Mongo-Man & the Panty Puddle Performance Report

He’s a Mongoloid Mono-Browed Mutant; you know the type - the self appointed alpha male, the one who hangs his pungent leather jacket on the back of your office chair, struts about the place like the penile prince and does nothing but MSN his harem of harlots (hairy or otherwise) all damn day. He would like you to think that he works wonderfully hard (aw, man muffin), but the jig is up you greasy bitch, I’m onto you. Those snazzy new sneakers can’t outrun the piss poor performance proof I’ve collected on you and that giggling little girl at your side. Somehow you’ve got her trained to believe that you’re something more than a feces flicking monkey on a motorbike (dude, she’s 18 and you’re 35 – where do you see this going?! Cranberry carrying tank tops does not a woman make). As far as I know, the eternally stubbled look went the way of the Do-Do’s doo-doo quite some time ago (George Michael knows this, why not you?), but who am I to judge? I’m not here to comment on your attire, your jockstrap jaunts from office to office (armpits ablaze with man-stink) no I’m here to performance manage you and your party of pitiable primates. Despite what’s going on here at work, I’ve been brought into your group today to weed out the wieners and what I send down the chute will factor greatly in your future here. It’s no secret why I’ve been put so close to you; I own the keyboard that’ll abbreviate your career.

I am joined by a pal and co-worker who sadly has no internet handle, so I’ll call him Mehr Arsch Bitte (roughly translated as: More Arse Please). We observe with amazement the mating display of Hairy Plotter and the Nonsensical Teenager (plagiarize THAT Rowling – hack!) As I write this, he’s pulling a mopey act of having just been dumped by some tawdry tart and the teeny bopping titter twit is lapping it all up like man milk from a pristine saucer. A 35 year old staffer, getting “valued” love life advice from a chicklette who’s half his age and looks like she somehow stumbled out of junior high and into a cash career - whoopsie. He’s actually showing her photographs of his motorcycle… what’s this? Direct quote – “How did that picture get in there?” A shirtless snapshot of him kissing his bicep * falls * out of his wallet. Arsch nearly falls to the floor himself, with laughter, he’s becoming a puddle – Mongo Man is getting wise to our presence. What fresh hell is this? She’s buying it! This is truly Gorillas in the Mist, he’s got her under his sweaty spell and all 6570 some odd days that she’s been alive are turning to panty putty right in front of us. The conversation turns to children, how appropriate I think, he actually wants to name his first born spawn “Titanium”.

It dawns on me that I have this monkeys’ future on my C drive - hesitation - or is it fatigue? The Jane Goodall part of my pea sized brain tells me to spare the beast, the anarchist wants me to send the dirt to bury him in and the voyeur wonders why I’d ever want to truncate such an entertaining display. What should I do with this monkey man and his bubbly tag along? Arsch urges me to send the rat report, but I will await the response from total strangers… see what you folks would do.

Yes I am dutifully aware that I wrote this on the company dime, but I’m not the one under the miscroscope, focus people, FOCUS!

iPod played "Headstones - Tweeter & the Monkey Man" while posting