March 09, 2005

The Question Portion of The Evening

I don't think I can reduce the wonder that is Bob to The 6th Floor. After a month of sharing an office with him, I can Cliffs Notes it for you: He's more of a douchebag than I ever could have imagined.
The highlights of a recent exchange between Bob and one of my superiors during a team meeting:

Bob: So I have a question. (Collective group groan. People shift in their seats. ) I know we were told to click the box that says "reviewed by" when we're done. Should we click it every time?

Supervisor: Yes. Every time.

Bob: But every time? What if we leave the file and go to the bathroom? (Gnashing of teeth begins among team members).

Supervisor: Every time.

Bob: OK, but what if you find something wrong and you correct it? Should you click it then?

Supervisor: Yes. Every time. Does anyone else have any-

Bob: OK, so every time? But what if you are reviewing a file that you already reviewed? (Audible sighs and sounds of frustration from group and Supervisor. Group members look at Dan, expecting him to do something).

Dan: (Through tightly clenched teeth) EV. RY. TIME. BOB.

Bob: But what if...

This continued for 6 more hypothetical situations. I am now convinced that, if I let him live, Bob should look into a career working for the government designing emergency protocol. Because with Bob, no possible (or completely unfathomable) option is left unaddressed.
"But what if they bomb New York? But what if they do it on a Tuesday? But what if they don't bomb, but an earthquake strikes? OK, what if the earthquake causes a fire in Central Park? What if all the animals in the zoo become super intelligent and make us their slaves? What if the whole country gets amnesia at once?"
It's like playing Jeopardy in Hell.
So now, after that update (and remember, that's the SHORT version), there's a story here.
Yesterday I was talking to a coworker who has a cell right behind Bob's. The room is very narrow, and there's really only enough space for one person to pass at any given moment. As I was talking to my fellow inmate, Bob boxed us in as only he can. Despite my friend's desperate "Don't you fucking desert me! I will kill you and everyone you love! You Hear Me?!" look, I dropped the first excuse I could think of to jump ship, and announced that I had to pee.
So I go to the bathroom. I pee (apparently it wasn't just a clever excuse). As I'm walking past the urinals toward the door, I see Bob, who, in mid pee, steps back from the urinal, makes a quarter turn in my direction and says "You made the suggestion, so I thought I'd be social."

Now, let's break this down. First of all, I have accepted that all men over 50 pee from at least a half foot from the urinal with their hands on the small of their back. I look forward to the day that I can relieve myself while looking like I am doing some strange version of the Hokey Pokey (you put your crotch in...). Take that stance, and think about the view I was confronted with when Bob made his greeting. Ew.
Second of all, It wasn't a suggestion. Nor was it an invitation. I had to pee. I shudder to think what would have happened had I, in my sheer need to get out away from him in the first place, blurted out "Wow, I need to crap!"
Third, and most importantly: The urinal? Not really a social place. In point of fact, even in gay bars you look straight ahead at the metal thingy at the top and don't talk. That's why they make the flush mechanism so Effing big: to give you something to stare at.
And so I've started using the ladies room.
Did you guys know there's a couch in there?

1 Comments:

Blogger Serra said...

Obviously Bob's not married--his wife would have smothered him in his sleep.

Come to think of it, how did his mother miss that opportunity?

12:32 AM  

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