Born With a Smirk, Smartass Till I Die

by pjmcbride

(title edited by Rom, who thought that sounded snappier)

This blog is brought to you from my somewhat monastic-looking office, usually in the dead of night. It is published erratically and distributed sparsely, as my best friend in high school used to say about the underground newspaper I (among others) wrote and she edited. It was 1971/72, I had bad acne and a Jane Fonda mullet (which we called a “shag” back then). We drifted apart years later–first she became a Communist, then I became a Catholic (sounds like a wacky ideological sitcom, doesn’t it?). But before that could happen, she introduced me to Rom, so all was not lost.

TEXT TO 911–INFLICTED SOON AT A WORKPLACE NEAR YOU

That which I have feared has come to pass.

I SAVE THE CITY FROM THE WRATH OF NICKZILLA

Nick’s dinner gave him the actual ability to breathe fire, but since having a fire in your belly is actually kind of painful, he went on a rampage, seeking revenge on all pizza joints. It hardly seems fair, but he is only a beast, and not quite as smart as a human. (Can I say that after my recent diversity training? I guess so, since it didn’t mention dealing with nonhuman beings.) So I told him to go immerse himself in ice water, and the fever did indeed pass. One can only hope he remembers this with gratitude, BECAUSE…

SAVE ME FROM THE WRATH OF THIS MAN

…or whatever he is.

I asked Nick, just kind of hypothetically, “If we went on a ride-along, where would we go eat? And would you rather drive or have Sam do it?” That’ll give him something to chew on for awhile, I thought smugly. To my surprise, he responded at once. “Canton, of course. Driver.” Dear FanBase, there are a few things wrong with this scenario:

–1. The fact that he didn’t have to think about it means he’d already been thinking about it, daydreaming while lying on his back in the sun (I understand his underside remains pasty-white regardless), brooding about it while locked in his cage…you get the idea. It is not pleasant to contemplate.

–2. The problem with Canton is that he and Sam usually deliver food to Dispatch from there, and I don’t relish the idea of being brought back in and paraded before my colleagues like some prisoner of war. Actually, the question of where we eat is academic anyway, since I have little appetite on (and for) ride-alongs.

–3. Dare I ask why he intends to drive? (“No,” he answered.) Maybe Sam can find out for me. It’s on a need-to-know basis, and I NEED TO KNOW.

CRISIS IN PROGRESS: THE CHAIR WARS OF 2014

This conflict broke out between 1st and 2nd shifts. 2nd shift was roundly defeated, and there has already been at least one casualty. Tonight (last night? I haven’t slept yet. {Whyever not? It’s 0414.}) there was no chair at all at my assigned workstation, and I was kind of afraid to ask for one. (I don’t like working standing up. I find it distracting.) Soon no one will be left standing. I mean everyone will be left standing.

The above views in no way reflect those of the City. Or, indeed, of anyone, for I am just a still small voice, typing in the dark. Speaking of which, you know those Internet quizzes that say “What Kind of Animal Are You?” You notice they’re always some noble kind of animal? It’s never “You’re a hyena” or “You’re a blind naked mole rat.”

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