the truth is out there, in accounting
I work for an alien.
come hither - back off
How do I know I work for an alien? Why, I'm glad you asked. Let me elaborate.
First off, he has foul breath. I mean foul, as in an animal climbed in there, hid under his tongue, developed gangrene in all four legs as well as an acute case of leprosy, then, before dying, voided everything in its bowels. This is the sort of breath that suffocates small rodents in the same room. No human being alive on this planet could face this breath without at least one curl of a lip or eyelid wiggle, no matter how much self-control they may have. I would hazard that not even a Shaolin monk, after a long day of walking over hot coals, shattering stone with his bare hands, and meditation, could stop himself from gagging, however surreptitiously. There is simply no way such breath could exist within the mouth of its host without killing the person dead.
Therefore, he's an alien. Roswell, eat your heart out.
But wait -- there's more!
He has this thing growing from his gut. This lump. No, not a lump. A mound. It's not the sort of mound accumulated from the imbibement of too much Bud and corn chips, either. It's ominously assymmetrical and points in a decidedly oblique direction. That in combination with mouse-murdering halitosis instills within me a horrifying dread whenever I'm in its presence. I swear the thing moves of its own volition. What's more, I've been making a point of recording its pointerly direction on a daily basis, and both yesterday and today it was straining to touch the easterly sky. Thing is, Alien Boss himself was pointing in the opposite direction from yesterday.
I get the distinct impression whenever we have a closed-door meeting -- it's listening. One day I expect to see a miniature Alien Bosshead suddenly pop out the mouth of the jumbo-sized Alien Boss and start giving orders, or ask for Clorets.
Finally, Alien Boss has this habit of reviewing an employee's work, then gazing baffled at said employee, who's usually standing on the opposite side of Alien Bossman's desk waiting for the axe, or in this case anal probe, to fall. The Alien Boss will then stare back at the work being reviewed as if somehow, if he looks at it again, it will have emerged from the state of embafflement it currently inhabits. Said document is invariably nonbaffleworthy, at least from the usual human point of view. Who knew a letter to the office supply store across the street requesting a credit application would cause someone's head to explode like that? Ah, but then, who knows what makes an alien's head explode? Maybe, just maybe, aliens are unusually susceptible to increased blood -- or perhaps m'klchpk! -- pressure when in the presence of 24-pound bond copy paper. Or perhaps, in Alien Boss tongue, "office supply store" translates to "we know who you are, you evil anal-probing office manager from Zenbar, and we will ensure you die horribly under the enormous buttocks of a narcoleptic African elephant."
It's what immediately follows this bafflement that confirms the boss's alienness. He'll look up from the request letter a.k.a. extraterrestrial death threat, still baffled but slowly and visibly oozing into self-righteous annoyance, and stare at the employee. This stare will simultaneously communicate the aforementioned bafflement, a condescension that lowers the employee to the level of pond scum, and scorn at the obvious lack of common sense possessed by every living creature within a 50-kilometre radius. Then Alien Boss will say something like this:
"Why did you, human creature of filth circling a pathetic, weak star that will soon be controlled by the Zenbari for eternity to come, write this letter in such a way? Where is the orange Cheeto powder capturing the right thumbprint of a Macedonian fruitseller? And why is there no tree springing from the roots of this paper-like substance?"
Then again, maybe he's from England.
make idle gossip (1 comments so far)
Last 5 entries:
Hosted by Diaryland