Sweet Jesus, it was a real scene down at the office today. Turns out my secretary, Miss Cashtushy, was having a rough day. Which wouldn’t normally bother me; I’m largely immune to other people’s miseries. Unfortunately, her tears were standing between me and regular deliveries of piping hot coffee, and I’d had enough of it by 2:00 p.m.
“Now see here, Cashtushy,” I said as I approached her desk. “What’s with the waterworks? Is another one of the copywriters giving you grief? Or perhaps a fight with that shiftless fiancée of yours?”
“What?” she said, gazing at me with tear-reddened eyes. “Oh, no. Nothing like that Mr. Carver. I’m sorry for the trouble.”
“Well, you should be! I haven’t gotten a cup of coffee since before lunch. Are you going to bring me some, or should I just find it myself? If it’s the later, you can be sure this will come up on your next performance review!”
“Find?” she said. “Find?! Oh no, no no no no no…”
“Oh, for the love of–! Look, tell me what the problem is.”
“It’s my cat,” she said, sobbing.
“Ugh, cats. Disgusting creatures,” I said, shaking my head. “My advice to you is to drop it in the nearest dumpster. That will put an end to any miseries that this cat of yours is causing.”
“Mr. Carver, what is wrong with you?”
“Wrong with me? Nothing. Outside of my complete lack of coffee, of course,” I said, holding my cup upside down to emphasize the point. “You say your cat is making you sad, I say get rid of the cat. What’s so wrong about that?”
“The cat’s making me sad because he ran away, you oaf! Poor little Mr. Whiffles, out there all alone with no one to care for him! Oh, it’s horrible. Horrible!”
“What the hell kind of name is that for–”
“Oh, blow it out your ass, Mr. Carver!” she screeched as she rose from her desk. “I’m taking the rest of the day off. If you need coffee, pour it your damn self!”
And with that she was gone, though at least she gave me a great view as she made her exit. Hopefully she’ll find her cat soon — more for her sake than for my own. After all, the world continues to produce an endless supply of nubile young women with no discernible skills beyond typing, paper-filing, and giving men boners, so replacing her won’t be a problem. Job opportunities for a middle-aged woman aren’t nearly as bountiful.
Anyhow, time to corral one of the other secretaries into fetching me a nice hot cup of java. And after that, probably some Internet porn. Catch you later.