Thursday, October 20, 2005

Whisper whisper

Office gossip.

I have to know who is sleeping with whom. I'm dying to know which conference room was used for amorous pursuits, whether they were splayed across that long, cold marble table, astride a black leather cushiony chair, or slamming into the now quiet speaker phone, pressing and pressing and pressing against the mute button. Missionary? Doggy style? Dirty, sweaty, raw? Were there paper cuts involved?

I need to understand how the mail clerk hooked up with the executive -- presumably while delivering mail -- but was there something more insidious afoot? Did he plan it? Did she? What sort of mail incited them to uncontrollable, adulterous sex on the credenza? And does everyone know he was promoted to head mail clerk, only because he slept with the boss? Or did someone really think he merited that promotion? Who was fooled, when he can barely make it out of bed every morning, always late, because he's a drunk?

And what about that NRA gun freak? Think he'll lose it someday? And if he does, will we be able to escape the office in time?

I live for this stuff. I love this stuff. I want to be more sophisticated, believing that all this is below me, that I should rise above this fascination with other peoples' business. But these heady, seedy whispers give me something beautiful and human and awful to ponder about, to chatter about, to obsess about, all day long.

If only work were as interesting as the gossip swirling around it. Think of how productive we, as a nation, would be, if the work we did were as thrilling as the sleaze that exists in spite of it.


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