Friday, February 20, 2009

Inevitable Gibberish

"You guys are so lucky to be working for [where I work]. You have a great boss, a cause," he shakes his giant head. Light refects off of his teeth when he smiles, "You get to meet important people from all over. It's like a dream job."

I raise my eyebrows at him. "You say that again after you get one of my paychecks, and we'll talk."

"No, I'm being honest here. In fact, if Droz ever leaves, I would seriously consider vying for her position."

He smiles like an insurance salesman. Well, he is an insurance salesman, and he's been coming here every other week for two years trying to work his way onto the good side of like, all the rich guys that give us money. Right now he looks like he's about to go boating, sitting there doing the Guy Leg Cross, where one ankle carves around the opposite knee. All pseudo-authentic in his fucking pastel sweater and khakis. Who wears yellow pastel?

It's a shame that he's so good looking, even with that fat head, and he's such an obvious doucheba--

"What're you listening to?"

Shitfuckdamn and I downsize this page because son of a whore, he snuck up behind me while I was so captivated with writing about his fiberglass-osity. "It's ummm...hold on." I have to pull up the Pandora, because sometimes I can never tell what I'm listening to anymore. "The Eels. Nope, wait, wait...aaaaannnnnd now it's Barry White."

Wait, are you...don't put your hand on the back of my chair, Whiteteeth.

"You've always got sweet tunes on up here."

Sweet tunes, really? Did you just say that out loud? Jackass. I mean, sure, my friends say shit like that, but as Nautical Boy, you are not allowed to. It sounds wrong coming from a pastel sweater.

So I am confused, now. "Thanks. It's all kind of irregular."

"Do you do that thing where you've got like, a bunch of different stations and you click 'Quick Mix'?"

"No, I didn't even realize..." I look at my Pandora page. Sure enough, right there. Quick Mix. My lips pout because he knows more than me. Bastard. "I just kind of thumbs up and down as I go along."

"So what kind of feeds do you have on there?"

"Well," I feel like a bird, the way I'm cocking my head to the side. I refuse to look at him. "I guess, it started when I really wanted to hear Harry Nilsson, and then I added the Clash and Foreigner and it sort of like, spiraled from there."

"Nice. My stations are, uh, Willie Nelson, Van Halen, Beastie Boys, and uh..." he glances around, and blushes as he hushes, "and uh, Justin Timberlake." I want to make fun of him for being so white, but then I remember my own extremely ethnically diverse feeds and restrain myself, especially since MCA lives in my heart.

Yeah, and so then my spine goes a little wonky as he starts singing softly along with Barry. I'm starting to feel like I'm in a Time Life Classics Soft-Core Soul infomercial.

"Yeah, buddy."

No, you did not just say that. I turn my head, slowly, and glance at him out of the corner of my eye, which is really hard to do because I have glasses and everything goes all split-focus, so now he has two giant heads.

"Ha!" He smiles. Jesus, his teeth are whiter than fuck. He turns to walk back over to the chair. "No, I really would love to have a job like Droz. People seem to think you're prepping yourself for it, though, if she ever leaves." He sits, assuming the position of douchebaggery once again.

"Pffff, fuck no, there's now way I could do that. Droz is like, 20% modesty, 20% ambition. Logic, likability, organization, all equal parts. She is absolutely perfect for this shit. I'm like, 10% modesty, ambition, and logic, like 7% psychic, 15% misunderstood. And you know, like, 30% satire, 30% ridicule, 12% lazy and 9% stupid."


"And misunderstood." I shrug my shoulders. "Bad joke. And I think I got too many percentage points."

"I think you're right."

"Extra credit, you know. Fuck you, standard distribution, bell curves and bullshit," I turn and look at him, eyebrows raised, "I've never been good at statistics."

He just looks wide-eyed and bewildered, and his head is slowly, ever so slowly, moving from side to side, in complete disbelief.

"So this could just be a nonsensical correlation. But I claimed stupidity to make up for it things like that in advance," I grin and nod, tap my temple and point my finger, "so I covered my tracks for the inevitable gibberish."

Now he's smiling a little, but I know he's still confused, not so much at what I'm saying, but the fact that I'm still speaking at all.

