A big part of our job involves deleting spam from the widows of Nigerian military commandos who just so happen to have a couple million dollars lying around that they don’t want and are willing to give us a taste in exchange for some general information, like, say, our primary bank account number and the secret nickname we have bestowed on our genitalia. (The penis goes by the handle Powers Booth, while those in the know refer to our testicles as The Monitor and The Merrimack, collectively and individually. And in case you were wondering, yes, that is the weirdest fucking sentence we have read all week.)
But beyond the money scams and the pharmaceutical come-ons, we also receive a ton of electronic correspondence that really has nothing to do with our actual job whatsoever. This morning we received a note from the USO trumpeting two new additions to their roster of overseas talent, comedians Ron White and Robert Hawkins, who as the press release rather breathlessly informs us, are renowned for their work with observational funnyman Jeff Foxworthy (“You know you’re a redneck if you frequently have wildly erotic dreams that feature the spectral mustache of Dale ‘The Intimidator’ Earnhardt gently nuzzling against your trembling perineum”) and on something called The Blue Collar Comedy Tour. The release also informs us that White is widely recognized by the sobriquet “Tater Salad,”at which point we hit delete and curse God for granting us the tainted gift of literacy.
What the fuck, people? Apparently, these dudes are going to have Thanksgiving with U.S. troops in the twin hotbeds of Germany and Belgium, which is a fine gesture to be sure, and undeniably selfless. (Well, except for the self-promotional angle, which you know, whatever.) But we ask you: If you found yourself in a mess hall outside of Bremen, having the canned cranberry sauce passed to you by some fucker named Tater Salad, wouldn’t you want to go out and hop on a landmine or something? Wouldn’t that be the kind of thing that might nudge you toward volunteering to wear the orange jumpsuit in the latest installment of Al Qaeda Gone Wild? On the great Libran scale of fate, wouldn’t you be better off moldering quietly in a tomb than breaking bread with a dude who gets paychecks every week from The WB?
We also get every magazine published in these United States, including a fair amount of mainstream porn. It’s always a bit of a head-scratcher when you’re trying to abide by basic conduct guidelines as laid down by Human Resources and there’s a picture of an angry pudendum staring out at you from the latest issue of Every Day with Rachael Ray while you’re asking a co-worker where the hell is your goddamned change from that cup of coffee you sent her out for. Anyway, the December Playboy arrives, packed with the inevitable passel of not at all funny cartoons featuring Santa getting sucked off by whores of all stripes, when the weird guy who sits over by the copy machine skulks by our shabby cubicle.
“Dude,” he goes, “can people really even masturbate with that?”
A fine question, and one that opens up a Pandora’s Box of wildly inappropriate speculation as to what can and cannot be used as masturbatory fodder, which culminates in an oratorio on the wonders of the mysterious knee-bosoms of the Land O’ Lakes squaw. The weird guy bats 1.000 for the day with the pithy observation, “You know, there’s regular shame and then there’s the shame that comes from making porno out of a margarine box.”
To which we add, “And lastly there is the shame of pasting a picture of your own face over the face of an Indian girl with knees for breasts and then Roughing Up the Suspect like it owes you money or something.” At which point we agree to maybe not have conversations in the office ever again.