09.08.05

Here I am, trying my best to toe the company line; i.e. we're drones, giddy with delight to serve each and every whim of the client ("As you command," Westley, Princess Bride, "By your command," any Cylon, original Battlestar Galactica)--unless it interferes with what Central believes is appropriate (not that they're going to tell us what's what, that'd be too much like communicating or some other Fifth Columnist/Fellow Traveler plot), and...

Man-o-Manischewitz

There is a gas bubble the size of the bulge in Bend, Oregon looming in my gut. I knew, knew, that if it escaped, I'd be apologizing, waving smelling salts, and burning incense for the next year and a half. This is a fart that will "not go gentle into that good night." This is one that'd go with a bang and not a whimper.

Helping a client (who's last decision must have been whether to have a regular coffee or a latte that morning and apparently 'twas a decision of such dire import that he was still reeling from the shock and just wanted to go have a lie down and a hug) while wanting to let 'er rip is quite a feat. As my eyes watered and my answers got more and more terse, I imagined "turning [my] hindquarters upon 'im, and farting in ees general direction."

...Waiting...
...Waiting...
...Waiting...

Oh my stars and garters, dude. Wars have been won and lost, countries forced to a religion by the sword, and lives have been forever changed in the time it's taking you to pick a gaddamned paper. IT DOESN'T FUCKING MATTER.

(Can you tell I am a wee bit stressed?)

Finally. Yes, the cheapest 20# white standard paper is magnificent, sir. Angels sing your praises to the heavens, children dance in the streets, mages are struck dumb with the insight and wisdom required to make such a delicate, fucking, decision. Huzzah, sir, huzzah.

Finish writing up the order. Yell at the FNG. Out the door to the bathroom across the lobby.

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Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh. Blessed relief.

Go. Be fabulous.

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