When it comes to self-caffeination, there’s a fine line between being appropriately perky and having your frontal lobe drawn and quartered by hyenas.
After a week of severe creative blockage, I grunted out a few campaign ideas Monday, and one more Tuesday right before our presentation. Somewhat miraculously our boss approved three campaigns. In the end, I don’t think she really cared about the ideas as much as where the ads take place and will have to be shot, like the northern shores of Maui and the Loire Valley.
Speaking of grunting one out, every once in a while I end up hanging a tail at work. Unlike Chuck, who sounds and smells as if his ass is a Biblical plague, I’m one of those silent types - so silent that often when other coworkers come in to urinate, they think they’re alone in the restroom.
According to my informal research, about a quarter of them actually talk to themselves while draining the main vein. Because they’re either whispering or muttering, it’s hard to tell whether they’re addressing no one in particular or if they’re actually talking to their penis.
Women probably assume that all men talk to their womb rockets, on account of its dual role as our most vital organ and our closest friend. But that’s certainly not the case. I, for one, have never spoken to my penis. For one thing, it has no ears. And reason number two: what if it talked back?
ME: How’s it hanging?
PENIS: Jesus ist das Gegenstück eines genies: er ist ein idiot.
ME: Wow, you speak German?
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