The Company Ink, Smurfhouse Dink & What The ChickenHeads Think

Much has been said about incessantly dipping ones wick in the company ink, especially when said wick shouldn’t be “writing” but “working” in the first place - but I digress. Other than a scholastic environment, what other place is there that collects similar simians in constant contact (like a professional Petri dish) and often “forces” them to interact with one another for an extended period of time? In the wilds of free time, that girl on the other side of the office that smells like Vanilla pudding would never catch your eye (much less your nostrils), but through the seasoning of daily interface you know that she shaves her pubic hair in the shape of an intricate down turned arrow, an ever obvious landing strip for tequila touched nights inside her tights. Color me intrigued all of a sudden. Some of the folks who populate this office tower spend more time here than at home (1/3 or more of your life will be spent around the orifice, I mean office), those of the single variety find it easier to meet people in bite sized trips in the elevator than between the walls of a seedy bar, and why not? Sexual sleepovers make for pleasant car pooling conversation the following morning, does it not? With an ever growing number of inter-office newlyweds evolving beyond quickies atop the photo copier, boardroom adventures and/or secretarial secretions - obvious trappings aside, why is office romance still seen as such a bad idea?

I’ve always been guilty of skirt chasing on the job, right back to my first employment emission in fact. At fourteen years old I did the backseat fumble with a morning shift waitress behind the greasy spoon diner that employed me. My dish panned hands clasped longingly at her bean bag breasts as they beat down about my face, her ashtray haunted breaths blowing hard on my acne spackled cheeks. She offered me a ride home that chill December afternoon when both the shift and I had “ended”, but little did I know that the journey would have invariably led me here, to the same fucking conclusion with nothing but road in either direction. Now where’s that map? She avoided me after that, and who could blame her, I still had petrified egg yolk under my fingernails from platter scouring all morning.

The pimples and egg yolk were long gone when I worked at the video store, damn near a decade ago, and was the worst of my uh, ink blots. Having been bed buddies with most of the staff and a spattering of customers in just under two years (present gal pal included in latter company) I was eventually reprimanded and shit canned for making salty pancakes with the assistant manager after the corporate Christmas party (I thought it was because I told the district manager that he took a shot in the mouth to get his job – who knew?). While I was working there though, it was a good thing that the hiring manager was a close friend of mine - undoubtedly loyal or oblivious to my choice of conquerable co-workers, he just kept bringing the babes on board. What was a boy to do? It was here that I experienced my first and thankfully only threesome. With both of them being co-workers and best friends (the darker of the two being my girlfriend at the time), I not only mined the inkwell itself; I spilled it all over the fucking place. Long story short (very short), I ended up losing both of them. As soon as our extraordinary experiment had ended; they turned on each other like demon dogs over a warm kitten casserole. They both quit within a few weeks of one another and from what I gather they still won’t talk to each other, it was certainly an experience I would never feel the need to recreate, no matter what immortal fantasy it might have quelled.

Now that I’m in the corporate environment, it’s truly no better than when I was in junior high. When it was learned that relationship woes were in the wind for me and my lady friend a while back, the interest level in your friendly neighborhood cannibal rose beyond my worth in people parts. “Chicken Heads” as she calls them, continue to corner her on a daily basis, trying to scramble up whatever information they can on me/us to fuel the fire of the gossip apparatus firmly affixed to their arse ends. Interested parties dispatch mutual friends to try and learn what will catch my attention for a potential suitor, suddenly women I’ve never spoken to are coming out of the woodwork digging up dirt before the casket’s even been filled. The rumor mill as it were, is chewing up so much shit on me that I wouldn’t doubt if I start to stink of it soon. As I hear this stuff around the office (and by hear, I mean second hand – under the radar) it makes me wonder if this office romance thing is even worth the aggravation. If what I’ve been hearing is true, I’m fucking some chick I’ve never even met or heard of, dating one of the executive leadership team (which should prove wonders for my advancement opportunities) and apparently, if what they say is true; I’ve been married! Twice! Well if I’m getting all kinds of sex from strangers, at least I should be enjoying it, wouldn’t you think? Hell, I'm even getting jealous threats from a girl I went out with once (but she was a cheap date at least).

My boss is starting to catch wind of my fictional “escapades”, the verdict is still out on how that one translates.

When the notches in your bedpost surpass your age, I think a revaluation exercise is in order or perchance a new bed (balancing atop matchsticks at this point). The Company Ink? It may taste like chicken, but it doesn’t bleed Swiss Chalet sauce anymore, it’s nothing but pus and battery acid from what I gather. For some reason they feel the need to talk about me, and I don’t even own the farm yet much less know what the fuck language those chicks are speaking.

iPod played "Harlequin - I Did It For Love" while posting