Today is the company’s biannual “top performers” festivity at a local snobbish resort. I guess the fact that I’m here in my cubical writing this Fucking thing is a good indication of where I fit in. I went to the last party at the same resort six months ago, and I’m the only one from my “team” that didn’t go to this one. It’s bring out another contradiction in myself: While I wouldn’t have wanted to go, and in fact hated the time spent at the last one, I still want to be invited if for nothing else than to not go.
The hotel they have this shindig is enormous and luxurious and makes a blue collar douche like myself feel totally out of place. This isn’t why I didn’t enjoy myself the last time they had this jamboree. Here’s how it goes: everyone [there are close to a thousand people representing every department] shows up about nine in the morning for a meeting of sorts. This get-together is basically the head of the company standing up on stage giving his rah-rah we’re the greatest company at what we do no matter what the newspapers, our critics, or the government with their millions of dollars in fines has to say. Some other people with big titles after their names whom you’ve never seen or known about before also stand up and tell you how this is an exciting time for the company and there are great things on the horizon and that you are here at an extraordinary time where there are tons of opportunity and since you’re a top performer already things are looking bright in your future. After all this mutual ass kissing and cocksucking, there are the awards to give out. There’s about three hundred of these cheap plastic fucking things at everyone gets their own special slide up on the screen. The master of ceremonies, the first dick who took the stage, calls out the person’s numbers and accomplishments while the crowd gives some lackluster applause that might be punctuated by an outburst of screams and yells for that team that is especially proud of their plastic honor. The speeches take about an hour, the rest of the time is spent handing out these awards. To say that it is about as exciting as watching flies fuck is the understatement of this post.
Around noon, the morning ends, a box lunch [which is actually really fucking good] consisting of a turkey or ham sandwich, chips, and a Snickers is served, and the gang has the rest of the afternoon to do what they want. The rest of the day can be spent however one chooses. The company reserves a room for all in attendance, which is cool, although I’d rather just have the money spent on that room as a bonus, and everyone is supposed to convene that evening for dinner and drinks [the only bonus is that there is an open bar for an hour where you can triple fist your way through as many Coronas as possible before they start charging six bucks a beer] and a dance with the most incredibly lame DJ ever afterwards. This is a time to see your fellow co-workers (read: women) dressed up in their clubbing best drinking copious amounts of free booze, acting like they're in high school again, and making great asses of themselves on the dance floor.
Last time, I split after the mandatory morning jack off fest and headed back home for a nap. That was pretty early in my wife’s pregnancy when she was constantly feeling ill and I used that as my excuse for not going back for the nighttime follies. This was mostly true.
Anyway, because the past six months haven’t been all that stellar for me [Is it a coincidence that my lack of productivity coincides with the beginnings of this blog? Best not think too hard on that.] I wasn’t invited. Again, this is good because I would be hating life sitting in that meeting hall listening to corporate bullshit speeches and watching a parade of douche bags get their awards, and it’s bad because it’s always good, business wise at least, to be invited.
And so it goes.
I’m wearing these boxers that allow my disgustingly small junk to flop out and wiggle in my pants. There doesn’t seem to be a cure and I’m constantly having to fix it without looking like I’m trying to manipulate my tiny cock. It’s about to drive me fucking crazy and it’s barely noon. Wasn’t this a passage in “The Inferno”? Could I be plagiarizing Dante here? I think it was right after the passage about Sisyphus. Well, you’re supposed to steal from the best, so…
A couple of things on race:
Is it bad for a white guy to call a black guy “bro”? I seem to refer to everyone as bro. It’s one of those things that pop out of my mouth so often that it’s become an totally unconscious thing and I don’t even realize how much I say it. I always feel like I’m trapped in a Larry David moment when I’m talking to a black guy and I’m about to say “bro” and I end up stopping myself as the b is about to come out of my mouth and I look like complete idiot as I try to find a word that begins with b and might fit into the conversation and make some sense. Obviously, I’ve never been able to pull it off. Now I don’t know if it’s offensive or not to refer to a black man as bro. I’ve never asked and have just assumed it would be frowned upon.
So, I’m talking to a student’s husband on the phone who, yes, happens to be black.
Me: Is my student there?
Black Man: Can she call you back? I’m on the phone.
Me: Yeah, bro. No problem, bro. That’s totally cool, bro. You’re a bro. Short for brother. Slang for black man, which you clearly are. (beat) Bro.
Black Man: Cool.
Me: Bro.
And we hung up. Later I talked to the student and asked if it was offensive. There was a pause, which is rarely a good thing, and she confirmed, “Yeah. It kind of is.”
Fuck.
So, there you go, I’m offensive. If you want further confirmation, here’s this story that coincidentally happened on the same day.
A few people [all men] are loitering around my cube and we’re talking about some outrageously idiot company policy that was currently driving us all bug fuck, when I blurted out, “Nigga please.”
I don’t know why I said it. I’ve never said this before. I don’t know why it fell out of my mouth then, but as soon as it I knew what a fucking idiot I must of sounded like. Even though I have a Hispanic last name, I look like the Nazi poster boy, and I know there is nothing more pathetic than having an ultra white dude speaking like he’s in a NWA video. What’s worse is that when it was halfway out of my mouth I tried to reverse it and push it back in. It ended up sounding like, “Nigg-a-um-r-a-fuck-me-running please.”
