CAUTION: TALKING PARAMECIA AT WORK

[Scoop lights off. Fresnal lanterns focused on my face.]

There was no fucking infernal place in the world than where I used to work. It was where your blood pressure could reach the apogee in constant to the power of your coworkers' imbecility and arrogance.

[Bassoon plays. Enter the pipsqueak that looked like more of a succubus than a species called homo sapiens.]

Meet our copywriter, Jack, clad in a brown jacket and a pink hat without taking into consideration whether it would look good with his green undershirt. The heat didn't even bother him—it was a massacre! (Nice one, Simon). I guess it was all right if he could act normally—the way “normal” people do. But, hell, he was the most choosy, arrogant, stupid man alive. He even had the most self-aggrandizing mouth with the way he boasted his fondness to all the richness in the world. He projected this character of his with silver phony bling-blings garnished all over his body. He walked as if he were a living legend or a hero with an ‘ooooh-I’m-so-nice-and-everybody-wants-to-kiss-my-shiny-ass’ look attributed to his smiles. Every morning he’d use the men’s room for about an hour. I knew that for a fact because I needed to urinate almost every twenty minutes (blame it on my Siberian spot in the office). He would look at himself in the mirror like a monkey seeing his own image for the first time. Jack’s case would surely make psychiatrists begin to consider celebrity complex as a mental illness, far worse than narcissism. He was the phoniest, most vain motherfucker on this side of the galaxy. He kept on harassing my mental creativity whenever he looked at my works and compared them to his stupid ideas which he thought were so brilliant. Honestly, none of his damned background impressed me. He was just a conceited, lucky son of a bitch who probably used his gayish charm and metrosexual appeal to finish his degree despite his ignorance. How unfair it was for him to be ignorant and arrogant at the same time and be considered a fucking “human.” He killed me everyday without even really trying.

“What was your course in college again?” I overheard our supervisor, Mrs. David, one time asking Jack.

“Management,” replied Jack as he tipped his hat like a Victorian gentleman.

“Oh, really? Interesting. Why didn’t you take up Mass Communications?”

“Why do I have to take a course which I know I’m already good at?”

See how humble he was? And to tell you something more, he was a fucking chauvinist like Earl, our other copywriter.

[Enter the porcine. Er, I mean Earl.]

They were a tandem—a couple of blockheads who seemed to have this invisible competition between them. If Jack was such an asshole, Earl was the filthy pig with sickening shit. He acted like a wild boar and stunk like one too but still he managed to appear very confident and conceited. He was the kind of guy who had this ‘I-am-the-only-son-of-god’ look on his face. He’d spit anywhere, loudly talk about women and compare every bitch’s pair of tits inside the elevator without even bothering who the hell was inside with him. I bet he was such a non-fucking loser. The way he pretended like he was so good in bed and could make women go head over heels for him made him sound more like a virgin who hadn’t kissed a girl, not even once, because no one would allow him to. He was a buffoon a woman wouldn’t choose to be with even if he were to be the last son of Adam and Eve. Should his penis prevail to be the last piece of meat in the world, no woman would even dare to suck it. His feet even bore the power to torture everybody’s nostrils. There was this one episode when Earl, soaking wet, arrived in the office. He removed his shoes and plunked them in front of the air conditioner. He then removed his socks and dame, they sucked! It was then that Jack showed up.

“Hmmm. What is that smell?” he muttered. “I’m hungry already.”

I didn’t speak at all. After the socks and shoes had dried, Earl donned them and Jack saw this feat as if he had experienced epiphany with the feet that I thought I would hear him say “Hmmm. Smelly feet,” ala-Homer. Instead he said, “Dude, you should do the right foot first and then the left. That way, you wouldn’t get arthritis.”

Earl's Athletic feet were not a problem at all if he was doing a good job. But hell, one day, Earl gave me his write up that I had to check and found so many grammar and spelling errors. He spelled freedom with single e, mistaken the word world for word and spelled peace with p, i, e, c, e. He was unbearable. He bored me to death with his ‘I-am-the-smart-guy’ spiels without even knowing that he was the second dumbest man next to Jack.

