I was working at a startup IT company in the days when that meant something. We were all going to be so rich we could wipe our asses with other rich people. We had six employees but thought that a seventh was needed. We interviewed several people, but we ended up hiring Alison based on two criteria: one of us thought she would inject a certain female quality to our work, and one of us thought she had a nice ass. I won’t say what position I felt was more important.
Alison did well at first. Meaning, she wore skimpy outfits that kept the programmer’s aroused and spent as much time as possible bending over and rubbing ice on her nipples. None of the single guys thought that unusual, as all the women in the comics they read did that sort of thing. Those of us who had gotten laid in the current decade thought it a bit odd, but nothing more than that. We were, after all, a bunch of guys hopped up on Mountain Dew and chocolate.
Then, like some sort of demon being shit upon the world, she went sour on us. Maybe she wasn’t used to working on tight deadlines. Maybe the casual attitude of the office rubbed her the wrong way. Maybe one night while she was devouring the souls of babies some gigantic slobbering undead troll beat her about the head and neck until she turned into the wacked out shitstorm we met the next day.
Anyway, she became a mess. And, being one observant motherfucker, I had no idea what I was doing when I pushed her buttons one afternoon. Using her own set of rules and logic, I managed to prove to her that she was a bad person. Now, that’s pretty hard to do, even if the person you’re talking to is a mental midget, as Alison most assuredly was. I just showed her, using charts, graphs, and balloon figures, that the things she defined as “bad” were the same things she did on a day-to-day basis. She left for the day with a trail of smoke drifting from her ears, smelling like burned cotton candy.
There was still the possibility that she would recover, but that sort of thing just wasn’t in the cards for poor Alison. She threw this gigantic party for some odd charity. All the good ones had been taken, she explained, so she had to settle for Underachievers Anonymous. She spent a lot of money, and pre-sold over a hundred tickets. Aside from the band, no one showed up. Hell of a thing. She had even given everyone in the office free tickets. Just her luck there was a Samurai Jack marathon on the Cartoon Channel, and none of us could make it. Alison was drunk twenty minutes into her party, and having sex with the band after an hour. To give you an idea how lame the whole thing was, even after the band had violated every orifice of her intoxicated body, and performed acts that I frankly can’t even understand, they still insisted on getting paid for the gig.
After that, she just wasn’t the same. One would have normally assumed that would be a good thing, as Alison’s “same” was pretty spooky. But she instead sauntered all the way off the deep end, and dove head-long into a category I like to call: “Supremely Fucked Up.”
One day, when the stress of having to work a full four hour day was at its worst, she stormed up to my desk and looked me right in the eye. “YOU!” she bellowed, as if I didn’t know I was sitting there. Always the peace-maker, I calmly responded with, “What the fuck do you want, you twisted cancerous cornhole?”
She then proceeded to explain to me that it was my fault she was putting on weight, and furthermore, FURTHERMORE, she took my efforts to make traffic around her home more and more difficult to drive through as an act of war.
Somewhat taken aback that she had seen through both my telepathic ability to engorge her fat cells and summon random cars to drive aimlessly around her house, I quickly checked to make sure no one took her seriously. Everyone was staring at us like anime characters stuck in the headlights of a 1976 Ford Bronco.
Since the possibility of defusing the situation had slipped away with her sanity, I said instead, “You’re just mad I won’t have sex with you.”
Truth be told, I wouldn’t have sex with her for two very solid reasons. The first being that my girlfriend didn’t approve of such behavior. Neither did my wife. And when the two of them agreed on something like that, I just don’t bother to go against them. The second reason was that I have a strange inability to put my dick into a woman who physically revolts me. I tried once in college, and the projectile vomiting was just a hassle. Plus it tends to cause others in the immediate area to vomit as well. Nothing like seeing the person you’re trying to diddle vomiting on your dog, who’s vomiting on your fish, all because you vomited on all of them.
But I digress.
Although I may have been way off-base, I still hit something, and Alison screamed something at me that, to this day, I swear was the word “strawberry,” and stormed out of the office. About ten minutes later – the exact amount of time it takes to get to the lobby and notice you forgot something – she stormed back in, grabbed her purse, and stormed back out again.
The guy sitting next to me, who we will call Roger, watched her walk away and said, “She really knows how to blow an exit, doesn’t she?”
“I thought the term was ‘rimjob’?”
Roger looked at me, as if I didn’t understand his point. Very likely, thinking back.
“You sure you didn’t have sex with her?” he asked.
“Who can be sure of anything?” I said, hoping to sound profound, as I’d seen the pictures he took of him and Alison “blowing an exit,” as he put it.
“Yeah,” said Roger in much the same way another man would say, “What the hell are you talking about?”
