Readers’ Rant: That Guy Part Two
This is obviously Part Two of the reader-generated edition of That Guy. I was surprised at the response to only one post with seven proposed versions of That Guy. I may well be onto something here, in fact I suspect this may well spiral completely out of control. Then again, once I get to Afghanistan it probably won’t matter much, though I’ll try.
As always, my definition of That Guy: A person that just crossed a border, line, or other non-permissive barrier that indicates that they are a douchebag of the highest order, a dabbler in asshattery, fucktarded, likely dress funny, and someone who must be eliminated from the gene pool. Epic, I know.
The Whistler (R.A. Burke from Ralphie’s Portal): The Whistler whistles. Incessantly. Any tune, any time, all the time – an auditory security blanket if you will. He’s in the cubicle next to you, too, providing a twisted kind of XM Radio for free. Just hope you like elevator muzak. In one pitch. On one instrument. Namely, his puckered-up cock socket.
Shittesseur (The Durhee): Just as you get comfortable on that cold seat and are on the verge of backing out a groaner to make God smile, in walks the Shittesseur, who will proceed to malinger and goldbrick in the bathroom in ways only this dim bulb could possibly come up with. Hair, fingernails and probably pubes are combed and trimmed. Odds are good he’s That Guy who brings his own toothbrush to work too. And probably combs those pubes with it too.
Peter Puffer (John Erickson – he still has no blog of his own): Living, mouth-breathing proof that the Peter Principle does in fact work. This underexpert, overpaid organic space heater will be more than happy at faking an informed and qualified answer to whatever you ask. Just ask him. Keep in mind that those sweat rings in his armpits are from the exertion of thought mixing with the effort of making shit up as he goes, and also, he’s probably your boss.
And some more of my own twisted creation, just to round out this post:
The Dragon: This guy exists on a diet of unfiltered Camels, coffee and Funyuns. How do you know this? Because the nasal overload of his gingivitis-laced breath is mitigated only by the evil stench of the hairs in your own nose burning as you inhale the funk rolling up straight from his bowels. Or so it would seem. Not that you can possibly form coherent thoughts when your eyes are watering that heavily.
Perky Pete/Penny: These overly-cheerful fucksticks never fail to irritate no matter what time of day but are most heinously insidious in the morning when you’re merely thankful to be awake or just basically alive. You know instinctively that at some point in their history, these retards used to be (regardless of gender) a hyper-caffienated cheerleader. And now they’re here to make your day super-duper! Fuck.
I hope you’ve enjoyed reading these in this two-part series. I’d especially like to thank the named readers who commented with their own creativity. I hope I did their ideas justice.