Whenever I saw the girls from the office adoring Jack and Earl (that would sometimes wind up into a butt comparison), I’d just give myself a thought of consolation that these two self-proclaimed masculine guys were vain fags and that I didn’t need to do those things they did to make women sleep with me. I guess I just needed to spell peace with p, e, a, c, and e! And I still can. See?

[Enter the haughty faux nouveau riche. Solitary spotlight please.]

Mrs. David was a real gossip queen that she had developed babbling into a habit. She talked about showbusiness, politics and other people’s lives most of the time as if she knew so much about their issues. In her embarrassing loud voice, she would even tell what brands of undies people wear.

I am not telling that I was the best staff. If you were to ask them, they’d probably tell you that I was an antisocial, cranky copywriter who seemed to have never loved before. Rica, the hot, young account executive, (who was included in Earl’s sexual-affairs list which, I bet, was not true because knowing her, she'd never have the guts even to look at the guy’s shadow) often told me that I should have a girlfriend so I would be able to have even the slightest idea what love is. She also said that it would make me view the world in a different light. I still wonder how some women could turn out to be too annoyingly beautiful. Just because I didn’t make any effort to come with them every fucking time they’d invite me into their stupid parties, (which according to Earl is pronounced as, ‘part-é’) company trips and dinners, it didn’t mean that I was a man of such misdemeanor. It was just that I’d rather go home early so I could read my books and spend weekends seeing a couple of movies than see Jack, Earl and my boss.

One day, Rica invited me to come to her birthday party to be held at her place. I told her I couldn’t come because my grandmother was sick and that I had to go to the hospital. Later that night, she saw me buying a ticket in a movie house.

“Oh, Matt, it’s you.” Damn the hell of stating the obvious just to start a conversation. She almost qualified as a fuck-buddy prospect but I loathed her ass-witted head.

“Happy birthday, Rica. I thought you’re having a party?”

“Yeah, but we decided to see a movie first.” She tossed her brunette hair as if she were a blond celebrity. “I thought your granny is in the hospital?”

“She is. I just thought I wanted to see a movie first before going back there. Hospitals really bore me to death.”

“Why don’t you join us?”

“I’ve just changed my mind so I guess I’ll be going back there now.” Let this not-about-sex, stupid conversation be doomed! Now our other officemates, Jack, Earl and Mrs. David, were already heading towards us. “I think I really need to go now.” Unfortunately, the capo of ours blocked my fucking way.

“Hey, Matt!” she squeaked, looking rather stupid than stupefied to see me there. “Are you finally joining us this time?”

“Nah,” interjected Rica. “He has to go back to the hospital. His grandmother is sick.”

“Dude, I’m so sorry to hear that,” said Jack, as if it were his fault that my grandmother was in the hospital.

“I thought your grandmother passed away last year,” said Mrs. David in a declarative instead of an interrogative voice. Suddenly, the ever-precarious Rica looked at me with her ‘you-lied-I’m-gonna-fucking-rip-your-head look.’ Jack and Earl appeared like two men with brains of a bird that I laughed hard inside, forgetting what Mrs. David had just said.

“I’m sorry. What did you say?”

“You told me your grandmother passed away last year.”

“Oh, it—the uh—the one in the hospital right now is my other grandmother.” Damn, I wasn’t as effective as I used to be in times like this. “Gotta go. I have a pet ant at home that needs milking. Happy birthday, Rica! See you all on Monday.” As I was leaving that embarrassing spot, I heard Earl ask Rica how long it would take before they arrived at her place. His libido probably couldn’t stand the limbo.

“Don’t worry.” It was the all-knowing poseur, Jack. “We’ll get there in a jifney!”

“You mean we have to ride a jeepney?” asked Earl.

“Not jeepney, you idiot! In a jifney—in a moment.”

In a jiffy, the cells inside my head shouted, “Fuck you!”

What an EM-OW-AR-OW-EN! Had I been born a skunk, this confabulation alone would have been enough for me to emit Abaddon in gaseous form. What added injury to my bleeding cerebellum was Rica’s face while looking at Jack—high with veneration as if she were one of the six blind men of Indostan exploring an elephant. I wondered what he used to bamboozle her like that.

