The chronicles of Squid-dick

I know, I know….I haven’t posted anything recently and I’m sorry. Although, weirdly, I’ve had more email subscriptions in the last few weeks than a Nigerian prince has in a year.

Hmm.

Anyway, not one to complain, I thought I’d share a conversation I literally overheard at work about 10 minutes ago.

The names have been changed to protect the innocent.1

Dumbelina – “Hey, Tarquin! What’s the name of the ramen place we’re going to later?”

Tarquin popped his head up from behind his computer, clearly preoccupied with something he was watching or masturbating to.

“What?”

“The ramen place.”, she continued.

Tarquin stopped for a beat and blinked twice; “What ramen place?”

“The one we’re going to at lunch.”

Tarquin paused again, desperately tring to cling to a conversation he was clearly not understanding.

“What about it?”, he replied, rapidly losing wood.

“What’s the name of it?”

“Oh…”, he said, finally getting a grasp of the conversation, now that he no longer had anything substantial to grasp, “…I think it’s called [insert the name of the ramen place here because I can’t remember it for the life of me!]”

“OK, thanks T-Dog2; I just wanted to have a look at the menu.”

“Uh huh”, he mumbled as he went back to whatever it was he was doing to himself.

There was a brief silence, punctuated only with the tapping of keys and the faint clicking of a mouse button.

“Ah, here it is”, muttered Thumbelina as she found the website.

> click <

Pause

> click <

A longer pause (Jesus, some people surf the internet slower than a sloth wearing a heavy backpack, trekking through deep snow, wearing flippers)

“What the hell is this?”, she half said to herself, but I suspected was intended for those around her (including me) to ask, ‘What’s that?’.

No-one did.

She continued clicking.

“Deep fried octopus balls??”

I choked on my coffee.

“Ha ha ha…er, excuse me; sorry!”, I said through caffeinated coughing.

Now having an audience, she attempted to engage me in conversation, “Right?? Octopus balls!”

“Ha, yeah right”, I said wryly as I continued checking Facebook – er, I mean continued working – realising I had a blog post happening right now….live! I smiled to myself as I wondered what she would say next. Would that be it? Would that be the only amusing thing she’d say about the menu from ‘that ramen place’?

Nope.

She continued down the list muttering the occasional ‘Oh’, and ‘Eeuw’ before exclaiming, “Ooh, french fries!”.

Maybe the ramen place is called McDonalds?

“Tarquin, they have french fries! Oh wow, they have french fries with gravy!”

Tarquin didn’t care. He was laid back in his chair, sweating, and smoking a cigarette.3

We’ve all been there

1 – Stupid
2 – OK, maybe I’m embellishing here a little bit.
3 – See 2

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King of the swingers

In my time as a commuter I’ve grown to dislike certain types of people.  

For those of you who have read most of my previous blog entries will know this to be true.    

There is, however, a type of commuter who makes me as nervous as a long tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs; particularly when I’m walking behind them.  

The arm swingers.    

These are almost always (although not exclusive to) women.

I’m not being sexist here; I’m simply making an observation. In much the same way I could observe that a majority of the world’s comedians are almost always men and a majority of these comedians’ suffering (and material) is almost always women. See…not sexist.  

Anyway, allow me describe an arm swinger.  

These fuckers, whilst walking, tend to swing their arms back and forth in a manner synonymous with the Queen’s guard. However, unlike the Queen’s guard, they also tend to swing their arms out at a 45 degree angle which only serves to take out small children, midgets and my balls.  

A bit like the walk adopted by overly camp cabin crew strutting through an airport terminal.  

Seriously. These people are the testicles’ natural enemy and need to be stopped (arm swingers, not camp cabin crew as I hear the latter can be incredibly considerate).

It’s at its worst when the arm swinger has a bag on one of her shoulders (yes, ‘her’). It somehow forces the unladen arm up to an almost horizontal position in which she is practically clotheslining my sack.

Is she somehow hoping to smash the squidgy softness of my gonads, hoping for the inevitable curt and high pitched whimper?   Surely they must realise that mothers are walking past them looking around wondering where their kids are. If these sadistic Sallys turned around they’d see the trail of kiddie carnage and full grown men groaning, writhing and clutching their faces and groins respectively.  

I’ve tried to pass these women many a time and failed. It’s like trying to casually negoitiate spinning helicopter blades, or charity collectors in the street.