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| You Can't Fuck With My Shaolin Style |
I’ve never really, truly been afraid for my life. Maybe I’ve been lucky, maybe it’s because I
have really good bo-staff skills, I don’t know. Point is, I’ve never once felt like I was going to
die, or even be badly injured. Except for one time. At work.
How messed up is that? I’ve drunkenly walked the streets and jungles of third world countries,
I’ve flown small aircraft, I’ve gone down the blue-rectangle trails at ski resorts. One time I even
told a woman she could stand to lose a few pounds. And yet, the only time I actually feel
threatened, I’m in a freakin’ office.
Like every story involving the enigma wrapped in a mystery wrapped in a failed second grade
spelling exam that is Webster, this one has a very innocuous beginning. It was lunchtime, my
second-favorite time of the day. I walked down to the office kitchen to pull my lunch out of the
refrigerator. On my way back, I happened to run into my boss. She asked me if I would mind
telling Shamu to come down to the kitchen in five or so minutes, because my boss would be
done with the microwave by then.
Model employee that I am, I said yes. I continued on my way back to the office, determined to
deliver the message come hell or high water. Upon my arrival, I found Shamu and Webster
locked in a deep discussion about something stupid and pointless.
The thing you have to understand is, when those two started talking, there was no room to get
a word in edge-wise. The second Webster finished talking, Shamu would jump right in to say
how whatever Webster just said applied to her life too, but even moreso. Webster could say, “I
was born a man and got a sex change when I was eight” and Shamu would say the same
thing, except she got the sex change at the tender age of seven. I don’t know if they secretly
arranged these moron contests or what, because I’m a big believer in humanity, and there’s a
part of me that wants to believe that people this dumb can’t actually exist.
Anyway, I stood there and suffered through their inane conversation for at least two minutes.
Both of them could tell I was waiting to deliver a message, but neither one of them wanted to
give up a chance to talk. Finally, I grew impatient and reckless. I did something not unlike
donning underpants made of giraffe entrails and jumping into a lion’s den: I waited for Webster
to finish a sentence and then pounced before Shamu had a chance to reply. I informed Shamu
that the microwave would soon be available for her to heat up the first of at least three Hungry
Man meals she would have that day. Shamu thanked me for telling her, and I turned towards
my desk. I was looking forward to digging in to my own, modestly proportioned meal.
Suddenly, I heard an angry voice behind me say, “That was rude!” I turned to see Webster
giving me the evil eye, unsure what exactly I had done to incur her wrath.
I must have looked somewhat bewildered, because she then told me, “You interrupted me!
That was a very rude thing to do!”
I am many things: a procrastinator, a drunkard, a paperclip waster. But I am not, repeat not,
the kind of guy who interrupts someone. And I told her that.
Chalk that up as mistake number two. I’d forgotten the first rule of Webster: never disagree
with Webster.
The lady went off on me, calling me disrespectful, rude, and evil. She even questioned my
parentage. I wasn’t in the mood to soak up any abuse, so I took her on, calling her a liar and
saying how her opinion didn’t matter to me because I had zero respect for her. And even if I
had interrupted her, she wasn’t saying anything of consequence anyway. Why should I waste
my time waiting for her to shut the fuck up?
That pissed her off even more, but she stopped yelling. Instead, she did the same thing she
did once an hour every day: she called her husband. Webster spent a good twenty minutes
whispering into the phone about the “mothafucka [who] disrespected [her],” all the while
shooting dirty looks my way. At that point, I started to get worried. Her husband wasn’t a big
guy or anything, but I was pretty sure he’d stabbed somebody for crack before, so why would
he hesitate to stab somebody who’d dissed his wife?
After she got off the phone she sat down at her desk and spent the rest of the afternoon telling
me how I was “fucking with the wrong person” and how I don’t know how crazy she is. At one
point I turned around and told her, “look, you don’t know me either, you don’t know what I’m
capable of, so shut the hell up.” Then she started asking me when was the last time I did
anything crazy. I told her I didn’t think that was an appropriate workplace conversation topic.
She told me the last time she did anything crazy, she ended up in handcuffs.
Keep in mind this is the same person who claimed that she was Little Miss Perfect growing up
and never got in trouble ever. She didn’t even go to a club until she was 25. At the same time,
she allegedly used to hide switchblades in her hair, helped her cousin get rid of a bloody knife,
and shot at some other girls but missed them because “God was looking out for me.” Also,
she simultaneously lived in the country and the ghetto and had never been with a man other
than her husband (even though she was thirty, her oldest kid was fifteen, and she’d been with
her husband for ten years – do the math). She contradicted herself on a daily basis.
Eventually, we made nice, but until then I watched my back. I took a different route to the
parking lot every day. I half-expected to see her husband jump out from behind the bushes,
knife in one hand and crack pipe in the other. But he didn’t. He probably had to pawn all the
kitchen knives so he could get his next fix.
