Attention Hoboken Medical Supplies Inc. breakroom. Turn to he who stands stoically like the Colossus of Rhodes beside the vending machine. To he who is mysteriously shrouded in a knee-length smock. I implore you; brace the living fuck out of yourselves. Buckle your about-to-be-utterly-gobsmacked asses to your folding chairs. I, Dale J. Turneur…Dale the “droopy-eyed insomniac from accounts receivable,”…Dale the “he’s so damn boring he makes a keg party seem like a conference call,”…Dale the “seriously, don’t you think it’s at least a little odd that he keeps five Polaroids of his pet wallaby tacked to his corkboard?”…is about to offer you ultimate transcendence. Feast your weary eyes on he who now tosses the smock and unveils the everlasting divine glory of his midsection.
Behold my majestic bejeweled crotch. BOOM-SHAKKA-LAKA!
That’s right. I see the shock on your stupefied faces and sense it ricocheting throughout the very cockles of your souls. These brown dress slacks should look vaguely familiar. Yes, these are the same ‘ol slacks ho-hum Dale has worn every Monday and Thursday, and some Wednesdays, for the last six plus years. But no longer are they slacks by which one can set one’s watch. Be aghast by how festive thy crotch has become. How glistening are thine loins?! How OG is thine crotch bling?! Dale has brought serious pizazz to casual Friday. “Casual” has never been so fucking awesomely bedazzled.
That’s right. Dale is rockin’ with his cock in!
Behold, Janet. How does the meek psyche of a part-time reception endure the rarified grandeur of Dale’s majestic bejeweled crotch? Recall thusly, Janet. Recall how casually you rejected my nonthreatening advances. Quivering and scared witless I suggest a noncommittal lunch at Fuddrucker’s. “Sorry,” you say. “I’m behind in processing work orders,” you say. Balderdash! You spent your lunch break munching on Hot Pockets and reading Mademoiselle. You squashed my poor heart nearly all the way down to my now brilliantly adorned crotch-eus maximus. But you know what they say about what doesn’t kill you…it makes your crotch majestic and bejeweled? Well, how the fuck you like me now, Toots?! That’s right! Bathe in the splendor of your rejected lover’s majestic bejeweled crotch. HIYO!
Behold, Chad…Mr. Salesman of the Month, three months running. How your incessant petty hijinks have gradually led to mine awe-inspiring crotch transformation. I take a two-day emergency vacation and come back to the clichéd cat litter in the desk. But tell me, Chad. Tell me what is clichéd about the Mardi Gras surrounding my junk? By the way, that so-called “vacation” was to attend the funeral of my sweet grandmother. Oh how she must be smiling down on me right now, and how my majestic bejeweled crotch now gyrates like a child’s party favor in your mystified face. Salesman of the month? I got something to sell YOU, my friend. A fuckin’ crotch! HUZZAH! And keep the commission. Oh hey, by the way, thanks so much for super gluing my stapler to my desk. And putting my keyboard in the freezer. And making me do the Ice Bucket Challenge before it was a thing. I got a challenge for you, Chad. Good luck ignoring…THIS SWEET-ASS CROTCH! SKA-DOOSH!
Behold, Mr. Ludwig. Ye of middle-management. Let me ask, sir, how tired are you of being castrated by the brutes at the top of the corporate food chain, you pathetic bald nitwit? That’s right, Dale J. Turneur, from accounts goddamn receivable, just called YOU a pathetic bald nitwit. Hey! I’m talking to you, boss-man. Quit staring at your Payless loafers. Look up. Look up, I say. Higher…a little higher…a little hiiigher. Too high! There. Now stop! Tell me what you see. Tell me. What’s that? Huh? I can’t hear you. Say it louder. LOUDER, so everyone in the breakroom can hear you. THAT’S RIGHT! A MAJECTIC BEJEWELED CROTCH, DIPSHIT! Now just stare at it. Let it sink in. Subject your feeble humanity to the crotch whose essence confines you. Hah! I crawl into your dumb little corner office and practically beg for a paltry 75 cent an hour raise? I just wanted to afford rent. Rent, Mr. Ludwig. You tell me, “Your production is stagnant.” Maybe, just maybe, that’s because I’m perpetually at the very fuckin’ top of my game. Anyway, I was evicted last week. “Stagnant?” I scoff. Hey, you know what ain’t stagnant? My fucking crotch, that’s what. As I swivel my hips before you, I see in your trembling pupils the reflection of the shimmering plastic gemstones pasted about my thighs. It’s like the way the wondrous starry heavens reflect in a cesspool. Understand this, the “heavens” is “my crotch” and the “cesspool” is…guess whooo?…YOU. Anyway…BOOYAKA.
Bejeweled crotch commin’ at ‘cha, Mr. Ludwig! CAN’T FAKE THE FUNK ON THIS NASTY DUNK.
Behold Hoboken Medical Supplies Inc. breakroom. The Dale you once knew is dead. As Lennon sang in “Come Together”: “One and one and one is three…no one rocks a mother fucking crotch like ME…Dale J. Turneur” So next time you use the Xerox machine it won’t be so easy to ignore everyone’s favorite “walking snoozefest” cursed with sitting RIGHT. FUCKING. NEXT. to that noisy-ass shitty thing. Believe you me, from now on whenever you make copies of inventory reports or fax order forms it’ll be nearly impossible to ignore the gleaming utopia merely inches from the farther reaches of your precious personal space.
Now, it’s high time you settle your own pedestrian humdrum crotches back in your cruddy work chairs. But before you do, I reckon you take one final moment to allow every single morsel of your consciousness to be totally submerged in the breathtaking opulence of my majestic…bejeweled…crotch.
Hand me back my smock, Janet. Break time is fucking over.
Spensatron 5000
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