys!

My disdain for working on Saturdays always has me wondering how I can  get through the day a lot easier, having more fun, and without having to hide out in the bathroom with a Rolling Stone magazine, pretending that I have a stomach ailment. 

So, on this last Saturday, I woke up and got into a deep, intellectual conversation with my lovely girlfriend about the magnitude of the word I may or may not have made up, that being  'slutmonkey'.  Don't ask, this blog carries an R rating. (But if you pervs need to know, there wasn't a swing and grand piano involved.  Alright?  It was a $73 Casio keyboard;)~ 

The gist of the conversation is neither here nor over there, the point is, the word is just plain fuckin' awesome!

I was still mulling over and laughing about the word when I arrived at work and proceed to discuss this (the word, not the Casio) with my buddy, Jimmy the Greek.  You might remember the original Jimmy the Greek.  He was a NFL commentator back in the day when linebackers wore leather helmets and made predictions on the games, at an astonishing success rate of about 19.4%.  While my buddy, Jimmy the Greek, who doesn't have ounce of Mediterranean blood in him, predicts I'll be fired within six months.  He actually has money riding on it.  Jimmy can be dick, but he's probably right, thus the stolen nickname.

Anyway, Jimmy the Greek and I, while discussing my word 'slutmonkey', thought it would be incredibly funny to insert the word into a sentence, quietly, discreetly, somewhat in passing, and directed at Jovial Lab Manager Guy.

Jovial Lab Manager Guy is an older gentleman and just that, jovial, smiling non-stop.  I personally think he spends eight hours a day hidden behind closed door letting off old man fart bombs.  Other adjectives to describe Jovial Lab Manager Guy would be Republican, hard of hearing, church goer, ex-military, has all sorts of pills for all sorts of pain relief, a Pittsburg Steeler fan (reason enough for harassment) and has a sense of humor dryer than my frigid ex-wife's vagina.  Likable guy, but an easy target.

Okay, so half way through the day Jovial Lab Manager Guy, thinking it would be hysterical to model a pair of very old glasses normally worn by even older women, I found the time right and jumped into action.

"Har....funny stuff Jovial Lab Manager Guy," I said.  "I bet your wife loves when you slip her the 'slutmonkey'!"

At the time I said this, not only was the Jovial Lab Manager Guy standing there, but also Jimmy the Greek who chortled like a man that was pushing to win $5 due to my force, early retirement and Overtly Gay Chris who didn't get it but continued talking to himself about how the glasses he had just sold were "overtly tasty...with a hint of cinnamon."  Huh?

SIDE NOTE - If you don't understand, you can learn all about Overtly Gay Chris from a previous blog post, more specifically at   http://scuzzymoney.blogspot.com/2010/07/overtly-gay-chris.html.

Finally, lab manager guy said, "Slutmonkey?"

I cocked my head looking confused.  "Whaa...?  Slut...what?  Sheesh Jovial Lab Manager Guy, I was just wondering if you had some Pepto?"

After a moment of deep thought Jovial Lab Manager Guy who is borderline deaf, bobbed his head, smiled and said "You betcha!"

With nary a grin, knowing 'slutmonkey' had been used on the unsuspecting, with my job still intact, I grabbed the bottle of pink, stomach easing medicine, my latest edition of Rolling Stone and went off to spend the last hour of my day in the bathroom. A pretty productive Saturday after all.