Sunday, February 13, 2011


Today at work I found myself being the mayor and entire population of Struggletown.

Last night was Ev's 21st. Thus, as I am wont to do, I made rather a large idiot of myself. Upon waking up this morning all I could do was groan. I Groaned not only because of the day at work I knew I had to face, but also because I remembered tripping over, talking absolute rubbish, swearing a bit too much during my speech, and generally making a twat of myself. 

That though, is worthy of a blagpost unto itself. 

For now, I wish to relate to you a story. A cautionary tale? We'll see. Give it some time, perhaps. This is partly for Brian's amusement. Maybe an amusement offering in light of the fact that I was utterly useless for the few hours I spent at work. 

Anyway. Brian, Brian's lovely sister Fish (real name: Michelle) and I work at a chocolate cafe. Not too long ago, a certain boy also began working there. To protect the innocent, I shall refer to him as Boy for the remainder of this post. I suppose as a result of nothing exciting ever happening at said workplace, I noted with some interest that Boy was quite good-looking. Good-looking, but young. Eh, whatever. So he's like, 18 or 19. Whatever. No blood, no foul. In the words of some male friends of mine, I chose to file that one under "lay-by". Or "investment". Or, "He'll be smokin' in a few years". 

So ensued something quite similar to this:

Reb: So, Boy's pretty... you know. Cute.

Fish: ....

Reb: ?


My face when.

I kid you not, I have never felt so creepy.

I also kid you not, this boy is also incredibly easy on the eyes. Ha. Kid. That wasn't intentional, I swear.

SERIOUSLY THOUGH! The year he was born was the year I started school!


So, last night we happened to be working together. As he arrived and chilled out in front of the coffee machine before clocking in, I imagined Brian's gaze on me, with that smirking look on his face, that look on his face speaking volumes. So I busied myself with the line of dockets in front of me. When the time came to say hi to Boy however, I again imagined Brian's smirking face. Goddamn. Having a mental image like that makes it rather difficult to engage in witty banter.

Then, out of nowhere our manager turns to me and says, "Hey Reb. Could you show Boy where the rubbish compactor is?"
My face when.

I'm totally kidding.

So we went down to the rubbish compactor, and so ensued a conversation pretty much like this:

Reb: So... what's on for the weekend?

Boy: Ehh, not much. Hanging out with some friends, then I've got some homework to do.

Reb: (Thinking: Oh, Jesus...) Ha! I remember the days of homework. ... What year are you in, anyway?

Boy: Eleven.

Reb: (...) ... Jeez. I should just call you jailbait! HA HA HA. (Awkward laughter)

Boy: Jail-what?

Reb: ... Jailbait.

Boy: What's that?

I don't know if you're aware, but making a funny is much more effective when you don't actually have to explain the joke.

So that's what my love life's been reduced to. Being the token creep at work. Every time I speak to this poor kid, I feel Brian and Fish's gaze boring into me, laughing gleefully. Sigh. In the words of Ben Cousins' chest, such is life I guess.

What do I do? What do I do? WHAT DO? Do I roll with it, embrace my newfound creepdom, provide my workmates with an ever-flowing amusement fountain? Or do I take the mature road?

I promise I won't drink at the next staff party.

1 comment:

  1. Drinks aside, we're still clapping you into a chastity belt at the next staff party.