So, like, I work at an intelligence enhancement chip repossession company? I know some people think it’s like, mondo icky, but it’s not like we rip the chips out of people’s heads – proper medical protocol is always observed, even when the client is fleeing out the back of his mobile home and siccing dogs on our agents. Course, I work in the shipping department, so I don’t do any of the ripping personally.
Anyhoo, there’s, like, this guy who works in my department? Cyril? He’s supersmart and he’s going to go far in the company, and he always says the sweetest things, so, like I think he has the hots for me. The problem is: he has a nose you could land a B52 bomber on. Seriously. The one time we went out for drinks, his nose needed its own table. Nothing could ever happen between us (possibly quite literally).
A couple of weeks ago, Chris was transferred to our department from livestock. Ooh. Chris is super dreamy. I thought he was, like, interested in me, but every time he got close to my cubicle, he tripped over something and knocked over somebody’s wall of company approved personal cubicle enhancers.
Things seemed hopeless until last week, when Chris walked up to my cubicle and – sigh! – started speaking poetry. For real! Rhyming couplets, haiku, iambic pentameter (I looked it up) – you name it, he could do it. I should have been surprised – I mean, in team building exercises, it always seemed like English was his second language, even though it wasn’t. And, it wasn’t just his, you know, lack of articulationing. Chris liked to talk with his hands. Unfortunately, it was like he was speaking a foreign language. But, I was just so happy that we could finally connect, that I of course screwed him in the men’s washroom.
And, the janitor’s closet.
And, the men’s washroom in the cafeteria.
And, the top floor of the Chrysler building.
And, eventually, his bed.
Okay, I admit I didn’t have a clue what Chris was talking about when he started talking about “thine sun-dappl’d golden tresses” and “a love that would make Hector weep.” I mean, for one thing, I don’t know anybody named Hector? But, Chris explained that he had been taking night courses in poetry writing and the economic and political implications of bovine excrement in Elizabethan England, and he must have momentarily confused the two.
I could see that. I could so totally see that.
We were so happy for three or four days, there, Amritsar, that I never wanted it to end.
Did I mention I should have been surprised by Chris’ sudden articulubility? Well, I should have! Yesterday, I was listening to the 1,000 top Led Zeppelin songs as voted by you on the radio as I was making us breakfast, and what should I hear but Cyril’s voice! That’s right! Surprise! Cyril and Chris were having an argument that went something like:
“My love is like a red, red rose.”
“My love is like a colourful flower.”
“No. Red, red rose.”
“What’s the difference?”
“Poetry doesn’t work with generalizations. Your images are much more powerful if they are concrete.”
“So…my love is like concrete?”
I wanted to believe that it was some lame attempt at humour by morning disc jokeys who just coincidentally happened to, you know, sound like Chris and Cyril. No such luck! When I confronted him, Chris admitted that he had had a nanotube radio injected into his ear, so that he could hear Cyril coach him. All those pretty words were Cyril’s!
Oh, Amritsar, I don’t know what to do! I’m in love with Cyril’s soul, but I’m afraid that if I screwed him, I would be fatally impaled on his schnozz. On the other hand, Chris is so hunky, but he so has the soul of, like, a wet dishrag.
Do you have any, like, suggestions?
There are two ways to look at this. On the one hand, you could be flattered that Chris went to all the trouble to woo you. On the other hand, you could be offended that he deceived you. If you’re a typical human being, you’ll probably muddle through a mixture of the two.
Either way, you should probably end your relationship with Cyril. He sounds positively creepy!
Send your relationship problems to the Alternate Reality News Service’s sex, love and technology columnist in care of this publication. Amritsar Al-Falloudjianapour is not a trained therapist, but she does know a lot of stuff. AMRITSAR SAYS: don’t put the question of whether or not you should continue your relationship to a vote of your social networking friends unless you are prepared to live with the consequences.
“This article originally appeared in the Alternate Reality News Service [ARNS] section of the Les Pages aux Folles Web site. It can also be found in the book What Were Once Miracles Are Now Children’s Toys, which is available at better online bookstores everywhere.”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
Ira Nayman is a red dwarf star in the constellation of Elmira. He was found by accident when a maintenance technician at Mount Palomar Observatory spilt red wine on the console that set the parameters in which the telescope functioned and reset them, hoping nobody would notice. Aside from crying at the death of Spock in the film Star Trek 2: The Wrath of Khan, Ira is a completely unremarkable red dwarf star. It is suspected that – hey! Wait a minute! That can’t be right! One of the best known features of red dwarf stars is that they hate Vulcans!
Ahem. Let me try again.
Ira Nayman is a Canadian humour writer. Les Pages aux Folles, his project of social and political satire, was started in 1984 and migrated to the World Wide Web in 2002, where it has been updated weekly. Les Pages aux Folles has gained many different features over the years, including cartoons (Delicate Negotiations and My Toronto being two currently in rotation) and the Alternate Reality News Service (ARNS). Two collections of ARNS stories have been collected in print: Alternate Reality Ain’t What It Used To Be and What Were Once Miracles Are Now Children’s Toys. For additional original writing and ways of becoming involved in the organization, readers are invited to drop by the Alternate Reality News Service Cafe on Facebook. Ira recently won first prize in the international Swift Satire Writing Competition for a poem called “Love Amid the Construction.” He lives in Toronto with two dogs and a red dwarf star named Douglas Coupland.