May 22, 2019

really disgusting things

Since I bared my soul yesterday, I may as well continue down that trail. 

On the fifteenth day of walking, I listened to the Verdi Requiem mass and learned several rules for avoiding Really Disgusting Things.

Rule One

Typically, Rule One is supposed to be the most important of all rules.  I'm not sure this qualifies, but it's worth stating first: 

When the Universe has taught you that gnats can fly up your nose, do not walk along the road with your mouth open, pretending to be the soprano in "Libera Me".

Rule Two

"Tuba Mirum" can be a persuasive defense against blaring brass music.

Our organization is about to switch telephone systems.  This means all new phones everywhere, everyone's phone number changing, and new music that people on hold must endure.  For years, we've had saxophone-y elevator music and people are sick of it.

My boss happens to be in charge of selecting the new stuff.  He chose something he really likes.  And when I called in to test the new phone system and heard it for the first time, it very nearly blew out the ear drum of my soul.  It sounds like the jaunty jazz-swing tune played by the local brass quartet at your town's Fourth of July celebration, except you're too close to the stage and it's so loud you can taste it.

There followed a conversation in which he refused to budge on this and I pulled out all the stops.  I begged.  I pointed out that the loud trumpets are like taking an irate caller and sticking them in an orange room.  I pleaded.  I threatened his family.  I told him his taste is objectively terrible.  I offered to wash his car.  I offered to wash his feet with my hair.

That music qualifies as a Really Disgusting Thing.  I even had a nightmare about it last night.

What I failed to do was to play "Tuba Mirum" for him and say, "Hey, you know what they're symbolizing with all those trumpets?"  And he would have said, "What?" and I would have said, "THE FUCKING WRATH OF GOD, MAN.  The Wrath of God."

Rule Three:  I was wrong and there really is a purpose for thong underwear, because everything seems to want to go there anyway when you walk a meaningful distance.  Even boyshorts.

Rule Four:  Cameras should be set up in the break room any time an as-yet-unidentified co-worker manifests a habit of reheating fish for lunch.  Appropriate measures* should be taken.

Rule Five:  Never, ever, ever look inside your ear buds.

Rule Six:  There is no Rule Six.

*Redacted due to federal legal precedent regarding self-incrimination.  Even the press will not want to publish the photos.


  1. Sarah sent me to your blog because I was misbehaving in the comments I left on hers, and she said I needed a time out. She also said you were the funniest writer in the universe -- or something to that effect -- and that I was to "learn how to be human" from you.

    So what's "human"? A stronger version of hummus, I'm wagering.

    1. So glad you stopped by! However, Sarah must have misspelled "learn how to tell everybody how awkward and mentally ill you are so they can identify with you to an extent except then you've told everybody all that stuff and you can't take it back and you try to be funny to cover up the Awkward". She totally cannot spell. She also left out that I'm a stalker.

    2. Oh my god. *gets out popcorn*