White Elephants

“I got you some presents,” Cynthia says, popping into my cube.

“What are they?”

“Read the card!”

[it says something about spa gifts.] The first gift is the size of a burrito; the kind of burrito a 300 pound texan would eat on a dare. It’s one liter of Head’n’shoulders.

“Are you trying to tell me something?” I ask.

“It was for our dog, but we couldn’t use it because the dog’s skin is sensitive.”

“No, I totally understand. No one wants a dog with a little snow on the mountain.”

“Yeah. Open the others.”

A used candle and a half empty bottle of baby lotion. I open the lotion and we both laugh that the lid is crusted with months old phlegm’o’aloe.

“That reminds me of a mucus plug,” Cynthia offers. “Do you know what a mucus plug is? It’s one of God’s most disgusting inventions.”

“This sound like a job for Google image search,” I say, pulling up the page. “Oh yeah. That belongs on a half-shell.”

Later that night I’m cleaning up after Eddie from Ohio and find fresh holes punched in the mens room wall. What kind of adult-contemporary fan could possibly be driven to do this? If I had to venture a guess, I’d say it was Scocca. That raging motherfucker was high on PCP if I’ve ever seen someone high on PCP. I could see that one song about the Rocky Mountains sending him into a primal berserker fury.