What is this feeling?

I'm not normally a violent person. Usually. Let's just clear that right up. But I have to say that this morning I would have liked nothing more than to pick up a real heavy paperweight and beat in someone's head. Of course, I'm not allowed to have a paperweight on my desk. So my laptop will have to do. And believe me, after carrying that thing around in airports for the last two years I now walk with a slump in the manner of a chimpanzee, so I know exactly how heavy it is. But I digress.

I have a coworker, whom I will call Methodical Bob. Bob is a soft-spoken, patient, very nice guy. About 18 years ago he and his wife decided to have another child.

They shouldn't have.

The son, whom I will call Punk-@$$ Brat, has been coming into the office these past few days, and spends that time 1) hitting his dad up for money and 2) whining, a lot. Since Methodical Bob's cubicle is very near my desk, I can hear all of this.

Yesterday he came in to complain about his summer job, and how he haaates it. He was also very rude and impatient with his Dad, and we got to hear all of it. Plus this kid's voice just grates on me. It's got this spoiled petulant Napoleon-Dynamite-without-the-Funny quality to it, with a subtone of, "I can't believe I'm even having to tell you this, you idiot."

Today he came in with his shiny new cell phone and spent the next hour programming it, testing all the different rings, and leaving messages on all of his friends' phones to tell them his new number. ("Hey Shantell . . . uuhhh . . . This is [Punk-@$$ Brat], just wanted to let you know that I got my own cell phone so yeah . . . you can text me whenever you want now.") At one point Methodical Bob was on the phone, and PAB actually hissed "SSHHHHHH! I'm leaving a voicemail!!"

MB: So what's your new number?
PAB: (rattles it off quickly)
MB: Hang on, that was 1-2-3 and then what?
PAB: (after a hugh angry sigh) 1 . . . 2 . . . 3 . . . 5 . . . 5 . . .5 . . .5. It's not a hard number to memorize!

That was when I wanted to staple his head. Not that I'm allowed to have a stapler. If I ever talked to my Dad like that, especially at his workplace, I would soon find myself rethinking my actions from my new vantage point on the floor.

When he wasn't bragging about his voicemail or using it to make noises designed to send us all to the brink of madness, PAB complained about his job. He works at a car wash.

MB: So you wash and detail cars, what does the detailing involve?
PAB: Shampooing!! And everything freaking other thing you can think of!

Other gems:

PAB: "I die of heat stroke every day! I die of heat stroke every day!"

PAB: "I worked like nine hours yesterday. Nine hours!" (Yeah, Skippy. It's called a summer job.)
MB: "Well, that's not so bad."
PAB: "Are you freaking kidding?? It's slave labor!"

Then he started working on his schedule of classes for the fall. And by "working on his schedule" I mean "told his Dad to do his schedule for him."

PAB: "No foreign language. I will only learn a language if I go on a mission. That's it." (Let me start praying for your companions now.)
PAB: "No math. NO math."
PAB: "I do not want to take all of my hard classes first . . . what's so wrong with that?!"

PAB: "Maybe I could take choir."
MD: "What about Intro to Music?
PAB: "Intro . . . to . . . Music? Are you kidding???"

Then came my all-time favorite. Ahem.

MD: "You'll need to take Freshman English."
PAB: "I'll take that next semester, Dad. I'm a college student. I want to have some free time!"
MD: "Well, I think you should take it your first semester."
PAB: "Why should I?"
MD: "Because you'll need to get used to writing at the college level. It will be important in your other classes."
PAB: "Look Dad, I am a great writer. Two of my teachers even told me I'm like the best writer they've ever had. So . . . I'm not really worried about that."

At this point I had to slide out of my chair and crouch on the ground because I didn't want either of them to come out of the cubicle and see how hard I was laughing. The girl next to me was doing the same thing.

I'm so excited for his first college paper, I can hardly even stand it.


daltongirl said... [reply]

Sometimes I wish the old custom of leaving a deformed child out in the weather to let the gods have their way with it was still en force. Methodical Bob probably would not have been able to detect that his son was defective on the outside, but I bet he cried a lot. That would have been good enough for me.

MB and his wife need to bring down the smack HARD on that kid, and immediately would not be too soon to do it. By bringing down the smack, I mean UPside the head.

Miss Hass said... [reply]

With a stapler, paperweight or laptop computer. If you were freaking allowed those things. Where do you work, Nazi Germany?

ambrosia ananas said... [reply]

Miss N, this just made me giggle. Especially as I imagined who MB was.

Ahh, the good ol' days, when the people next cubicle over blasted strange music and the man across the way had that obnoxious cougar roar for his phone ring.

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