Had one of those dreams. You know, the one where you’re inside your office building – not the current office, but the place where you had your first job. And of course it gets taken over by AK-toting Muslim terrorists, who go from floor to floor shooting your coworkers.
Me, I figure I should get the fuck out of there. Problem is, I’m on the top floor and the elevators aren’t working. So I arm myself with the only weapons I can find - these really heavy tape dispensers - and try to sneak my way past the terrorists.
The building is crawling with those Al Queda bastards. But luckily I have good aim and impressive muscular arms (I can dream, can’t I?) BOO-ya! Tape dispenser to the skull. I "dispense" two of them that way. Problem is, I’m only halfway down the building. Halfway through the army of bloodthirsty terrorists. Doh!*
So do I grab a machine gun off one of the dead bad guys? Nope. I just grab two more of these…
It was like a mentally challenged version of "Die Hard." I did actually make it out of the building okay. And then I walked over to the old Indian restaurant where I used to eat lunch and had some greasy samosas. Doesn’t make sense, but dreams rarely do.
When I woke up, I knew exactly why I had that dream. Because despite the fact that he finally agreed to go with us, T’s still really nervous about our Cambodia/Thailand trip. Every other day he’s emailed us some new warning from some random embassy about terrorist activity in southeast Asia. Me, I just see it as an opportunity to get a great deal on hotel rooms.
Of course I’m cautious about it. You’re not going to find me parading around downtown Bangkok with an American flag draped over my shoulders while wearing a t-shirt that proclaims "Bin Laden is my man-bitch." But it’s not as if we’re planning a trip to sunny Afghanistan. There’s just no point living your life in exaggerated fear, son. Unless, of course, it involves the undead.
Went to the going away party for our head of production. She’d been one of our agency’s first employees and produced some of Lexus’ most famous commercials; so everybody had assumed she was un-fire-able, including her. But she pissed off one of our clients, and although she didn’t get canned, she was politely asked to resign. So I guess she technically still is un-fire-able.
The party was held at some art gallery in Venice. The featured artwork was interesting, because it closely resembled our appetizers. And Mother of God, the appetizers were scrum-diddily-umptous.* I went on an eating rampage – almost accidentally ate one of the waiters. Soon, all the waiters would just make a beeline for me, the whore d'oeuvre, knowing I’d clean out their plates.
But all good things must come to an end, and I was one tuna tartare on a crispy nori chip away from exploding. It got rather sad afterward, as all the waiters would excitedly come up to me with the latest dishes, only to turn around and walk away with dejected looks on their faces after I had to turn them down.
There was also an open bar, but I know better than to get loaded around coworkers. Rather, I simply wait for them to get drunk around me. The assistants were predictably the first to fall, and so I got to force some juicy gossip out of them. And there were lots. Man, my agency is just one big orgy.
The head of production had some interesting stories. Especially from her younger days, when advertising producers had extra duties, like scoring drugs and hookers for clients and such. I told her I was sorry to see her leave, because for as long as she’s been doing this, she still gave a damn.
Earlier in the evening, she saw the farewell video our agency put together for her. There’s a clip of me saying, "I’ll miss your spunk, your passionate leadership … but most of all, I’ll miss the dirty sex." I was mortified, terrified, disgustified. That saying about the camera adding 10 pounds? It’s true and all of it goes to your face. Ahrrrr, I am not an attractive man.*
* From "The Simpsons." Quite simply, the greatest show in the entire universe.
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