When I was working double-plus overtime, I'd sit in my damncube and listen to my co-workers as they prattled on about this-or-that famous person and what they did. Or said. Or the clothes. The fucking. The scandal. The new hairdo.
In a benign but misguided attempt at inclusiveness, they'd ask me questions like, "did you hear about Laura Lamefuck? She's having Chad Spitoon's baby, but she's marrying Bo Weevil anyway"!
Who? What? No idea who those people are. I could tell I was supposed to care enough to respond. I couldn't. I just sat and let the blankness cover my face.
"It's crazy", Office Dronette continued,"everyone knows Bo is gay".
I didn't know that. I didn't know who Bo was. His secret was safe with me.
Office Dronette could tell I hadn't a clue.
"You know, Bo Weevil-from the Fart Camp movies, and Laura Lamefuck from the White Pals
TV show-they're getting married".
Blank. I got nothing.
Dronette would sigh and look at me with a mixture of pity and contempt. She'd treat me like a mildly retarded child until the copy machine would paper-jam. I'd fix it and be rewarded with ,"ooh, you're smart."
Smart enough to follow the instructions on the inside door of a Xerox copier, but not smart enough, apparently, to follow the foibles of famous half-wits.
I believe they thought I was some misfit 'cultural elite' inter-leck-shoe-all type, but they were wrong. I'm capable of great stupidity and have been known to champion a number of low-brow pursuits, such as NFL football, Punk Rock and American politics.
But the Dronettes and Dronellas could ruin even these lowly common denominators.
The morning after last year's Super Bowl the office was buzzin'. Did you see the game last night?
Damn skippy, I did. Been a while since I'd seen a close game for a Super Bowl-a really good game, it was, even if it didn't end the way I wanted.
No, no, no. Did I see the half-time show?
Huh? Real NFL fans regard the Super Bowl halftime show the same way career drunks view New Year's Eve- it's for lightweights and amateurs and should be avoided if at all possible.
Oh. I missed a blurry nipple-ring shot. No wonder my life is such a void.
No one wants to talk about the game.
Dronella asked me if I liked music. My stock reply is "No", but my guard was down that day and I stupidly answered, " yeah, I do. Playing music is my favorite thing." This forced me to give an extremely abridged account of my musical history. The words 'punk rock' came up.
Dronella told me her daughter likes punk rock-she really likes that band, um, you know, they're on the radio all the time.
Damn your skull for a soggy pumpkin! If it's "on the radio all the time", it is most certainly NOT punk rock.
After the GOP convention Dronella told me she thinks Zell Miller is "sexy". It's a good thing I take my coffee black, because that's a statement that could curdle milk.
This ruined my morning and at least a week's worth of lunches.
Today? Today I'm gonna watch football, play some punk rock and ignore politics.