H 6/6/02

Work Diary, 6/6/02

Just now, while I was sitting with my cigarette on the loading dock,
one of my co-workers arrived and sat across from me. He'd just returned
from a mediation in which he and our insured are 5.8 million dollars
apart in terms of settlement. Par for the course, then I glanced down
and saw that my co-worker had a big hole in the crotch of his pants,
his underwear peaking out. Lord. Is it any wonder the insured's
attorney refused to budge?

In college I took a modern literature course of indeterminate nature,
taught by a Professor G. Professor G was fond of wearing sandals and
putting his feet up on the chair in front of him, thus flashing every
student in the room. The university in Boulder, Colorado is a liberal
place, but even our dreadlocked, patchouli-scented finest turned away
in horror when Professor G's hairy willy made an appearance. Our final
exam was to write our life stories in an hour-and-a-half (sadly, not
nearly as daunting a task as you might think). Part of my story was a
lie, since I wrote that my grandmother was a prostitute impregnated by
an Asian sailor, thus my almond-shaped eyes. I'll let you decide which
part was a lie.