Because nothing says “America” like hamburgers and God, I’m eating a left over charred nugget of cow flesh and listening to Cantate Domino by Sulpitia Cesis. Honestly, I love choral music. It probably has something to do with my love of history, religion, and foreign language; most definitely my love of foreign music because if this were in English it would probably be something like “Goooooddddddddd, Gooooooooooddddddd, Gooooooooooddddddd is Soooooooooooo Aaaaaaawwwwweeeeeesssssssooooommmmmeeeeee.” As much like reading about and studying religion, I’m not too big into being proselytized to. It’s sort of like scientists at the CDC. Just because they may like studying the latest flesh eating disease doesn’t mean they want to catch it. Did I just compare religion to necrotizing fasciitis? I believe I did. (But it’s really not- maybe more like meningitis in some cases but those are actually few and far between). Unlike flesh eating superbugs, choral music is also very soothing. I feel like I ought to light some candles and sway or something. Instead, I’m going to write about the intended subject that caused me to open Word tonight: this guy at work.
This guy at work will henceforth be known as DB. Don’t worry. Those aren’t his real initials but if I were buying him a monogrammed sweater, that’d be what I’d have put on it because the thought of this guy wearing a sweater with DB on it, cracks me up.
DB, as you might have surmised, means “douchebag” and I do use that term with the utmost affection because, as much as his presence grates my nerves, I actually sort of enjoy it. Why do I enjoy the company of a douchebag? I don’t know. Why was I marri- okay, that’s too easy, even for me. Let’s just say, it’s familiar territory but, instead of holding it in, I flip it right back.
Anyway, DB can be such a total, well, douchebag. Case in point, one of my friends complimented him on his food and his response was “For $32,000 tuition, it had better look good.” To a coworker tonight: he told him we couldn’t have any of the pizza that a customer didn’t pick up AFTER DB ate a slice right in front of said coworker. To me, “I like a lot of hiking, mountain climbing, and biking; you couldn’t keep up” when I asked what his hobbies were (because douchebaggery ain’t a hobby, yo!). And that’s just the tip of the iceberg. Apparently, his attitude is bordering on legendary. It seems everyone has a story of this guy’s, er, non-hobby.
But here’s the thing that gets me: I think (maybe wishfully) that it’s all an act. Maybe he’s scarred or damaged goods because sometimes he can almost be pleasant and the one time he really hurt me, he acted really sheepish about it when he realized what he’d done. Maybe, hopefully, he has this huge douche wall that protects a shy or scared or fragile guy. I like to think so. I like to think that that guy is really sweet to his family and snuggles with kittens or something utterly fluffy. Maybe he writes really awkward searingly personal poetry and cries when he makes an especially good meal at home. Or maybe he secretly knits little sweaters for orphaned kittens and puppies at the no-kill shelters and can describe the best peach of his life.
And then there’s this other part of me that mockingly imagines that he’s so stand offish and jackass-y because he’s got some horrible, deep secret that will destroy us all one day and he doesn’t want to get close for fear of it interfering with the “MASTER PLAN.”
Or maybe he’s just a douchebag. Meh.
The funniest thing, though, is that if I treat him the way he treats us, he acts offended. Is it hurt? Is it shock that someone would throw a tomato as “His Highness?” Is he trying to remember the places I love so he releases the flesh eating brain disease (that is not religion) there first? I really do not know. And so, I try to be nice to him but, well, sometimes I just have to snap at him because walls or no, I can't help but throw rocks at Humpty Dumpty.