The Journal of David Hill|
Big Butt Nightmare Blues
02/22/2005 05:34 p.m.
Note: Written 12/7/04
Whoa is me. The company Christmas party has turned out a near disaster for your humble narrator. Fate and fortune can be most cruel.
Throughout the evening, I was the perfect diplomat, smiling knowingly, agreeing enthusiastically, spouting phrases like, “I’m right with you on that, Roberto!” and “I think you are on to something with that, Louise!”
I even delivered the following to Wallace in the proper context: “Well Wally, I say we lay out that little jewel of an idea of yours, run it up the flag pole, and see who the hell salutes it!”
On the dance floor, whirling and twirling, making appropriately intense facial expressions, I was a regular Gene Kelly (just laughin’, and singin’, in the rain…).
While I danced with one of the company “Team Leaders,” Polly, back-to-back songs dedicated to an appreciation of women with “big butts” were played. Though they were dreadful tunes, I twitched and leapt like a worm on a hot rock.
Feeling devilish, gay, and light with the spirit of the festivities, I said to Polly, “May I say something inappropriate?”
She twisted her face peculiarly and uttered a reluctant, “Yes.”
It was really too late to turn back and I just knew she would dig my clever insight, so I said what was on my mind.
“That Bonita sure has a big butt.”
(Bonita is a co-worker with an unusually rotund rump. The rest of her body is
proportioned normally, but her outback is tall, wide, and protrudes a good three
feet. I have no idea where she finds suitable trousers. I suspect they are custom
Polly kind of flinched her head, “humphed,” and snarled with disapproval.
“But it’s a very nice butt!” I said, attempting to lessen the impact.
All day at work today, I cower in my cubicle, expecting the call from personnel because
the “team leader” ratted me out for my inappropriate remark.
I plan to counter by threatening to sue over just how disturbed and disoriented I became when forced to endure consecutive songs detailing an appreciation of the female derričre played at a company sponsored function.
And there goes Bonita now, rustling past my cubicle, her big cargo swaying like an overloaded tractor trailer highballing down a curvy country road!
And darned if the Human Resources Director didn’t just pass, scowling, directing her dagger eyes at me!
Perhaps now would be the time to pursue my dream job of Bowling Alley Attendant.
But I can imagine the difficulty in finding suitable employment with this seedy and shameful skeleton in my closet.
Prospective Employer: “Mr. Hill, I see you were dismissed by your previous employer. Can you elaborate?”
A sheepish me: “A, well, it was because I said that Bonita has a big butt…”
Prospective Employer: “Next!”
Whoa is me.
PS: I like normal sized butts.
Yin and Yang
02/22/2005 01:26 a.m.
Yin and Yang
I have been an avid cyclist for several years now. I have a beautiful yellow/black/chrome road bike that is jewel like in its precision and whooshes like the wind. I credit it for my Ichabod Crane, Thomas Jerome Newton, Joey Ramone, Manute Bol, stork-like thinness, despite my advancing years (my graying hair is a clear indication that I am well into my declining years).
One evening after work I was enjoying a peaceful ride, Dylan’s “It’s All Over Now, Baby Blue,” raggedly raging inside my head. Pure pleasure. At 20 mph on a bicycle, the world can feel like a wonder.
As it is a heavily traveled route for automobiles, I am used to traffic and comfortable “sharing the road.” This particular road is wide and I stay well to the right.
The phlegmy roar of a cancerous muffler began to close from behind. I sized up the approaching vehicle in the micro-rearview mirror mounted to my helmet. A battered and rust eaten pickup was closing fast. The vehicle pulled along side me, down came the window, a sudden movement in my peripheral vision, a white spiraled oblong object passing at high velocity beneath my chin, and a sudden sharp pain on the soft inside part of my arm, just above the elbow. The pickup accelerated, but I saw the extended middle finger thrust out of the passenger side window as it sped away.
I stopped to ascertain the damage, but there was only a large, oblong red mark (which later turned to a handsome sickly soupy green/yellow bruise!). I wouldn’t have minded a little blood. It makes me feel tough, and I could have showed it off at work the next day (I like showing my wounds to the ladies).
I circled back to the point of impact to search for what had struck me. There, in the gutter, was a spark plug. The passenger had hurled the equivalent of a rock in the direction of my head for no reason what so ever.
I continued on my way. I still had several miles to go before I would double back and complete the 18-mile route I had chosen that evening. Since the injury was minor, I forgot about it, but the pointless and unprovoked incident stuck in my head.
On the way back, not 100 yards from the earlier incident, I caught sight of activity up one of the side streets. A gleaming golden Jaguar was crookedly stopped in the middle of the residential street. The hood was open gapingly and flames leapt six feet up into the southern summer sky from the engine. Behind the Jaguar was a spindly weather beaten Ford Escort.
A sobbing, elegant, and somewhat statuesque blond dressed in a matching pants suit found sanctuary in the arms of a large and matronly black woman dressed in sweat pants that were stretched to their limit in the seat.
I surmised (I believe correctly) that the black lady Escort owner was comforting the blond Jaguar owner after the engine suddenly caught fire. It was a multi-faceted reassuring moment.
In a matter of seconds, several more motorists pulled in to assist, people jogged out from their houses, and a siren wailed in the distance. The black lady continued to comfort the blond; stillness amidst the activity.
Since I had nothing to offer that wasn’t already offered in triplicate, I continued on my way.
That evening lives in my mind‘s eye.
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