Double Drivel

The second day of group initiation wasn’t altogether much different than the first, aside from the lunch was catered. Catered straight from my bank account by association with a piece of plastic that spends time in my wallet. I paid for everyone named Wes or Wesley. We newbies decided to herd/head over to a fine dining establishment, the Wild Wings Café. We were treated to light air conditioning and a heavy buffet of chicken meat. All you can eat wings and fries for $8 + tax. The wings were moderately better than average, having probably been harvested off some B+ stock of egg-layers.

After getting back late (we talked too long,) initiation commenced, and during one of the “modules,” my team elected me the leader to answer the questions the presenter gave us. Throughout all four years of post-secondary education, I was able to shun all answering duties; it is a skill I thought I had perfected. I would like to think I am turning over a few leaves down here, perhaps even a whole pile, so I didn’t cluck too loudly when my team forced the speaking feather into my hands. I answered with the fumbling authority I previously assumed only existed among dyslexic traffic cops.

After work is when the fun went down. After the fun went down, the sun went down. After “class,” I rushed over to the workout center to partake in a requirement known as a “fitness assessment.” This involved me sitting in a room with a greasy heart rate monitor tucked up under my lightly developed bosom, doing as many sit ups as I could in a minute, and of course, doing pushups until I passed out. I scored above average for everything except aerobic competence, in which I was placed in the 100^th percentile. They man with the clipboard said this was because my heart rate only went up a few points after ten minutes of passionate cycling. Apparently, I am the heir apparent to Lance Armstrong. Despite the nakedness of this truth, the man with the clipboard refused to give me Lance’s cell phone number.

Just outside the fitness center is a sand volleyball court,

where everyone (yep, everyone) was meeting at 5 to imitate Steve Irwin and bump uglies (catch rays and bump the rag the gym classified as a volleyball.) The games commenced. Competition was fierce, but I held my own; it’s my responsibility as a King of the court. Halfway through the three hour session,

a camel toad announced itself, hopping around in the middle of the court and demanding attention. We escorted him to the sidelines and he kept score. A hop to the left was one for the good guys, and a hop to the right was two for the good guys.


I limped home with the reticence of an abused yeti, because our dominant team lost 2 of our last 3 games, when we were undefeated coming into the last hour of play. I am proud to say that my team was all big-ten; four Michigan squares and one Wisconsin circle jerk (I jest, he’s a good guy.) I deposited sand all over my bed (like an idiot) and then showered. After a few hours of reading, I fell asleep on the beach. Quick note: I bought a liter of Gatorade at Harris Teeter on the way home, please see second post for why this blasphemy cannot be tolerated and must be admonished.

Today, Friday, my temporary mentor had the day off, so I spent my time shadowing some gentlemen who specialize in client satisfaction. They answer the phone and resolve thousands of issues using nothing but light-speed internet connections and the knowledge in their neuron nets. I walked over to a different building complex for lunch, of course making it more of an adventure than it needed to be. I took the wrong route and ended up having to walk through a field to get there. While I was looking out for black mommys and black widows, I failed to realize that other, more miniscule entities might have it out for me. When I emerged from the grassy, unmowed knoll, my legs were covered with baby ants. Unfortunately, the baby ants were apparently neglected access to their breakfast nursing session, because they began munching on my skin. The scoundrels were wiped clear, and I then was able to enjoy my home-packed lunch of a wet sandwich and two laffy-taffies.

My afternoon was much the same as the morning, aside from an article I received from one of my more amicable co-workers, Summertime Susan (a nomenclature, but get over it.) Wallaby’s on opiates always brighten my day.

Tonight I am off to join a poker/juice session. The invite states that we can bring “juice” if we are so inclined, to help us better enjoy the evening. Even though this undoubtedly means alcohol, I am planning on showing up with a lively cache of steroids. Shooting up has never been so athletic - it is the blessing of our age. Thus concludes my first week of gainful employment. I’m sure the weekend holds many seductions for me, not the least of which that I must prove to the bank tomorrow that I am not a FULL BLOWN and ABLE-BODIED TERRORIST (aerobic apocalypto) who doesn’t have a permanent address or driver’s license in the state because he is planning on CATEGORICALLY BOMBING every Harris Teeter in the area. J