That Guy Part Two
I’ve somehow initiated another ongoing series – devoted to That Guy – a non-gender-specific term of course – describing examples of folks we all encounter too frequently for our own sanity. That Guy is someone whose sole purpose in existence is to serve as a warning to others while they dig in under your skin like an Alabama tick. No offense to folks from The ‘Bam – that’s the way I heard it.
This part of my second issue of That Guy is inspired by Archon, who outlined some choice office fucktards to hate. Sadly, I’ve encountered all of these freaks at some point in my past:
Conan the Grammarian: This OCD fuckwad is compelled to edit does just that. Turn in a document, get it back with red ink. Send an email, it gets answered, and with grammar and style suggestions. Even better, Conan the Grammarian wasn’t an English major, and when s/he’s the boss, expect to be doing edits on previous edits.
The Interrupter: This special person (English: hockey-gear special) never learned that it’s bad manners to interrupt grownups when they’re on the phone. The Interrupter will steam right into your cubicle, launching into a solo about the crisis du jour, and after five minutes of speaking will finally notice you’ve got the phone mashed on your ear and you’re making finger-across-the-throat movements. Little do they know that typically means, “I’m about to slash you here with a KFC spork and bathe in your gore, you clueless dillhole.”
The Secret Starer: The Starer is the fraternal twin to The Interrupter. On the phone or not, Secret Starer will creep to your doorway and eyefuck the back of your head whether you’re on the phone, typing a key report, or just trying to win at Solitaire. Starer will continue this until you get that creepy “someone is eyefucking the back of my head” feeling and turn around. Even better is when the eyefuck mojo doesn’t work and you wheel around in your chair and promptly eat your own heart as this creeper smiles and starts talking like nothing weird just happened. On weekends, this hammer brain peeps in windows but doesn’t jack off because that would be rude.
And some other ones I noted painfully:
Mother of Misery: The Mother is angry and bitter over the betrayal of her by her own uterus. Unable to junk-punch herself in the ovaries, she instead funnels all of her party-life-lost fury into constant rage at her kid – or kids. Which is not to say that sometimes little heathens don’t need their reset button popped, but every ten minutes? Also, guys can be the Mother of Misery as well, and in those cases, you just call them ‘bitch.’
Where’s My Car?: This nervous, over-protective douchebag still has an active car alarm. You never know who’s out there to steal your car, and this fuckwit’s fully prepared to battle evil. Too bad he works on the other side of the building from yours, where right under your window, his car alarm is going off stridently for an hour after a squirrel ran across his hood. Gotta protect that 1984 Buick that you can see the frame through the rust holes in the body and the interior smells like Chee-Toh’s and tepid asscrack.
So, who’s your ‘That Guy’?