The Grind
Remember that song when that woman sang “my neck, my back, lick my pussy and my crack”? That shit was ridiculous. I’ve got it in my head right now. Have had it in my head for days now. This normally wouldn’t be a problem I suppose, except for the fact that such intrusively visual lyrics tend to unfurl a naughty little slideshow that, far from erotic, is heavily revolting and gag-inducing to me.
You see, I don’t have a pussy. I have a neck, a back, and a crack…but alas no pussy. Given the circumstances that: a) this siren song always demands visual accompaniment, and b) I have no pussy, my mind naturally adapts and does this sort of role reversal where even though I am the one singing about my genitals getting licked, in the accompanying visuals someone else (female) is actually the one receiving said attentive service.
Again, that COULD be okay except for the fact that I spend most of my life at work. I’m at work now of course, using company time and resources to type words like “crack” and “pussy”. So, as this sordid stanza replays itself again and again I look up from my cubicle, trying my hardest to purge the sickness while feigning that “I’m in the middle of an important thought and working very hard right now and time is money so please don’t engage me” face of which I’ve grown so fond. And then it happens. One of the multitudes of unattractive female coworkers waddles by, whether it be the minus-necked pug or swollen-cheeked wop it matters not, and plunder my internal music video and suddenly awful awful images flood my head involving backs, necks, and that other body part I cant even type now while equating it to them and I feel like Dustin Hoffman in that scene from “Rain Man” where he burns the waffles and the fire alarm goes off and he absolutely loses his shit. Ew.
See, my place of work is nothing like Sam’s verdant utopia of fast-talking news dames fiending as much for a good scoop as some genital friction with him in the janitor’s closet. This is not the case. Nor could I ever, as Sam could were he so inclined, make a comfortable living running a brothel using my female coworkers as capital with a client roster consisting exclusively of my friends. Nope. My workplace is also nothing like Tom’s, where at any moment I could look up from a given task and see the woman I had sex with the prior evening. Its not even like Jesse’s, where I could carry on a satisfyingly platonic relationship with a hot married woman in order to make the day go by faster. Instead, my office is studiously void of attractive coworkers to the extent that it must have been a managerial decision exacted in the name of efficiency. And the thing is, this is all okay with me most times, I do not long for office romance, I’m happy as is and am honestly not that bothered that the only visual titillation found during the workday comes via porn pictures sent to me by Matt via instant messenger.
Its just those terrible moments when the neck/back/pussy song comes out to play and bad things naturally tend to happen. Bad things Mikey.
You see, I don’t have a pussy. I have a neck, a back, and a crack…but alas no pussy. Given the circumstances that: a) this siren song always demands visual accompaniment, and b) I have no pussy, my mind naturally adapts and does this sort of role reversal where even though I am the one singing about my genitals getting licked, in the accompanying visuals someone else (female) is actually the one receiving said attentive service.
Again, that COULD be okay except for the fact that I spend most of my life at work. I’m at work now of course, using company time and resources to type words like “crack” and “pussy”. So, as this sordid stanza replays itself again and again I look up from my cubicle, trying my hardest to purge the sickness while feigning that “I’m in the middle of an important thought and working very hard right now and time is money so please don’t engage me” face of which I’ve grown so fond. And then it happens. One of the multitudes of unattractive female coworkers waddles by, whether it be the minus-necked pug or swollen-cheeked wop it matters not, and plunder my internal music video and suddenly awful awful images flood my head involving backs, necks, and that other body part I cant even type now while equating it to them and I feel like Dustin Hoffman in that scene from “Rain Man” where he burns the waffles and the fire alarm goes off and he absolutely loses his shit. Ew.
See, my place of work is nothing like Sam’s verdant utopia of fast-talking news dames fiending as much for a good scoop as some genital friction with him in the janitor’s closet. This is not the case. Nor could I ever, as Sam could were he so inclined, make a comfortable living running a brothel using my female coworkers as capital with a client roster consisting exclusively of my friends. Nope. My workplace is also nothing like Tom’s, where at any moment I could look up from a given task and see the woman I had sex with the prior evening. Its not even like Jesse’s, where I could carry on a satisfyingly platonic relationship with a hot married woman in order to make the day go by faster. Instead, my office is studiously void of attractive coworkers to the extent that it must have been a managerial decision exacted in the name of efficiency. And the thing is, this is all okay with me most times, I do not long for office romance, I’m happy as is and am honestly not that bothered that the only visual titillation found during the workday comes via porn pictures sent to me by Matt via instant messenger.
Its just those terrible moments when the neck/back/pussy song comes out to play and bad things naturally tend to happen. Bad things Mikey.
posted by Mike at 11:08 AM
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