I broke out in a sweat. I hoped that no one outside this little circle heard me. I felt like an asshole and wanted to crawl under my cube and hide. No one said anything, and no one has mentioned it since it happened. Of course, I do work with a bunch of racist misogynistic homophobes, but I think that I might have gotten away with it.
The hotel they have this shindig is enormous and luxurious and makes a blue collar douche like myself feel totally out of place. This isn’t why I didn’t enjoy myself the last time they had this jamboree. Here’s how it goes: everyone [there are close to a thousand people representing every department] shows up about nine in the morning for a meeting of sorts. This get-together is basically the head of the company standing up on stage giving his rah-rah we’re the greatest company at what we do no matter what the newspapers, our critics, or the government with their millions of dollars in fines has to say. Some other people with big titles after their names whom you’ve never seen or known about before also stand up and tell you how this is an exciting time for the company and there are great things on the horizon and that you are here at an extraordinary time where there are tons of opportunity and since you’re a top performer already things are looking bright in your future. After all this mutual ass kissing and cocksucking, there are the awards to give out. There’s about three hundred of these cheap plastic fucking things at everyone gets their own special slide up on the screen. The master of ceremonies, the first dick who took the stage, calls out the person’s numbers and accomplishments while the crowd gives some lackluster applause that might be punctuated by an outburst of screams and yells for that team that is especially proud of their plastic honor. The speeches take about an hour, the rest of the time is spent handing out these awards. To say that it is about as exciting as watching flies fuck is the understatement of this post.
Around noon, the morning ends, a box lunch [which is actually really fucking good] consisting of a turkey or ham sandwich, chips, and a Snickers is served, and the gang has the rest of the afternoon to do what they want. The rest of the day can be spent however one chooses. The company reserves a room for all in attendance, which is cool, although I’d rather just have the money spent on that room as a bonus, and everyone is supposed to convene that evening for dinner and drinks [the only bonus is that there is an open bar for an hour where you can triple fist your way through as many Coronas as possible before they start charging six bucks a beer] and a dance with the most incredibly lame DJ ever afterwards. This is a time to see your fellow co-workers (read: women) dressed up in their clubbing best drinking copious amounts of free booze, acting like they're in high school again, and making great asses of themselves on the dance floor.
Last time, I split after the mandatory morning jack off fest and headed back home for a nap. That was pretty early in my wife’s pregnancy when she was constantly feeling ill and I used that as my excuse for not going back for the nighttime follies. This was mostly true.
Anyway, because the past six months haven’t been all that stellar for me [Is it a coincidence that my lack of productivity coincides with the beginnings of this blog? Best not think too hard on that.] I wasn’t invited. Again, this is good because I would be hating life sitting in that meeting hall listening to corporate bullshit speeches and watching a parade of douche bags get their awards, and it’s bad because it’s always good, business wise at least, to be invited.
And so it goes.
I’m wearing these boxers that allow my disgustingly small junk to flop out and wiggle in my pants. There doesn’t seem to be a cure and I’m constantly having to fix it without looking like I’m trying to manipulate my tiny cock. It’s about to drive me fucking crazy and it’s barely noon. Wasn’t this a passage in “The Inferno”? Could I be plagiarizing Dante here? I think it was right after the passage about Sisyphus. Well, you’re supposed to steal from the best, so…
A couple of things on race:
Is it bad for a white guy to call a black guy “bro”? I seem to refer to everyone as bro. It’s one of those things that pop out of my mouth so often that it’s become an totally unconscious thing and I don’t even realize how much I say it. I always feel like I’m trapped in a Larry David moment when I’m talking to a black guy and I’m about to say “bro” and I end up stopping myself as the b is about to come out of my mouth and I look like complete idiot as I try to find a word that begins with b and might fit into the conversation and make some sense. Obviously, I’ve never been able to pull it off. Now I don’t know if it’s offensive or not to refer to a black man as bro. I’ve never asked and have just assumed it would be frowned upon.
So, I’m talking to a student’s husband on the phone who, yes, happens to be black.
Me: Is my student there?
Black Man: Can she call you back? I’m on the phone.
Me: Yeah, bro. No problem, bro. That’s totally cool, bro. You’re a bro. Short for brother. Slang for black man, which you clearly are. (beat) Bro.
Black Man: Cool.
Me: Bro.
And we hung up. Later I talked to the student and asked if it was offensive. There was a pause, which is rarely a good thing, and she confirmed, “Yeah. It kind of is.”
Fuck.
So, there you go, I’m offensive. If you want further confirmation, here’s this story that coincidentally happened on the same day.
A few people [all men] are loitering around my cube and we’re talking about some outrageously idiot company policy that was currently driving us all bug fuck, when I blurted out, “Nigga please.”
I don’t know why I said it. I’ve never said this before. I don’t know why it fell out of my mouth then, but as soon as it I knew what a fucking idiot I must of sounded like. Even though I have a Hispanic last name, I look like the Nazi poster boy, and I know there is nothing more pathetic than having an ultra white dude speaking like he’s in a NWA video. What’s worse is that when it was halfway out of my mouth I tried to reverse it and push it back in. It ended up sounding like, “Nigg-a-um-r-a-fuck-me-running please.”
I broke out in a sweat. I hoped that no one outside this little circle heard me. I felt like an asshole and wanted to crawl under my cube and hide. No one said anything, and no one has mentioned it since it happened. Of course, I do work with a bunch of racist misogynistic homophobes, but I think that I might have gotten away with it.
