Friday, September 16, 2005

The Work Perv Who Got Served

It doesn't seem to matter where I work, I always get hounded by the resident pervert. They all feel like sharing the grossest details of what's growing in their crotch, what goes in or comes out of a person's ass, the type of sounds that certain body parts make while engaged in various pervert activities, and informing me of assorted vile acts, giving me every sordid detail. Now, it's not that I don't enjoy a little blue humor now and again, it just baffles me that certain types of people make it their calling in life to inform me of the nastiness that seems to pervade in contaminating their lives. I have that kind of face that people would see as innocent and trusting, which means I get a lot of weird personal information divulged to me. Maybe, in a way, these perv's are confessing their sickness to me, thinking that if someone "good" knows about their problems, then somehow they're forgiven.

There's one guy in particular that always tracks me down and has to say something misogynistic or creepy. He enjoys patting/rubbing people on the back when conversing with them. I personally think that he doth protest too much and is really sweet on the guys. His latest thing was an impersonation of a "screamer" which sounded like a strangled elk call. He bragged that he made every girl a screamer, because he's so good at givin' it to them. He further explained that the reason that the impersonation sounded the way it did was that the ladies screamed so much that they lost their voice. If you think what I just wrote sounded silly, just think how labored and pathetic it must've sounded coming from this guy. The only thing that I can assume is that he forms a delusion that we are learning the ways of studhood from him. Instead, he's become our resident perv that we make fun of. Of course this isn't the only pervert that I've had to endure.

Far back in time, working in the fast food industry, I was introduced to a real gem of a wanker. This guy would elaborate on the smell of his wife's nether regions, how he liked to orifice-fish for life savers (think of the worst place, bingo), and what he likes to do with a stick of butter. First off, "Parkay" met his wife while she was working the streets of L.A.--his first date with her was a trick. Parkay was another "massager/masher" when he was around you, always touching. He seemed to enjoy grossing people out. Parkay had this bastardized Eddie Murphy laugh that he'd go into after making us barf. After he'd do something that he thought was cool or amazing he'd exclaim in an airy, feminine tone, "It's magic!" One day, we decided to turn the tables on this guy.

The store manager came up with a great birthday present for Parkay. She was good at baking cakes. Not just any old cakes, though. She could make all sorts of different shaped cakes with elaborate decorations and the whole nine yards. She told us that the cake would be right up Parkay's alley. She wouldn't fully disclose what it was exactly other than it would be super nasty.

Birthday time roles around. We're all waiting with great anticipation to see the unveiling of this notty cake. I imagined that it would be a simple one-layer cake with some nasty design in frosting. I was sort of right, but mostly wrong. Parkay comes in to start his shift; we surround him at the time clock and escort him down to the break room for his surprise. Parks was taken aback by all of the attention he got, even though he already assumed that we'd do something for his birthday. When we got to the break room, we were greeted by the manager, who stood smiling, holding a big pan over the surprise. Parkay started into his Eddie Murphy laugh then said that we shouldn't have gone through all the trouble. Our manager gave a generic birthday speech then lifted the pan off of the cake. Holy moley, that's all I could say!

A collective gasp from the crew sucked all the air out of the room. Old Parks turned thirty shades of red. There on the table laid an anatomically correct female, represented in cake form. From breasts, belly, to below, it was a stark, detailed vision of x-rated confection. I swear I saw a genital wart amongst the jelly-strewn folds 'n' crevices. Parkay was absolutely gob-smacked. The manager, not quite sensing that she'd gone too far, said, "I made sure that I only used real butter for the frosting, especially for you!" At that moment everything came to a head for Parks. He finally got it. This is what we all thought of him. He felt as ugly as the gaping cake hole oozing with cream and jelly. Parkay teared up and ran out of the room telling us that we were the sick ones and that we should all be ashamed of ourselves. He threatened our manager with a sexual harassment lawsuit; it got out of hand. He got a dose of his own medicine and gagged on it. Served him right.

Was what we did inappropriate, disgusting, and wrong? Yes, absolutely! I imagine that most places of employment wouldn't tolerate such a thing. But, we decided to go crazy, and it was hilarious. I gotta figure out something to do for this current pervert that I work with. I know that we're all just a bunch of guys there it seems, and this sort of thing kind of gets a blind eye turned to it. But, I figure that we can get payback without getting legal on his ass. I'm open for suggestions.

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