Comments? Email me at JimiChanga@SurlyTaco.com
Back to Salsa
have really good bo-staff skills, I don’t know. Point is, I’ve never once felt like I was going to
die, or even be badly injured. Except for one time. At work.
How messed up is that? I’ve drunkenly walked the streets and jungles of third world countries,
I’ve flown small aircraft, I’ve gone down the blue-rectangle trails at ski resorts. One time I even
told a woman she could stand to lose a few pounds. And yet, the only time I actually feel
threatened, I’m in a freakin’ office.
Like every story involving the enigma wrapped in a mystery wrapped in a failed second grade
spelling exam that is Webster, this one has a very innocuous beginning. It was lunchtime, my
second-favorite time of the day. I walked down to the office kitchen to pull my lunch out of the
refrigerator. On my way back, I happened to run into my boss. She asked me if I would mind
telling Shamu to come down to the kitchen in five or so minutes, because my boss would be
done with the microwave by then.
Model employee that I am, I said yes. I continued on my way back to the office, determined to
deliver the message come hell or high water. Upon my arrival, I found Shamu and Webster
locked in a deep discussion about something stupid and pointless.
The thing you have to understand is, when those two started talking, there was no room to get
a word in edge-wise. The second Webster finished talking, Shamu would jump right in to say
how whatever Webster just said applied to her life too, but even moreso. Webster could say, “I
was born a man and got a sex change when I was eight” and Shamu would say the same
thing, except she got the sex change at the tender age of seven. I don’t know if they secretly
arranged these moron contests or what, because I’m a big believer in humanity, and there’s a
part of me that wants to believe that people this dumb can’t actually exist.
Anyway, I stood there and suffered through their inane conversation for at least two minutes.
Both of them could tell I was waiting to deliver a message, but neither one of them wanted to
give up a chance to talk. Finally, I grew impatient and reckless. I did something not unlike
donning underpants made of giraffe entrails and jumping into a lion’s den: I waited for Webster
to finish a sentence and then pounced before Shamu had a chance to reply. I informed Shamu
that the microwave would soon be available for her to heat up the first of at least three Hungry
Man meals she would have that day. Shamu thanked me for telling her, and I turned towards
my desk. I was looking forward to digging in to my own, modestly proportioned meal.
Suddenly, I heard an angry voice behind me say, “That was rude!” I turned to see Webster
giving me the evil eye, unsure what exactly I had done to incur her wrath.
I must have looked somewhat bewildered, because she then told me, “You interrupted me!
That was a very rude thing to do!”
I am many things: a procrastinator, a drunkard, a paperclip waster. But I am not, repeat not,
the kind of guy who interrupts someone. And I told her that.
Chalk that up as mistake number two. I’d forgotten the first rule of Webster: never disagree
with Webster.
The lady went off on me, calling me disrespectful, rude, and evil. She even questioned my
parentage. I wasn’t in the mood to soak up any abuse, so I took her on, calling her a liar and
saying how her opinion didn’t matter to me because I had zero respect for her. And even if I
had interrupted her, she wasn’t saying anything of consequence anyway. Why should I waste
my time waiting for her to shut the fuck up?
That pissed her off even more, but she stopped yelling. Instead, she did the same thing she
did once an hour every day: she called her husband. Webster spent a good twenty minutes
whispering into the phone about the “mothafucka [who] disrespected [her],” all the while
shooting dirty looks my way. At that point, I started to get worried. Her husband wasn’t a big
guy or anything, but I was pretty sure he’d stabbed somebody for crack before, so why would
he hesitate to stab somebody who’d dissed his wife?
After she got off the phone she sat down at her desk and spent the rest of the afternoon telling
me how I was “fucking with the wrong person” and how I don’t know how crazy she is. At one
point I turned around and told her, “look, you don’t know me either, you don’t know what I’m
capable of, so shut the hell up.” Then she started asking me when was the last time I did
anything crazy. I told her I didn’t think that was an appropriate workplace conversation topic.
She told me the last time she did anything crazy, she ended up in handcuffs.
Keep in mind this is the same person who claimed that she was Little Miss Perfect growing up
and never got in trouble ever. She didn’t even go to a club until she was 25. At the same time,
she allegedly used to hide switchblades in her hair, helped her cousin get rid of a bloody knife,
and shot at some other girls but missed them because “God was looking out for me.” Also,
she simultaneously lived in the country and the ghetto and had never been with a man other
than her husband (even though she was thirty, her oldest kid was fifteen, and she’d been with
her husband for ten years – do the math). She contradicted herself on a daily basis.
Eventually, we made nice, but until then I watched my back. I took a different route to the
parking lot every day. I half-expected to see her husband jump out from behind the bushes,
knife in one hand and crack pipe in the other. But he didn’t. He probably had to pawn all the
kitchen knives so he could get his next fix.
Comments? Email me at JimiChanga@SurlyTaco.com
Back to Salsa