Heavens to Murgatroyd

Meet Baghead, the bastardized lovechild of boredom and misanthropy in the workplace.

Perhaps he’s a mistake— he certainly wasn’t planned (and I‘m fairly certain my employer does not compensate me for sketching such morose gobbledy-gook during work hours)— but, instead of stashing him in a trash bag with soiled cotton swabs and rotting bananas, abandoning him on the side of the highway or discarded in an alleyway dumpster, I decided to keep him. I shall train him in the art of seduction until he is old enough to join the military and be sent off to kill whichever nation of brown people is our nemesis at the time. When he asks about his mother, I will tell him that she was mauled by a lion at the Six Flags drive-through safari. Either that or she was kidnapped by primates after disregarding the “do not feed the monkeys” signs and providing the chimps with Cool Ranch Doritos on the roof of my car. I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it, I suppose.

(Click to enlarge)

What a Death Rattle Sounds Like

Right now I’m sitting on a sofa with my arm around Angie Tennison, the sexiest girl employed by the LaFleur Company. Scratch that. Probably the sexiest girl I have ever met. Angie is the epitome of all that is woman. It’s been rumored that her timeless beauty and exquisite grace can cure cancer. I started that rumor a couple months ago. Her face is angelic. She is so breathtaking that I contemplated starting a petition to have her head preserved in a museum after she dies. I nixed the idea because I thought it might freak her out a bit.

I’m not sure where we are, but I am abnormally comfortable. My friend Tommy was here a minute ago. I’m not sure where he disappeared to, but it’s the farthest thing from my mind at the moment. We are engaged in conversation, but I’m incapable of paying attention to her words because I am mesmerized by the movement of her full, pouty lips. I can’t comprehend what she’s saying, but I can tell by the tone of her voice that things are going well. I am unconsciously talking back to her. I have no idea what I’m saying, but the gorgeous smile on her face informs me that I’m saying the right things. I stare deeply into her eyes. Our lips meet and suddenly…country music.

Set your alarm to country music and you may never sleep in again.

My alarm clock is strategically positioned halfway across the room and the volume is turned up to a level so loud it could wake the dead. When the clock strikes 6:30 AM and some redneck with a southern drawl starts harmonizing about the good ol’ stars and bars, the only conceivable option is to get your ass out of bed faster than a bat out of hell and turn off the radio.

Waking up was once such a simple task, yet somewhere along the way it turned into the most grueling part of the day.

Monday marks the beginning of a new workweek. A rite of passage for functioning junkies who engage in prolific substance abuse and watch countless hours of football on the weekend, Monday is the hardest morning to get out of bed and once again adapt to society at large, camouflaging one’s self amid the sea of clean-living, industrious folk. Ah yes, Monday. Chop out a line in the morning for a quick pick-me-up, pop a valium at lunchtime to calm the nerves, and drown your sorrows in your drink of choice after supper. I know what you’re thinking. No one at your workplace fits this description, right? Don’t be naïve. We are all around you. We are chameleons, highly trained professionals indeed. We are your bosses, your employees of the month, the interns who fetch your coffee. The mild-mannered cubicle denizens that are likely to snap at any moment and spiral into a “desk rage” killing spree.

Today, however, is different. The faint aroma of promise tickles my nostrils and I’m catching a contact high from the wisps of hope blowing in the wind.