Email To My Brother: Time Is NOT On Our Side
That possible twin sister of your ex-wife, the one I told you about who works where I work and looks as if her better days were spent on meth, I only see her from a distance.
The one time I talked to her, she took twenty minutes to tell me nothing. All she did was complain about her ex this and her ex that. I don’t even know her, and she was telling me the dirty laundry of her life.
I’m sure she was pretty hot in her youth, though, because she’s got these huge boobs. They arrive anywhere she's going ten minutes ahead of her. Still, that was then and this is now. Nowadays, when she takes off her bra, I'm sure her nipples point to her toes. I saw her fall face-forward to the ground one time, and her knockers looked like two asteroids hurtling toward the earth.
That’s not true, but I thought it was a pretty good joke.
Still, I shouldn’t joke about her that way. She’s nice enough. Unless you’re her ex. Or her current. Normally, I wouldn’t mind losing twenty minutes due to socializing when I’m on the clock, but I don’t have that kind of time to spare, much less lose twenty minutes of it due to gabbing with someone I’m not going to have sex with.
The only thing that’s more of an annoyance is losing time at the end of my day when I’m already off the clock. I have some co-workers who are in no hurry to leave, and hang around to yenta it up. My buddy Maloney is like that. He’s become an old lady the way he likes to yadda, yadda, yadda. Inside the building. Outside the building. In the guard shack. In the parking lot. At my car when I'm trying to leave.
“Well, I’ve got to go,” doesn’t work with him, and he doesn’t pick up visual cues. You can be edging toward your car door, and he’ll keep talking. You can open that very same door and he’ll keep talking. You can put your stuff away, and he’ll keep talking. Get inside, and he’s still talking. Start the engine, and he’s still talking. He lives by himself, so maybe he’s just lonely, and has all this pent-up conversation in him.
Yesterday, they had a presentation for him at work--30 years of employment!--but that’s neither here nor there. Anyway, for that kind of a presentation they have food, give you the award, along with some nice gifts, and the day off. The big boss comes in from out of town, and, in this case, Maloney’s parents were invited. His father is a retired general in the army, and he used to be in charge of the local Army base. There’s even a street named after him in the northeast.
I didn’t know about the presentation, so I asked the guards about the leftover food in my department's office when I was leaving, and they told me it was for Maloney. Funny thing about the food, but some of my co-workers were still eating it. It smelled good, because it was bar-b-que chicken with some sides, but I tend to stay away from food that late at night because you don’t know how long it’s been sitting out. Not to mention I don’t need to be eating that late.
The guards were the ones who told me that Maloney’s parents had been invited for the presentation. Maloney’s father must be in his late 80s or early 90s. Maybe even late 90s. One of the guards said, “He looks younger than Maloney!”
“Yeah,” I agreed. “Maloney should stand up straight and walk faster.”
“He should lift his pants,” the guard said, because, it’s true, Maloney’s pants hang low in the back and he walks around with his butt-crack showing half the time.
I said he should walk faster because he shuffles around like an old man. The last time I saw Methuselah, he was walking with more urgency than Maloney. Then again, he could have just been on his way to the bathroom.
Maloney walks around dragging a small dolly with a milk crate on it behind him. The milk crate holds all of his crap. Paper towels, cleaning supplies, other stuff. He looks like a bag lady pulling that dolly around, only with less dignity. When he was younger, Maloney used to remind me of the actor Gary Cooper.
These days he reminds me of Henry Fonda in On Golden Pond.
The one time I talked to her, she took twenty minutes to tell me nothing. All she did was complain about her ex this and her ex that. I don’t even know her, and she was telling me the dirty laundry of her life.
I’m sure she was pretty hot in her youth, though, because she’s got these huge boobs. They arrive anywhere she's going ten minutes ahead of her. Still, that was then and this is now. Nowadays, when she takes off her bra, I'm sure her nipples point to her toes. I saw her fall face-forward to the ground one time, and her knockers looked like two asteroids hurtling toward the earth.
That’s not true, but I thought it was a pretty good joke.
Still, I shouldn’t joke about her that way. She’s nice enough. Unless you’re her ex. Or her current. Normally, I wouldn’t mind losing twenty minutes due to socializing when I’m on the clock, but I don’t have that kind of time to spare, much less lose twenty minutes of it due to gabbing with someone I’m not going to have sex with.
The only thing that’s more of an annoyance is losing time at the end of my day when I’m already off the clock. I have some co-workers who are in no hurry to leave, and hang around to yenta it up. My buddy Maloney is like that. He’s become an old lady the way he likes to yadda, yadda, yadda. Inside the building. Outside the building. In the guard shack. In the parking lot. At my car when I'm trying to leave.
“Well, I’ve got to go,” doesn’t work with him, and he doesn’t pick up visual cues. You can be edging toward your car door, and he’ll keep talking. You can open that very same door and he’ll keep talking. You can put your stuff away, and he’ll keep talking. Get inside, and he’s still talking. Start the engine, and he’s still talking. He lives by himself, so maybe he’s just lonely, and has all this pent-up conversation in him.
Yesterday, they had a presentation for him at work--30 years of employment!--but that’s neither here nor there. Anyway, for that kind of a presentation they have food, give you the award, along with some nice gifts, and the day off. The big boss comes in from out of town, and, in this case, Maloney’s parents were invited. His father is a retired general in the army, and he used to be in charge of the local Army base. There’s even a street named after him in the northeast.
I didn’t know about the presentation, so I asked the guards about the leftover food in my department's office when I was leaving, and they told me it was for Maloney. Funny thing about the food, but some of my co-workers were still eating it. It smelled good, because it was bar-b-que chicken with some sides, but I tend to stay away from food that late at night because you don’t know how long it’s been sitting out. Not to mention I don’t need to be eating that late.
The guards were the ones who told me that Maloney’s parents had been invited for the presentation. Maloney’s father must be in his late 80s or early 90s. Maybe even late 90s. One of the guards said, “He looks younger than Maloney!”
“Yeah,” I agreed. “Maloney should stand up straight and walk faster.”
“He should lift his pants,” the guard said, because, it’s true, Maloney’s pants hang low in the back and he walks around with his butt-crack showing half the time.
I said he should walk faster because he shuffles around like an old man. The last time I saw Methuselah, he was walking with more urgency than Maloney. Then again, he could have just been on his way to the bathroom.
Maloney walks around dragging a small dolly with a milk crate on it behind him. The milk crate holds all of his crap. Paper towels, cleaning supplies, other stuff. He looks like a bag lady pulling that dolly around, only with less dignity. When he was younger, Maloney used to remind me of the actor Gary Cooper.
These days he reminds me of Henry Fonda in On Golden Pond.
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