Terrible Delicatessen -- 10.21.13

 You Light Up My Life, Part VII: All’s Crap That Ends Crap

So, there’s that. Going to let this one sink in on it’s own without any additional exposition.

Oh, and yeah. Graham Norton

Since we left you with such a bummer this week, we’re going to make it up to you next Monday. Get ready for our special Halloween edition of Terrible Delicatessen, Halloween Meats For Treats!

Sometimes I put on a ski mask and dress in old clothes, go out on the streets and beg for quarters. - Mike Tyson 


Snake Oil and the Saltiness of the Earth

I work hard. Harder than most people. Much harder than you, obviously. That’s why you’re here, right?  Wanted to know my productivity tricks? My “secrets?” Well listen, I’m going to burst your bubble: there’s no silver bullet, dummy. You’re just a Hard Worker or you’re not. Like me. It’s in the genetics, babe. I suppose there’s one thing I could do for you, though. Here, what I’ll do is walk you through my typical day: The day of a Hard Worker. Monkey see, monkey do, right? Heh!

Like I said, I work hard. Damn hard. All the time. It starts right when I wake up. I slap my face a few times. Not too loud, though. Don’t want to wake sleeping beauty. I walk to the bathroom and turn on the faucet. It’s a gold faucet on a brown marble I had installed just last week. It’s gorgeous. The fruits of Hard Work, that’s what that is. I turn the cold water on. I blast it. I splash my face and try my best to rinse yesterday off of it. Then comes the warm water. Need that warm water for the morning shave. I take a straight blade and scrape any excess hairs from my cheeks and my neck. Have to look sharp, crisp. Hard Workers have a distinct briskness to their faces, you know what I mean, babe?

I rinse again, hop into the shower for about five minutes. Step back out, go through a few more hygienic routines (teeth-brushing, hair-combing, arm-deodorizing, etc.). I put on a fresh pair of briefs and admire myself in the mirror for a bit; hard workers deserve a little bit of me-time, don’t they? I walk back into the bedroom, take a look at my lazy wife in a deep sleep. I sigh and throw my hard worker clothes. My suit. I think of it like my armor.

I bounce down the stairs. I’m already feeling spry. Yeah, babe. The coffee’s already brewed (you always set it the night before). I walk over to the kitchen table and suck down a protein shake: hydrolyzed whey isolate. (Two scoops with water and a fist full of vitamins. Venisya’s put it all out for me.) What a doll she is. She works hard. The wife should be more like Venisya. I take between seven and ten minutes breakfasting, sipping the coffee, reading the Times.

Alright, all set. Bring on the day. Yeah, babe.

God, I love Hard Work. I’m such a Hard Worker. Really surprises me sometimes, I have to say. Need some of that cold water to wake me up.

Off to the job. I step into a black Maserati Quattroporte. New toy. Guess how I was able to afford it?

Smart cookie. Damn Hard Work.

I cruise at a very reasonable pace, all leisurely-like. A man with power has no need to rush. Everything’s timed out in the head with precision, sharp precision. My internal clock is impeccable. The brain is a muscle, too, you know. I work that thing hard. All the time, babe.

I’m forced to sit and wait at a stop-light, one block away from the parking garage. Patience is a learned skill, friendo. It’s in the Hard Work toolbox. Gotta have it. I hate waiting, but I have to do it. I learn to love it. I learn to love it because it’s difficult. It’s Hard.

Young children playing hooky and working-class women love to stare at me while I wait at the light. I can tell they don’t see a black Maserati Quattroporte on a regular basis. They’re not used to excellence. Get it? I give each group a look. It’s essentially the same look, but a prepubescent hoodlum on a bicycle reads me much differently than a mediocre-to-poor looking female wearing a muted-colored work suit.  Either way, they get it. They understand The Look: You want this? You’ve got to work.

I pull into the parking garage. I park my black Maserati Quattroporte in the corner of the first floor of the garage. I park at an angle to make sure none of the other lazy jerks even think about placing their tin-can sloth-mobiles next to mine. Can I let you in on a little secret? People who work hard don’t drive Ford Escorts.

I walk across the street into my building. The Artist’s Den, I like to think of it. I give a tiny salute to the sloth, the one sitting at a desk reading a magazine. They wear a badge and they’re overweight. I can’t imagine what their diet’s like. I’m always disgusted at first, then quickly relieved because I’m not that person. I’m a Hard Worker. That’s how I’m able to crack a grin and a joke at these putzes. They love me. No wonder. They know that I always get the job done.

I take the stairs to the 8th Floor. That’s one thing you should know, you absolutely should know: Never take the fucking elevator. Don’t be a sloth. Work those hams, those quads. Stamp your feet like you’re in the damn Marines. I love walkin' the stairs. Gets the blood pumping. I can’t start the day if I don’t feel a slight burn in my hams before I’m in the office.

I always imagine I’m walking to my office in slow motion. I say “Hey!” and “Yo!” and “What’s happenin’?” and watch everyone’s head pop up from their cubicle. They’re glowing. When you work hard you infect other people with it, you see. The Hardest Worker is the oil that lubes the machine. I sense the office atmosphere shift into me, I feel the weight fall onto my shoulders. Bring it on, babe. I love it.

Colleen is my secretary. She’s 20-years-old, foxy as hell, dumb as rocks. Yeah, babe. Another one of those juicy fruits of Hard Work. She’s been with me for a few months. I’ve been showin’ her the ropes around here. I like showing her the ropes after lunch. Heh! Yeah, boss!

