Tuesday, July 20, 2004

Own that shit

I walked into the kitchen this morning for my usual cup of no fat, low foam, double-shot jet fuel when my BM walked in.

“What up, Jay?”

Yeah, white boy, you're cool. He presents me with the knuckle clash pose and I begrudgingly oblige. He reminds me of a dog I used to have that had been neutered but continued to hump anything with a pulse, just to prove dominance.

“Morning, boss.”

He grabs an environmentally friendly Styrofoam cup and taps the bottom while we wait for the coffee to finish brewing.

“You wired out $8 million last week.”

I knew that prick was just waiting for his opportunity to chap my ass about that. “Yep.”

“Did you lose him?”

“Yep. He died.”

He inhaled deeply, pretending to think which is something we all know he doesn’t do. “It’s important to build relationships with the heirs of your older clients, Jay. That can save your book as the clients age.”

How the fuck would he know, the pencil pushing, knuckle clashing, broker humping monger? He uses his licenses about as often as a lesbian uses her uterus. “He had no heirs. But thanks for the advice.”

Right at that moment I heard a duck quack. What the fuck? Wait, was that--oh, fuck no he didn't! Did he just fart? We made eye contact and he quickly looked away. You raunchy motherfucker, don’t fucking stand here and float an air biscuit and then pretend it never happened! At least claim that shit, bitch! If you're gonna say it loud, you better fucking say it proud.

He cleared his throat and quickly walked out, coffee-free. I had to leave just to catch my breath. I never went back in for fear of residuals sprayed on the cabinets. To hell with caffeine. I was awake.