Proof that fiction can be stranger than truth, and Granfather can be weirder than them both.
Page 7 of 39
"CAREFUL! DON'T MAKE MAH METAMUCILS SINK!...WHUT THE HAYLE IS THIS? DOG DOO ON YOUR HANDS? YOU NASTY FILTHY BOY!"
Granfather was ecstaticaly excited over the thoght of his little Metamucil island. Beleiving that an almost holy event has taken place, Granfather imediately made me call the Guiness people in Ireland on the phone.
"I'M SURE TO GIT LISTED NOW.
"SURELY I AIN'T THE FIRST TO FLOAT METAMUCILS ON A GLASS OF WATER. BUT WAIT TILL IT STAYS HERE A WEEK, OR TWO OR THREE..."
The old basterd carefuly retreived an old alarm clock from his room, and placed it on the counter. Since it was 9:30 AM, He set it to 1:05 to represent one hour from the moment of Island Creation, 8:25.
"YOU STILL HERE?" the old basterd screammed at me, "GIT ON THE PHONE AND CALL THEM GUINNESS FOLKS"
"VERY WELL THEN, I'LL CALL THAT OL' TV SHOW ON CHANNEL 95. NOW, GIT YO' ASS OUT OF HERE, BEFORE YOU DONE MAKE MY METAMUCIL ISLAND SINK"
"Granfather, I took a day off work to tak you to arbitation.
"WAAL, I DIDN'T KNOW WE'D BE HOME IN AN HOUR. I SAID GIT YO' ASS OUT MAH HOUSE!"
I was not in the mood to fight with the old basterd and so I went in to work. I must be a pittiful sort, because I coud not think of anything else to do with myself.
"Here he is! Here he is!" he starts pointing at me. Oh, crap. What did I do now.
In one minute that pain in the ass Peaches is standing there, and he grabs my arm. "The Boss wants to see you!"
So anyway I go on there with him to the Executive wing. Mr. Bouvard is sittin at his desk, and Mr. Peckushay who is the othor big boss is more pissed than I ever saw him. He is second in Command after Mr. Bouvard, and is a young loudmouth of a guy.
The Rent-A-Temp-Gal(tm) website is up and Mr. Bouvard is standing there with this silent, glum and slightley confused look on his face. Mr. Peckushay, well he is screamin and hollering: AT ME.
"What is this!!" he shouts at me. Before I coud answer he screams agian, "WHY is it here?", and before I coud answer that, he screams once more, "The client has not signed off on this!"
Peaches chimes in, pushing me, yes, actualy pushing me, which, pardon me, coud be proved as assault in a court of law, and he hollers at me in his nastiest tone, "There is no work order for this!"
Well, I dont know what the hell theyre talkin about, so I just stand there silently lookin at my shoes.
"Harrumph!" says Mr. Bouvard, gesturing toword me, "I seem to vaguely remember this young man as being involved with this fiasco." Bouvard has a vague sortof confused look on his face. He tugs at his crotch, then his three peice suit vest, and then sits down, grunts, clears his throaght and finally frowns, and says, while scratchin his scrotom through his trousors with big hotdoglike fingers that didn't have no nails on them. "Someone has to remind me of what is going on later. I mean, remind me LATER of what is going on NOW: HarruMPH!"
Right now I am so scared I am crappin in my pants. I run out of there and I said, "OK, I will fix it!" I did not even know how to fix it, or what was realy wrong. Alls I knew was that I was in a whole lot of troubel. OK, I am a big pansy, I admit it, but I ran down to the restroom and locked myself in the stall and creid. I hate this freakin place. Cyberblop sucks.
Finaly I get myself together and splash coldwater on my face. It is about 11:30 and I know that Tilde, and also Stu, my freind who works in the marketing department are probly already in the cafeteria. They are always the first two on line for lunch.
I go over to Stu's table and slump in the chair. I tell Stu the whole story about the freakin Rent-A-Temp-Gal(tm) account. Especialy the part how about the day before when Bouvard and Peaches are hollerin at me to DO the danm work in the first place. The stuff that stuppid ass old Barry messed up.
