Going down as my breakfast was coming up
OK, just a quickie [1] - but I promise that there will be something bigger and better shortly.
I hate elevators. Being closed in a relatively small box that goes up and down on a cable is not my idea of a good time. Then, for shits and giggles, let's give ourselves even less room in that little box, by acting like animals to fill up every square inch of floorspace, so that on every stop, 15 people have to get out so that the person in the back row can get off, in essence, causing this trip to take twice as long, seeing as how every freakin floor has been selected as a stop.
I don't like the fact that in a crowded elevator, I am breathing other people's mouth-breath, ass-breath, armpit-breath, etc. It's gross. Lots of times, I hold my breath as long as I can, and now that I've quit smoking, I can go a few more floors than before. What I can't do, however, is stop hearing things without resorting to surgically implanting my iPod to my side.
So, persons who may someday ride in an elevator with me, I beg you to be aware that I am involuntarily in earshot...
Thus, do NOT discuss ANYTHING to do with your reproductive life. I'm just going to get a cup of coffee. I don't want to know about how you're "trying to have a baby". I'm sorry, but even if you are attractive (which you know the people who volunteer this stuff in elevators never are), I do not want to be forced into thinking about you and your significant other having planned baby-making sessions. In essence, you've just kidnapped me and brought me to your bedroom and tied me up and tortured me with views of your hairy back while you do your wife who has a thermometer in one hand and an ovulation chart in the other. You're an evil mental-kidnapper, and I propose that there be some sort of legal punishment for subjecting me to this craptastic torture.
Similarly, I don't want to know about vasectomies or tube tying operations either. You know, pretty much anything to do with the parts of our bodies that we generally would not expose in the Vatican ought to be off limits. Actually, all body parts - except hair (the kind on the top of your head) are hereby deemed inappropriate material for elevator discussion.
Because next time I hear something along these inappropriate lines, I will gladly turn to you and tell you all about how I just threw up a little bit of my breakfast burrito into my mouth. And I will, in striking detail, explain to you what it feels like to regurgitate a jalapeno.
Thank you kindly.
[1] Just realized, the title is "Going down" and the first sentence is about a "quickie"... unintentional, I swear.
I hate elevators. Being closed in a relatively small box that goes up and down on a cable is not my idea of a good time. Then, for shits and giggles, let's give ourselves even less room in that little box, by acting like animals to fill up every square inch of floorspace, so that on every stop, 15 people have to get out so that the person in the back row can get off, in essence, causing this trip to take twice as long, seeing as how every freakin floor has been selected as a stop.
I don't like the fact that in a crowded elevator, I am breathing other people's mouth-breath, ass-breath, armpit-breath, etc. It's gross. Lots of times, I hold my breath as long as I can, and now that I've quit smoking, I can go a few more floors than before. What I can't do, however, is stop hearing things without resorting to surgically implanting my iPod to my side.
So, persons who may someday ride in an elevator with me, I beg you to be aware that I am involuntarily in earshot...
Thus, do NOT discuss ANYTHING to do with your reproductive life. I'm just going to get a cup of coffee. I don't want to know about how you're "trying to have a baby". I'm sorry, but even if you are attractive (which you know the people who volunteer this stuff in elevators never are), I do not want to be forced into thinking about you and your significant other having planned baby-making sessions. In essence, you've just kidnapped me and brought me to your bedroom and tied me up and tortured me with views of your hairy back while you do your wife who has a thermometer in one hand and an ovulation chart in the other. You're an evil mental-kidnapper, and I propose that there be some sort of legal punishment for subjecting me to this craptastic torture.
Similarly, I don't want to know about vasectomies or tube tying operations either. You know, pretty much anything to do with the parts of our bodies that we generally would not expose in the Vatican ought to be off limits. Actually, all body parts - except hair (the kind on the top of your head) are hereby deemed inappropriate material for elevator discussion.
Because next time I hear something along these inappropriate lines, I will gladly turn to you and tell you all about how I just threw up a little bit of my breakfast burrito into my mouth. And I will, in striking detail, explain to you what it feels like to regurgitate a jalapeno.
Thank you kindly.
[1] Just realized, the title is "Going down" and the first sentence is about a "quickie"... unintentional, I swear.
posted by The Girl at 1:32 PM
2 Comments:
yeah, and if you suddenly decide that you need to tie your "these-were-never-cool-and-never-ok-to-wear-at-the-office-bowling-style" shoe, it is preferable that you go into your office, have a seat, and reach down to tie said shoes. what is a little more vomit-inducing is your feeling that it's ok to bend down from the waist in the middle of the hall and start tying. surely you know that none of us particularly wants to see your "i-shouldn't-have-eaten-those-last-800 burritos" a$$ sticking straight in the air while you feverishly attempt to tie both your shoes even though you can't touch your toes.
Oh, how sad but true.
Thanks for the wonderful comment which I can now go back and read whenever I'm not getting enough ass in my life.
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