Colleen’s mouth yaps violently at me in the morning. She’s all teeth and words. Big ol’ grin on her doll face. She gives me a rundown of very general business: “So-and-so called and said ‘yadda-yadda’”; “Jack wants a meeting this afternoon.”; “We’re having _____ for lunch.” I like to sit on the edge of her desk and tune her out completely as I stare at her and smile. I look through her. She blushes. Once she’s done flappin’ her lips I ask her how she’s doing and she overflows with rainbow-colored drivel about her social life or her sick mother. I don’t listen. I stare. I just stare. Nod. Stare some more. Smile.

“Damn, look at the time! I’m gonna go meet up with Jack and his crew. Catch you after lunch?”

“Of course… Mr. Boss-man.”

Yeah, babe.

I walk out of my office and schmooze with some of my staff. They love it. I tend to play with my iPhone while I’m schmoozing. The underlings understand, though. I’m busy. And they know it. I like to Tweet while I fake-talk to those lovable dorks. I check my Facebook. I scan through a few pictures of myself. Solid. Yeah, babe. I wrap that up and head to a meeting.

I have between one and four meetings a day. They’re usually with Jack. He’s my boss and I don’t respect him. He respects me, though. He loves me. I’m invaluable. I’m indispensable. I get to the morning meeting a few minutes early. “If you’re early you’re on time--if you’re on time you’re late.” You know that saying, don’t you?

Woah! Hey, listen, bro: I don’t give a crap if you “fucking hate that idiom.” You don’t get it, do you? Ya know, you remind me of these two jag-offs that were at one of my meetings last week. Out of town guys. Yale cocks, I think. They thought I was tryin’ to upstage them. Those jags didn’t get why I was early. They don’t get it. They muttered things under their breath about me, gave me dirty looks. I called ‘em out as soon as I noticed. I ask them if they know who I am. I asked Jack, “Do they know who I am?” Jack laughed, then apologized for their rudeness. You’d be surprised how often this happens.

I sat through the meeting. Painful, but hey—it’s Work. Hard Work. I re-Tweeted a few quotes about Hard Work during the meeting. Stuff I saw on celebrities’ Twitters. I looked through a few more pictures on my Facebook page. I ‘like’ a few things I don’t read into as Jack fingered the pie chart on a SmartBoard. I’ll be honest with you: Hard Work can be boring sometimes. Won’t lie about that, bro. You have to put on that Hard Worker face. Muscle through it like a big boy, you know?

Towards the end of the meeting I take a few points Jack’s made and rephrase them. I polished them up and made them sound like I added to the conversation; I gave everyone a different perspective on the company goals. Jack loves when I do that.

“That is exactly what I’m saying! This guy gets me.” Jack lets out a jolly laugh from his diaphragm. He walks over to where I’m sitting and slaps me on the shoulder. I laughed with him and shot him a grin. The meeting, like most of the others, ended in success.

After a meeting like that one I go get lunch. I suck down another whey shake before I get back to my office and fuck Colleen. I’m sated and feeling muscley and ready to show her the ropes.

And no, I’m not using a condom, idiot. I’m a Hard Worker. You don’t get it, do you? Those “rules,” they’re not for us. They’re not for me, babe.  They don’t apply. I’m tellin’ you, bro, you gotta work hard. You do work hard so you can have things. So you can have people. I worked hard to have Colleen, to have Venisya. To have my wife.

I have to muzzle Colleen when I’m screwing her. I only take her from behind while I’m at work—it’s more utilitarian. She squeals a lot. I cover her mouth with my palm. She drools into it. I yank on her hair, she drools some more.

What do you mean, “why am I telling you this?” Babe, I’m trying to walk you through my day. You’re getting impatient. I told you… ya need patience. It’s a big part of being a Hard Worker. See, that’s the trick, bro. You gotta make the Work a Fruit of Work. You gotta love the Work. The Work is the reward, bro. I was just gettin’ to that.

The rest of the day cycles over, more or less. I schmooze some more, I abuse the internet. I go over vague stats and figures with Jack, then with Donna later on. That broad loves me. She loves me because she knows that I love to Work. She appreciates my Work Ethic. It’s the key, babe. If there’s any secret I guess that’s it; you start to fall in love with Hard Work. I fuckin’ love it.

I wrap up at the office at around 6:00 P.M. It’s gym time, babe.

Keeping your body fit and lookin’ good is a huge part of Hard Work. There’s no cheatin’ with staying in shape. You gotta Work it. I love hittin’ the gym. I bolt from the Maserati Quattroporte to the gym locker room, throw on my gear—shorts, tank, lifting gloves, sweatband. Yeah, babe.

I start with some cycling; gotta warm the bod’. Move on to some donkey calf raises, pec flys, a couple dumbell bench lifts. Top it all off with a five mile run on the treadmill. Feeling good, feeling limber. Feelin’ Worked. I hit the showers.

I head home. I’m craving carbs but I wouldn’t do that to myself. I know better. Patience is virtual or somethin’. Willpower, ya know? I slam down another shake and wind down. Ready to repeat the cycle.

That’s that, bro. That’s my day. You could always… you know, copy it, right? You want to be a Hard Worker, don’t you? Well that’s a day of Hard Work, dog. Hard-ass work.

Alright, I gotta run. You can pay me tomorrow.

What do you mean, “Huh?” What’s that about?

You know I’m charging you for this, right?