"Stop talking? Okay."

No, I'm not socially awkward. Not at all.



paperback reader said...

Here's the problem: you're judging yourself by the wrong standards, because people who are like, "Hey, I want to wear a yellow pastel sweater in public today" clearly have no sense of taste or common decency, and should never be regarded as representing someone you'd want to be anything other than awkward around. If you got along famously, you'd have to question your life, and your friends would probably punch you a lot more than they already do.

I usually find that when I'm prattling on, it's because no one else feels like they need to say anything, since I'm handling all sides of the conversation just fine without them.

Gypsy said...

You never know. He could find the prattling on endearing, like I do. Although maybe you want him to find it off-putting, I don't know.

~Mountain Lover~ said...

Change all that smart stuff to, "Hi um.. uh. I carried a watermelon" and that's me in a nutshell.

Socially awkward.

Pandora kicks ass. I have to quick mix because they'll start repeating songs every 90 minutes if I don't.

Anonymous said...

Fuck him and his quick mix. That's the only trick he's got in his bag, and he nearly wet himself, he was so happy to show it off.

(PS. I watching a so-bad movie last night, and this chick tries to put down her spiky haired, too big for his britches boyfriend by saying "shut up, Teen Wolf.". It's like you were right there with me.)

formerly fun said...

I don't want to gush cause that is so undignified but Rassles--you wrote the shit out of that. When you can make a conversation with a smarmy salesguy as funny as that, you know you can write.

Anonymous said...

Oh I swear I smell a teeny tiny crush.
(Fuck! Now you're probably going to show up in my front yard with an active chain saw, aren't you?)

Red said...

I ride the front desk, too. But my organization isn't nearly as cool as yours. And yes, you wrote the shit out of this.

Gorilla Bananas said...

Harry Nilsson. The man was a legend in the Congo.

Rassles said...

Pistols: In regards to prattling, I think my biggest problem is I'll pause, briefly, and if no one picks up the ball I just keep on going. I'm really just looking for an Abbott to my Costello.

Gypsy: I want everyone to find me endearing. And brilliant and hilarious.

Mount: I've been listening to fucking Pandora eight hours a day, five days a week for over two years now and I never knew about Quick Mix. I just keep on adding artists and songs. But I don't think I get anything more than once a day. Usually about twice a week. Maybe. It goes through phases.

Ginny: He pisses me off. And I almost fell for his charmboy routine, for like ten seconds. But that's his job. Being charming. Selling things.

FF: Thanks. Flatterer. Colon parentheses.

Mongo: No, not at all. There is nothing more annoying than pigeonholing someone and then having them do one thing that's kind of cool. Like, although he is still plastic and pastel, he does not listen to bad music. Ass.

Red: Technically, and for the sake of argument, I'm second desk. There's two of us. But still, yeah. Up front. And thanks.

Gorilla Bananas: I always imagined Harry Chapin would be huge in the Congo, writing about 30,000 pounds of bananas and the like. But Nilsson is far superior, so...fuck yeah, Congo.

Anonymous said...

Wearing a yellow sweater before Easter is just tacky. I bet he didn't have on socks either.

Anonymous said...

"I'm like, 10% modesty, ambition, and logic, like 7% psychic, 15% misunderstood. And you know, like, 30% satire, 30% ridicule, 12% lazy and 9% stupid."

That is just gorgeous.

Rassles said...

Franklin: There were socks. It's goddamn twelve degrees outside, and he's like 29. I wouldn't be surprised if during his Purdue days he rocked the socks with sandles look, though. He annoys the ever-loving crap out of me.

Gully: As am I.

Thanatos said...

What, no Gangsta music for white teeth? I know someone who tries to rap country songs. It gets sad pretty fast.

Rassles said...

Nah, I think Beastie Boys is as gangsta as he gets.

Bluestreak said...

this is some funny shit, rassles.

I love how you´ve done a fucking pie chart of your soul. I would be too afraid to do that, it might be 90% bullshit.

Oh and the pastel sweaters. You would not believe what colors men leave the house wearing over here. I know colors aren´t supposed to be reserved for sexes and all, but please get out of my effing face with your neon pink sweater tied around your shoulders.