[Everybody exits except me.]

Why did I feel inferiorly tormented with these guys that it made me more furious day after day? Because they talked and talked and they wouldn’t just stop that with a few more days in the office, I wouldn’t bother to wonder if I ever gone insane. And I reckon I almost got crazy when I thought I was hearing things. Even my mouse seemed to have wanted to speak to me:

“Hey, what are you doing?” it schmoozed.

“Oh, my! Is that a talking mouse?” inquired the fax machine beside my laptop.

[INTERMISSION]

After a day’s work, I decided to drop by at the boutique just across the street before going home. I didn’t want the other bus passengers’ olfactory nerves to notice that I stunk. I searched for the fragrance stand and tried almost every bottle that had a ‘tester’ sign on it. Of course I didn’t want to buy those eu de toilettes even if they were cheap imitations. I’d die without buying such phony perfumes. For me they aren’t different from make ups. If one really smells good, one’s skin would emit sweet, natural sweat. Perhaps that’s the reason why I liked the smell of armpits. Whenever I fuck a woman, her underarm is one of the objects of my nose's and tongue’s affection.

The Indian attendant sprayed Carouse on my neck, Dior on my shoulders, Bulgari on my chest and some other imitations all over my body like the hell he didn’t know the areas of the body where colognes should be sprayed on. Maybe that was how he treated himself—bathed in perfume to conceal his showerless weeks.

I went out and started towards the bus station. Then I suddenly had the urge to drink. As I passed by the stupid store, the Indian looked at me through the glass. Auspiciously, he didn’t go outside and shouted, “The Dior or the Bulgari?” I’d definitely replied with, “Get lost, Mr. Stench!”

After a few hours of depressing amity with the bottles of beer, I started to walk towards the bus stop trying so hard not to appear I was drunk. I could barely see but I was still able to lift my feet without dancing down the gangplank. There was my bus, seemingly waiting for me. I hopped in as strange faces welcomed me inside. There was no available seat and several other people were standing in the aisle yet the driver kept on waiting as if he was not satisfied with the number of passengers he already had. “Now I’m hating this fucking world because of you, fucking bus driver!” I said to myself. I was feeling alright, thinking I could manage an hour ride home standing until the driver stepped on the wheel. My head turned upside down in the clichéd sense of the word. The world revolved fast and my dear gastric juices realized that there were too much toxic chemicals inside. My body was swarmed with cold beads of sweat despite the air conditioner. The other passengers could have thought I was holding back my shit. Without warning, it all reached my throat—rice, salmon, barbecue and all the food pulverized by my digestive organ. I held them all inside my mouth. An embarrassing incident in front of the kids and old people on the bus was the last thing I needed. Consoling my mind that they came from my stomach, I carefully swallowed back my vomit. I managed to make the juice as the liquid to lubricate the piece of ground meat that got stuck in my throat. It only made me feel sicker. For the second time around, I puked and did the same swallowing stint. How pathetic I really was. I blew them all out when I finally reached our toilet then stumbled in my room. Without bothering so much about the pain I was feeling in my head and groins, I fell asleep and had a cinematic nightmare starring Jack, Earl, Rica, Mrs. David and myself as the ‘PSYCHO.’


[END OF INTERMISSION]

Before the worst thing came into realization on account of getting so sick and tired of the people in the office, I decided to quit that week without prior notice. I even made a spectacular story out of my resignation—I said I needed to be placed under custody of the NBI for I was a lone witness on a scam involving a high-ranking politician. When my boss asked me who it was, I told her that the case was highly classified and that I was not allowed to disclose any information. Until now, I regret that I didn’t say that I was about to be admitted in a mental asylum.

How I wish I could be like Alighieri and put all these people in hell even though in a book. If such anadipsic thinking should happen and see Jack or Earl swimming in the bed of blazing gasoline, I'd shout:

“PIECE, men! WORD PIECE!”

[I Exit. Lights out.]

xdelax-circa09