A Typical Night at Work: Polish Cleaning Ladies, Vibrators, Smokers and Shots of Jack

This may shock some of you, but I have a real honest-to-goodness, get-your-ass-in-the-car-and-drive-there, do-what-the-boss-says, 40-hour-a-week job. Hard to believe, right? You're thinking, "Holy crap? Somebody hired that idiot? And they let him around people? Who should I call? I've got to warn them before it's too late!"

Before you get your diapers in a bunch, let me calm your fears by telling you that I work nights where my only human contact is mainly with the Polish cleaning people and the voices in my head. It works out really well because they don't understand me-I'm talking about the Polish folks, not the voices in my head-and I have no freakin' clue what the hell they're saying. The lady who cleans the men's room always seems to be in there whenever I need to take a leak, and she smiles at me and I practically have to pull Little Elvis out of my pants for her to understand why I'm there, and then she says, "Oh, oh, I go. Soddy, so soddy I go." And that pretty much constitutes anything close to a conversation I have all goddamn night.

But that's not the point of this article-at least I don't think it is. I'm pretty sure I had a good idea for a truly informative piece, but I can't remember what the hell it is. So I'll just ramble on a little longer about my job and see if I can't shake the Jack Daniel's out of the old brain cells.

[Editor's note: In order to avoid a lawsuit, the name of the company as well as the nature of its business and the names and uses of specific products have been changed.]

I work four 10-hour nights a week sitting in front of a computer screen monitoring the computer systems of a major company (Orgasmo Technologies, Inc.) that manufactures gadgets for women-gadgets designed to replace men. And of course it's super important that the systems be up and running all night so that some poor, neglected wife in Idaho whose fat, ugly, abusive husband has never taken the time to try to make her toes curl, can go online at 3:00 am and order the new "Dr. Vibrato 3000 - Complete with the Little Sliding Monkey Tail"-whatever the hell that is. Anyway, I'm the guy who keeps things humming all night so all the lonely ladies out there can order the latest electronic devices that will help them forget about the dumbasses they've married.

In fact, the other day I was on my way to work and...oh yeah!...

[Editor's note: Dipshit just remembered what he was going to write about. We rejoin this article already in progress.]

...as I neared the parking lot, I saw a number of people standing outside on the road several hundred feet from the building smoking cigarettes. "Holy crap!" I thought to myself, "Smoking really is hazardous to your health. These dumbasses are gonna get run over!"

I don't normally give a crap about anyone other than myself and I hate smoking-tobacco anyway-but I found myself feeling a teeny-tiny bit sorry for these people wandering around out there like loose cattle. "They're being treated like lepers!" I exclaimed as I swerved to try to avoid one of the fat ones who appeared to be choking up a lung. I clipped him with my car and he swore at me and called me an asshole as I sped by and turned into the parking lot shaking my head in disgust at my employer. Then I checked for any blood evidence that may have gotten on my car.

Previously, smokers were allowed to stand outside the building near the door in a specific area of the parking lot, a safe distance away from us non-smokers so we wouldn't have to breathe in the secondhand tar and nicotine before going home in our big, carbon-emitting vehicles and pounding a couple Quarter Pounders and a super-sized order of fries into our mouths and downing a few shots of Wild Turkey while laying shirtless in the sun relieved in knowing we weren't going to die of emphysema.

But tossing these pariahs outside wasn't good enough. No, those pain-in-the-ass, whiny anti-smokers don't even want these disgusting people anywhere around because maybe-just maybe-fumes swirling through the air could strike them (the pain-in-the-ass, whiny anti-smokers) dead as they walk to their cars. So now the smokers aren't even allowed on company property, which means the poor bastards have to walk out on the road dodging traffic while desperately feeding their filthy habits.

Of course the obvious answer would be for these dumbasses to quit smoking so they wouldn't have to stand outside in the rain and snow and play toreador out on the highway. But that's easy for me to say. I've never been a smoker and the only bad habit I've ever had to quit is using the "f-word" in my writing. I gotta say it's hard, but I'm working at it and one of the things I've done to try to overcome this filthy habit is replace it with something else. Instead of using the "f-word," I simply drink a lot-a shot of Jack every time I get the urge to let loose with an f-bomb. I don't swear so much anymore, but I did just find out that I have cirrhosis of the liver. So fuck it.

But don't let my failures discourage you. There are plenty of ways to replace your bad habits with something not so damaging. For instance, for you lady smokers, I would recommend the Dr. Vibrato 3000.

And when you find out what the Little Sliding Monkey Tail is for, let me know.