While I am talking Stu is givin me some inportant feedback but he is also stuffing meatloaf into his cheeks so I do not understand him at first. But aftor a while he did say, "Walt, that really sucks, man. I'm the one who sold that account: NOT the Donkey."
"I hate that Donkey," I sobbed.
"Thinks he's gaddam boss of the barnyard," Stu sniffed, "And let me tell you, the client is pissed at how we've handled it."
While I was still halfway thruogh my story, little anoying toadfaced Tilde came by and sat down at the table. The whole time she is quiet as a mouse. She is my boss, and she is a pain in the ass buttinsky who is allways involving herself in people's lives. Howevor, the one time I need her, she is ignoring me.
Alls I can say is, thank God for Stu. Stu prommised to look into the mattor for me.
"The craziest thing," said Stu, "Is that the Rent-A-Temp-Gal(tm) corporate office in L.A. is pissed they have to pay $75 an hour for work on their website."
I said, "What? $75 an hour?"
Stu said, "Thats what Cyberblop pays for your work."
I coud not beleive it. I earned, like less than one tenth of that. Peaches and Bouvard were acting like I just cost them all sorts of money. Meanwhile, I am making all sorts of money. For THEM atleast. All of a sudden a loud rubbery fartlike sound came from behind me and I instinctively covored my nose and mouth, while my eyes searched arround the area for Granfather. But it was a false alarm, the sound being created by the dragging of a cafeterria chair, which, plopping right into the one next to me was Cathyann.
Cathyann as you know is my friend from the town where Granfather lives. When I was a kid, and used to spend summers at Granfather's house, she used to babysit for me and my brothor. Later on, we met as adults and went on a few dates. OK, I admit it, we made out a few times. I did not enjoy it. (She is a GIRL, and a FRIEND, but NOT my GIRLFRIEND.) What I enjoy least of all lateley is that now shes been workin at Cyberblop, as our cafeteria lady, both her and her mother. Yes, Cathyann is one of my closest freinds, but she is a pain in the ass. Yes, even my freindships are disfunctional.
"Howdy y'all!" she said real loud. Her cafeterria uniform was all soaked thru with sweat, and she smelled heavily like cigarete smoke, B.O., and beer burps.
"Looky, its us four again!," she bleated in her heavy barking laugh, "The Seinfeld crew! Me, Walter, Tilde and Stu...
"Y'all, lissen up: Ain't we the dagnab Seinfeld crew, or WHUT?
Then imediately as coud be expected, Cathyann went on to monoppollize the conversation. As usuol, it involved her love life. Yes, with her dull, conversationally-impaired boyfreind, DuWayne.
"Guess what, y'all? Me and DOO-wayne done finally DID the nasty deed! BWAHAHAHAH!"
The nosiness in Tilde finally overrode the shame of her not wanting to help me (she is my BOSS for Godsake), and for that matter, sudenly clouded her supposed Psychic powers as well, because she sudenly perked up, "Oh dear! Tell us the details!"
Cathyann laughed agian, slapping her giant meaty paw on the lunch table, "BWAHAHAHA! Cain't remember much, I was too danm drunk! Last thing I remember was, DOOwayne and me were talkin 'bout that ole song, 'Lets Do it in the Road.' So, we climbed out of his truck and started doin' it, baybee!"
While remaining seated, Cathyann began jiggolling her body, much the way a belly dancer does. Huge waves of fatty ripples undulated up from her chubby dimpled wrists and fourarms all the way till they reached the pendulous flabs beneath where her upper arms met her pits. The way she said "baybee" was like Austin Powers. This was too much for me to bear. I got up to leave. The thoght of her and sweatty old Duwayne bumping uglies on the side of the road was more than I coud handle. At least at lunch. Then Cathyann laughed more and more. Later On Stu told me that after I left, Cathyann told him and Tilde she was just kidding around, (it turns out her and Duwayne did NOT "do it in the road," or anywhere else that night), and she only said it to get a charge out of me.
"BWAHAHAHA! BWAHAHAHAHA! BWAAHAHAHA!"