Good times keep rolling on Tuesday nights
I don’t know if it’s my own fascist tendencies speaking or just my strange predilection for nineteen eighty’s Brat Pack movies, but the Asian guy in my office has always reminded me of Long Duck Dong from Sixteen Candles (there was apparently a time in the late nineteen eighties when it was still perfectly acceptable, and actually really hilarious, to make fun of Asian people—something which at least in my mind, and in reference to the few Asian people that I actually do know, is still really fun to do). My boss is going over HTML with him right now, the Esperanto of the office, and throwing terms around like it’s the native tongue, which I guess it objectively is since we’re working in I-T. But any time I’ve ever had a verbal exchange with this individual, which has been limited primarily to greetings as I come or go, he seems totally perplexed and unable to understand. So how he’s able to grapple with the complicated acronyms my boss is hurtling at him right now, I have no idea. I suspect he may be only pretending to understand, since he seems to be constantly in trouble. From what I gather, his web designs are not too good. This is an unending source of entertainment around the office, the suppressed giggles which turn to a more audible laughing-out-loud when this person is called into the boss’s office. In fact, it has recently occurred to me that the solitary reason I’m working here now is banked on the future hopes for an office party, during which I would give this individual three beers and watch the ensuing debauchery that occurs (which would end in a variety of ways in my mind, but not surprisingly always comes back to the actual ending of Sixteen Candles. Except in my mind for some strange reason I keep taking on the persona of Michael Schoeffling when all that I think I'm expressing is my desire to wear plaid shirts). But then, maybe it’s just a veiled preference for another decade, another time. Who could really say? These are probably issues to be worked out in some Swedish therapist’s office at an unspecified future date, with the pleasant rays of some intricate lighting system cascading across my cracked and broken head.

I really just wish my coworker Joy would come back to work and face the music (which would be the warbling sound of a music box with the batteries running low). Apparently some agricultural ambassadors left an expensive chunk of cheese in the refrigerator, which is now missing. I came in to work yesterday to find a padlock on the refrigerator door, dead bolted shut. There has been a continuous stream of conjecture ever since, and the very critical testimony of a fellow coworker has surfaced. Said coworker apparently did in fact see the person in question nibbling on a large chunk of cheese, which she was overheard freely offering up to others throughout the day. Poor Joy, I think, completely unable to control herself. I imagine her sitting at her desk, the nascent yearning for saturated fats becoming increasingly unavoidable as she recalled the block of untouched of cheese just sitting in the break room refrigerator. There was perhaps a moment of vacillation before the insatiable and unrelenting urge for any and all lactaid got the best of her-- as she attempted to walk, not run, to the break room. Only to make the fatal error of sharing her five finger feat. Oh, man: poor Joy, I think to myself. An investigation has already been launched, and she can’t stay home from work forever.

So much happens every day. You could never make sense of it all. To do so would only be to take on the purported fate of my Asian coworker, pretending to get it. But even then your website would only be evidence of this complete and total lack of comprehension. No, it would probably be better to just drink some beers and wake up on somebody’s front lawn. Yeah, that sounds familiar. That sounds about right to me.