Gandhi

Gilberte hits me, and says: You and Branson need to stop being dicks to me!
Marcel Parcells: No, you need to stop hitting us. Soon we’re going to start hitting you back.
Miranda: That’s mean.
Marcel: That’s the way it is. An eye for an eye, dude.
Miranda: . . . [looks mad]
Marcel: what?
Miranda: An eye for an eye? That’s ridiculous-
Marcel: Don’t give me any of that Gandhi shit.
Miranda: I knew it! You hate Indians.
Marcel: No, just Gandhi.. I hate Gandhi.

you should. . .wear that shirt more often

Yes, it’s pink, and that makes you a wee bit uncomfortable. You figure you have enough problems with your masculinity as it is (the history of public cross dressing, disco lessons, and your love of French film hasn’t helped), but everyone loves you in that pink shirt.

You prefer to call it mauve, plum, or salmon, but no one is fooled about your pink shirt. It’s a well-fitted cotton dress shirt with a not-too-wide collar and a little space in the neck (for your chest hair). At first you were shy, and thought about wearing something different. But you stuck with the pink shirt, and it’s a good thing. They all love it so much. Lena at the office, “Wow, I’ve never seen you in that. You look nice. Did you shower, too?”

Miranda, “I like your shirt. Are you a summer?”

Branson, “Nice pink shirt, fag.” But you figure you can’t win them all. And the ladies love your pink shirt. Maybe next week, you should wear it untucked.

Now, if only you could win them over with your powder blue polyester pants.

letters to vacationing co-workers week, day 2

Dear Branson, Gilberte, and Miranda
Shali didn’t show up to work today either. Like the rest of you, she is dead to me.

Today I didn’t have caffeine until 4:30 p.m. So, I spent most of the morning and afternoon staring at the wall. I got worried for a while, thinking about Clay Aiken. I hope to God I look nothing like Clay Aiken.

I saw a girl with a handbag that said “I Hate People” on it. I approved silently, and kind of wanted to have it. I thought about how I should mug her for it, just to reinforce her beliefs.

The secretary left early.

I had to mail some stuff. It seemed too difficult to handle, despite the fact that the envelopes were addressed and stamped. Perhaps it will get done tomorrow.

But, I did go to the ice cream shop, where I had espresso and ice cream. So, suck it!

yours, Marcel Parcells

letters to vacationing co-workers week, day 1

Dear Branson and Gilberte ,
We just wanted you to know how little you are missing in being away from work this week.

Today began with a trip to an empty starbucks. The lack of a line made our turn around time too quick. We needed to stall. Miranda tried to kill some extra time by quizzing the baristas on the quirkiest coffee demands they've received. They used some coffee terminologies we can't even begin to reproduce. Miranda tried to look sad because she wanted some kind of depression discount. I just wanted a mocha.

Our drinks were effeminate and delicious.

We spent a long time trying to plan Perry's going away party. We have the event's location down to either the Guwertz's mansion, the Sunset Saloon, or Beers Bowling and Billiards. This process took a long time.

We tried to figure out why it was colder inside than outside. The mystery remains unsolved.

We talked about work for 20 minutes. This made us feel intelligent. It also helped me to realize that my project is interesting, and Miranda's is not.

We made some shit up about you two.

We spent a long time planning, and looking forward to, a trip to the bank. We waited until four for this expedition. It was tough to hold off for so long.

The we went to the bank. It was awesome!!
The End. We hate you guys.

looking forward to tomorrow,
Marcel Parcells and Miranda