31 October 2005

What Hath Bob Wrought?

Cognizant of my perfidious bog-roll asshattery of Friday last, I approached the office on tenterhooks. Irish Bob’s car was already in the parking lot and the engine was cold. Obviously, he had come in early to arrange some sort of hideous payback.

In the remote event that I fell for his prank, I decided to pour a half liter of liquefied jack mackerel into the ventilation intake of his Mercedes. He should be able to enjoy this during the next thaw. I re-parked my car in an adjacent lot, behind a panel van; no sense in making it easy.

The entry door creaked ominously. “Morning, all!” I called out cheerily. I would beat Bob’s plans out of a witness later.

Bob was standing on the other side of the kitchen, separated from me by a knot of coworkers.

“Morning, Evil” He said.

“Grand day, eh Bob?” I replied. I nodded to the techie holding the coffee pot. He put it down guiltily. Ahhh, the coffee…. doctored, no doubt. I poured a cup and sniffed appreciably.

“It smells extra rich this morning!” I said dreamily.

The herd jostled about the coffee urn nervously, while Bob smirked.

Bingo.

I walked towards my office, pausing to switch cups with the human resources director. A few short minutes later, he made a very uncomfortable looking dash to the bog. Bob tried to intercept him, but the man was frantic. He brushed past Bob and into the executive bathroom.

“So Bob, I noticed a can of Cayenne on your desk. Doing Cajun tonight?” I asked innocently, but loudly.

“CHERIST!” We heard from behind the door. “WHOEVER PUT PEPPER ON THE TOILET PAPER IS F#$%ING DEAD, UNEMPLOYED MEAT!”

Bob turned a nice shade of chartreuse. “Erm, fancy a pint, Evil? I’m buying.”

“Well, it’s a bit early, but as long as you are buying…”

“Great! I’ll go get my car!” He dashed back to his desk to grab his keys and the tell-tale cayenne. Bob is about as subtle as his equivalent weight in falling masonry.

“Em, it’s turning out to be a fine, warm day, why don’t we walk?” I asked. He agreed.

“I believe in Mackerels, where you from? You stanky thing, (stanky thing)…” I sang softly as we strolled towards to the bar.

“What’s that?” Bob asked.

“Oh, just a damn song stuck in my head.”


And that's the way I likes it.