Wednesday, August 11, 2004
Unsolved Mysteries
So my hubcaps got stolen the other night. Well, I’m not exactly sure when it happened, but I assume it was night, because I find it unlikely that someone just casually removed them during his lunch break from the Cinnabon. The whole situation is very sad, however, because we are, after all, dealing with an eleven-year-old Dodge Neon that already lacks air conditioning and a working radio. Basically, we’re about two parking permits and a pine-scented air freshener removed from scrap metal here. At this point, vandalism is quite frankly overkill. What, did they narrow it down to my hubcaps or Christopher Reeve’s? I’m going to hell for that.
In other mysterious news, I received a nearly indecipherable voicemail the other day from someone whose voice I did not recognize and whose name I could not make out due to a well-placed cell phone click, the kind of thing Joan Cusack goes medieval about in those soul-crushing U.S. Cellular commercials. The caller purported to be a friend from undergrad, but my concern is that it was actually a CIA operative or baby’s momma attempting to trick me into some sort of disastrous confession. Suffice it to say that my caller ID alert level has just been raised to orange.
And to me, the continued existence of office farewell lunches is a mystery on the level of a Shroud of Turin or a Stonehenge. We all gather to salute the departure of a co-worker we never really cared for by paying too much for a painfully long lunch at a restaurant we would never even consider patronizing under ordinary circumstances, with the added bonus of knowing that the co-worker being "honored" wishes to be there about as much as we do, which is to say about as much as we would like to be covered in Cheetohs or backup dancer penis and fed to Britney Spears. Work already owns our immortal souls, must it try for our digestive systems as well? It’s a mystery, people, and that ain’t just an awkward framing device.
So my hubcaps got stolen the other night. Well, I’m not exactly sure when it happened, but I assume it was night, because I find it unlikely that someone just casually removed them during his lunch break from the Cinnabon. The whole situation is very sad, however, because we are, after all, dealing with an eleven-year-old Dodge Neon that already lacks air conditioning and a working radio. Basically, we’re about two parking permits and a pine-scented air freshener removed from scrap metal here. At this point, vandalism is quite frankly overkill. What, did they narrow it down to my hubcaps or Christopher Reeve’s? I’m going to hell for that.
In other mysterious news, I received a nearly indecipherable voicemail the other day from someone whose voice I did not recognize and whose name I could not make out due to a well-placed cell phone click, the kind of thing Joan Cusack goes medieval about in those soul-crushing U.S. Cellular commercials. The caller purported to be a friend from undergrad, but my concern is that it was actually a CIA operative or baby’s momma attempting to trick me into some sort of disastrous confession. Suffice it to say that my caller ID alert level has just been raised to orange.
And to me, the continued existence of office farewell lunches is a mystery on the level of a Shroud of Turin or a Stonehenge. We all gather to salute the departure of a co-worker we never really cared for by paying too much for a painfully long lunch at a restaurant we would never even consider patronizing under ordinary circumstances, with the added bonus of knowing that the co-worker being "honored" wishes to be there about as much as we do, which is to say about as much as we would like to be covered in Cheetohs or backup dancer penis and fed to Britney Spears. Work already owns our immortal souls, must it try for our digestive systems as well? It’s a mystery, people, and that ain’t just an awkward framing device.
