Carlos is a tall skinny coworker in his mid-40s who layers scarves and wears sunglasses indoors. He name-drops clubs and laments the price of bottle service, and often mentions "hot joints that are droppin' next week." His girlfriends are always 25 years old and skinny with enormous, silicone...
lips. He likes them young because wants to have kids someday so he can dress them in Armani, and ladies past the age of 30 are like day old Easter baskets: full of stale, hard boiled eggs.
His normal routine is to chat exclusively with the glamazon who sits across from me, back turned, and then complain when he sees me elsewhere that "we never rap anymore." But today he stops in front of my cube to deliver a personal public service announcement designed to help my self esteem.
He announces confidently, “You remind me of Superbad.”
“Really?” I ask. “I am pretty super."
“Nah, nah. It’s your sense of humor and how you present yourself. You remind me of that one guy.”
“Michael Cera? Because I’m funny and slightly twitchy?”
“Nah, nah, the other guy.”
“The fat guy?” While I think I am giving him a graceful exit from a potential insult, he interprets it as encouragement to continue. (Note: At this point in the story, I am a triathlete with 16% body fat.)
“Yeah."
“With the crazy hair?” Few people are so oblivious and self-absorbed that they knowingly tell a woman she’s a socially inept, frizzy haired fatty within a 15-second time frame. Right? Right?
“Uh huh.”
“And the period stain on his pants.” This is the final boarding call for shut the hell up. Will all passengers on flight 001 direct to shut the hell up please take a giant step away from my desk before they get punched in the junk?
“Yeah. That guy. You're just like him.” He is positively beaming, proud that he has paid me the highest compliment he can think of, which really isn’t saying much. But his persistence and can-do attitude are to be admired. After all, who doesn’t enjoy being compared to a celebrity?
lips. He likes them young because wants to have kids someday so he can dress them in Armani, and ladies past the age of 30 are like day old Easter baskets: full of stale, hard boiled eggs.
His normal routine is to chat exclusively with the glamazon who sits across from me, back turned, and then complain when he sees me elsewhere that "we never rap anymore." But today he stops in front of my cube to deliver a personal public service announcement designed to help my self esteem.
He announces confidently, “You remind me of Superbad.”
“Really?” I ask. “I am pretty super."
“Nah, nah. It’s your sense of humor and how you present yourself. You remind me of that one guy.”
“Michael Cera? Because I’m funny and slightly twitchy?”
“Nah, nah, the other guy.”
“The fat guy?” While I think I am giving him a graceful exit from a potential insult, he interprets it as encouragement to continue. (Note: At this point in the story, I am a triathlete with 16% body fat.)
“Yeah."
“With the crazy hair?” Few people are so oblivious and self-absorbed that they knowingly tell a woman she’s a socially inept, frizzy haired fatty within a 15-second time frame. Right? Right?
“Uh huh.”
“And the period stain on his pants.” This is the final boarding call for shut the hell up. Will all passengers on flight 001 direct to shut the hell up please take a giant step away from my desk before they get punched in the junk?
“Yeah. That guy. You're just like him.” He is positively beaming, proud that he has paid me the highest compliment he can think of, which really isn’t saying much. But his persistence and can-do attitude are to be admired. After all, who doesn’t enjoy being compared to a celebrity?
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