Yesterday I had the following conversation with a coworker. My dialogue is in blue; my thoughts are in bold italics. Keep in mind that we're in the upstairs warehouse, away from customers.
"Son of a bitch, it's rainin'. I was gonna cut the fuckin' grass when I got home."
Shit, I have to think of something small-talky to say or I'll blow my facade as someone who isn't embarrassed to work here and associate with some of these people. Oh, he's going to keep talking. Good.
"There's two girls at my house all damn day, but they're too busy eatin' each other's pussy to cut the grass."
I have no idea what he's talking about, but I can't let that comment go.
"Well no wonder the grass doesn't get cut. I wouldn't stop eating pussy to do yard work."
"My eighteen-year-old step-daughter and her lesbian girlfriend live with us."
Damn, it's like Cinemax After Dark at his house.
"Damn, it's like Cinemax After Dark at your house."
"I don't want that sort of thing goin' on under my roof, but it's my old lady's kid, and she acts like she don't care."
This conversation couldn't possibly get any weirder.
"I don't think either of 'em has ever had a dick inside 'em. (Yells in the direction of two male employees) Either one of you guys wanna throw some cock at my step-daughter or her girlfriend?"
Okay, I was wrong.
"Yeah, my old lady just lets it happen. If my son turns out gay I'll still love him...he's my son...but I'll be damned if he's going to fuck some guy up the ass in my own house."
For this guy, that's a tolerant position. Still, it's funny how everyone's gay son is the pitcher rather than the catcher. And thanks for clouding my thoughts of hot girl on girl action with visions of hypothetical hairy man-love.
"Are you going to watch the game Sunday night?"
I'm determined to change the subject.
"Her girlfriend's got real lopsided titties."
Don't say it. Don't say it. Don't say it.
"Did she get them at Marshall's?"
You fucking idiot. You're prolonging the conversation.
"She walks around the house with no bra on. You'd think since she's eighteen she'd have, you know...firm titties. But they hang down to her bellybutton."
(IT WAS AT THIS POINT THAT I DOUSED MYSELF WITH GASOLINE, SET MYSELF ON FIRE, AND JUMPED FROM THE SECOND FLOOR OVERLOOK TO MY DEATH)
"Son of a bitch, it's rainin'. I was gonna cut the fuckin' grass when I got home."
Shit, I have to think of something small-talky to say or I'll blow my facade as someone who isn't embarrassed to work here and associate with some of these people. Oh, he's going to keep talking. Good.
"There's two girls at my house all damn day, but they're too busy eatin' each other's pussy to cut the grass."
I have no idea what he's talking about, but I can't let that comment go.
"Well no wonder the grass doesn't get cut. I wouldn't stop eating pussy to do yard work."
"My eighteen-year-old step-daughter and her lesbian girlfriend live with us."
Damn, it's like Cinemax After Dark at his house.
"Damn, it's like Cinemax After Dark at your house."
"I don't want that sort of thing goin' on under my roof, but it's my old lady's kid, and she acts like she don't care."
This conversation couldn't possibly get any weirder.
"I don't think either of 'em has ever had a dick inside 'em. (Yells in the direction of two male employees) Either one of you guys wanna throw some cock at my step-daughter or her girlfriend?"
Okay, I was wrong.
"Yeah, my old lady just lets it happen. If my son turns out gay I'll still love him...he's my son...but I'll be damned if he's going to fuck some guy up the ass in my own house."
For this guy, that's a tolerant position. Still, it's funny how everyone's gay son is the pitcher rather than the catcher. And thanks for clouding my thoughts of hot girl on girl action with visions of hypothetical hairy man-love.
"Are you going to watch the game Sunday night?"
I'm determined to change the subject.
"Her girlfriend's got real lopsided titties."
Don't say it. Don't say it. Don't say it.
"Did she get them at Marshall's?"
You fucking idiot. You're prolonging the conversation.
"She walks around the house with no bra on. You'd think since she's eighteen she'd have, you know...firm titties. But they hang down to her bellybutton."
(IT WAS AT THIS POINT THAT I DOUSED MYSELF WITH GASOLINE, SET MYSELF ON FIRE, AND JUMPED FROM THE SECOND FLOOR OVERLOOK TO MY DEATH)
29 Comments:
This may, in fact, be the most awesome conversation ever. In a creepy yet fascinating sort of way, of course.
I'm pretty sure that EXACT conversation is in Faulkner's Light In August. I could be wrong.
You should get yourself one of those tiny buttonhole cams and volunteer to paint his house or something. 18 year-old lesbians sell, daddy-o! Great story! Thanks for the laughs!
i'm surprised it took you that long before you struck the match.
Next time, cover your ears and scream "la la la la I CAN'T HEAR YOU".......then run straight to the nearest bottle of liquor available.
You lead a charmed life, my friend.
i do so wear a bra.
Ouch.
Just ouch.
And yet, you say you have nothing to be passionate about!
To quote Walter Matthau: "Lesbians! Yummy!"
*shudder*
You remember the Doomsday Clock?
I think that conversation just ticked us closer to nuclear holocaust.
See? And you were afraid your blog was getting boring. Just keep hanging out with that guy and you'll have loads to say.
I only WISH my coworkers were as interesting...this has to be the best thing I've read this morning!
You should offer to go over there and give them a firm talking to. Or at least watch.
You have rendered me speechless.
this is too funny!!! i think you were very well behaved ;-)
mle,
it's better observed from a distance.
john,
he said many derogatory things about these girls that I left out. In other words, I doubt anyone wants to see them get it on.
le chat,
I have the patience of Job.
little ol',
I do that at bars.
nick,
I'm the Midas of shit.
kendra,
prove it.
tits,
I never meant to cause you pain, my dear.
ian,
Walter Matthau's mug should be on currency.
tlsd,
is it cold in London?
ubie,
it can't come soon enough.
jo,
he may in fact drive me insane.
chiromum,
you don't really want coworkers like this.
kat,
I think they're both "the man" in the relationship.
dawn,
if he had joined them for a threesome, then we're talking Springer.
shannon,
I left out some of the really offensive parts.
sonrisa,
hey, how have you been? I try to be well behaved in case you're reading.
mbfic,
oh, no, this is a conversation he's quite proud of.
artist,
he doesn't believe in the internets.
That being the case, don't grab you balls.
did she get 'em at marshals???? LOL!!!! :)
So you'll be spending the weekend at his house, right?
I can't think of what's more disturbing, neglecting to wear basic foundational garments or not volunteering to mow the yard.
I think it's your duty, as a concerned lawn lover, to offer to cut his grass.
That's okay, baby. I don't mind a little pain ;).
You know it is... I need a great big strapping guy from Kentucky to keep me warm...
Sounds to me like there is a lawn getting mowed at his house, just not the grass.
Sweet buttery jesus. That's a convo that never needs to happen anywhere again at any time. But I bet he says this shit to everyone. He really likes the saggy boobage.
he's on my caseload.
i dated his stepdaughter in college.
her tits weren't all that great, either.
no. really, he's on my caseload.
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