“The only thing worthwhile in life, man, is fucking.”

Gordon took a generous slug of beer.  “It’s carnal, spiritual, existential, universal, and so so so very nice…”  His mouth slowly stopped making noise as he mentally retreated somewhere private and my guess is, real screwy.

Old Gordon Grondin.  He was fatter than I expected.  And meaner looking too (he was bald and sported a goatee).  I guess that part made sense, he being a loan officer and all.  He had that look where you’d expect him to be a poor lover, piggishly unaware of his deep ineptitude.

“Oh yeah, yeah, definitely man.”  I was a people pleaser back then.

Back then too I wanted to share what I felt were deep parts of me with near strangers, mostly out of context but always in a reciprocal fashion.

“Me.  I just like it easy.  Yeah man.  I value easy.  I’m a lazy but mostly only because I see the true beauty in simplicity.  Take the tree, for example…”  Having lost Gordon’s attention to the TV across the way, I let that thought drift off into the canopy of the dim, humidly-muted tavern.

I looked around and saw a handful of other convention attendees around us.  Most were on their phones either pretending to be busy but actually just dicking around or writing convention-littered emails about this weekend’s convention, full of Best Regards and With Respect Tos and very, very, very subtle Well Hows About Yous Shove It Up Your Asses.  In fact, I still believe–without any direct evidence and contrary to his written pleasantries–that every time Gordon clicked send on an email to me, he bobs his head side-to-side and whispers in child-like tones, “Little Jeffey blue. Fu-uck you!”

And that was just one of the reasons I knew I needed to quit my job.  Emails, emails, and more fucking emails.  Emails like this one:

Dear Jeffrey,

I just had an idea, or there was a fart that occurred in my head I’ve mistaken as an idea, but I want you to look into it regardless.

If Poopy-pants takes three poops without providing prior written notice to Shit-head per the Agreement Concerning Bowel Movements dated April 13, 2014, then (1) who is left holding the diarrhea and (2) what, if any, pee-related rights do the parties hold?

Yes I’ve been doing this job for 20 years and yes I should know this but my heads been up my ass for 20 plus years so you’re going to spend an hour figuring out what I should already know and maybe even teach you.  Actually, that’s why.  This is a lesson, for you.

Your Welcome,

Your mentor who happens also to be your task master.

I read these sorts of emails shortly after they shove themselves into my face, then flag them for later response.  The reason you flag the message is so you don’t forget that it’s there when it gets doggy-piled by the incoming hordes.  The reason you don’t respond immediately is to adhere to the requisite cool-down period.  Reply too quick and you’ll be engaged in a full-blown rapid-email sequence wasting 35 minutes but saving the roughly 45 seconds that a phone call would have taken to accomplish the same.

By now you, the reader, have approximated my age.  Can you guess my occupation yet?

My morning started with a little REVIEW AND COMMENT RE NEW LEASE (1.4)* which is a bit like trolling the Web, laying he-hee-hees and haa-haa-has in places they don’t quite belong, except here I’m sneaking in Notwithstanding the foregoings and Subject tos to troll future situations that may or may not arise between you and my client.

Me, personally, when I’m not being paid by Joe Client, I don’t screw people over and I’ll usually err on the side of taking a hit myself, lest I live with the guilt of harming you. I think I got that from my parents.  Let’s see if I can work that little tidbit into my attempt at personhood exchange with old boy Grondin.

I looked back to Gordon, now shoving fistfuls of garlic fries into his mouth, and decided I’d keep myself to myself.  Gordon was busy.

* This is a billing entry and time spent in tenths of an hour (6 minute intervals).  Oh.  Let me tell you about billing.  It’s an art.  It’s a science. It’s for lack of a better alternative.  This commentary here in footnote one is what we in the profession call a “point 1 (.1).”

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