Bobbing for Brahmins

I'm going to an Indian wedding this weekend. My co-worker, Miranda, is an Indian, and kindly gave me some Indian-style pick-up lines to use. See them below, with my modifications.

Yes, I am from Boston. Have you heard of the Boston Brahmins? My family’s like that. We’re a little like the Kennedys, without the alcoholism.

Every night I pray to Vishnu that Kashmir will one day belong to India again.

So, does that brown skin go all the way up?

This paneer is really good, but I prefer using whole milk when I make my own. So, do you want to fuck?

Ramalamadingdong. . .is that Indian for something?

Did I not introduce myself? I’m Dr. Parcells.

Office mindgames, part III

This one’s a little juvenile, but if you have any coworkers who have paranoid tendencies I recommend it.

Miranda is paranoid. When she’s interested in a boy, she won’t webstalk him, for fear that he’ll somehow be alerted to her looking at his myspace page. When she sees coworkers in her neighborhood, she tries to avoid being seen because she doesn’t want them to know where she lives. Once, she accused me of hanging out in the Ford Dealership near her apartment, spying (and I let her think that for a little while). Once after a discussion on who Angela Lansbury was, I sent her a text message that just said, “Murder, She Wrote!” She became convinced that she was now on a terrorist watch list, and would never get a job with the government.

Today I sneak onto Miranda’s computer when she’s out at lunch. I use her email account to send her an email to herself, from herself. I did not look at any messages, as this would have gone beyond my bounds of propriety. I just hit “compose” and wrote,

“Dear Miranda,
Hi! I just wanted to tell you that I think we look really nice today. It’s too bad the Bachelor (from the current Bachelor: An Officer and a Gentleman) can’t see us today! Plus, we feel so cozy in our pink sweater, don’t we?
See you later,
Miranda”

I look over at her desk at some point, and she looks like she’s about to lose her shit. I say,
“What’s up?”
She’s wide eyed, looks a little nervous. And says, “Did you send me an email?”
Me: No, why did you get an email from me?
Miranda: No. But just tell me, did you do this.?

She gets a Tums out of her desk, and I’m really worried she’s going to freak out. She thinks some stalker has hacked into her email. I eventually have to tell her, and I get hit and verbally abused all day as a result. Paranoiacs don’t take jokes well.

poor people

[After I show Miranda my desk drawer full of box wine.]
Miranda: We could drink some right now.
Marcel Parcells: No, not yet.
Miranda: C’mon. I’ll go downstairs and get some solo cups.
Marcel: No. I don’t drink out of plastic cups.
Miranda: What do you mean? Why not?
Marcel: Plastic cups are for poor people.
Miranda: (laughing) Ha. You hate poor people!

For similar reasons, I also refuse to sit on the floor, ride the bus, kill my own food, or eat at KFC.

office mindgames, part 1

This one's called, "Pros/Cons." It's nice to play on a dry erase board, since I like the boldness of black-markered lettering, but you could also play with a white piece of paper tacked to a wall. Anyway, pick a co-worker. After writing their name on the top of the list, make a "pros" column and a "cons" column. Fill the columns with real or made-up aspects of the person in question that either inspire or annoy you. Now, here is the important part. Make sure all of the entries are in some sort of indecipherable code. I like to mix it up a little bit. Sometimes, I use pictographs, numbers without labels (women will always think this is about their weight, which is funny, right?), abbreviations, and other obscure mnemonic devices.

At this point, your co-worker will begin to feel scrutinized, criticized, and befuddled. They will get angry, you will point out that you have their pros up there, too.

Occasionally, during conversation, react to something the co-worker says by either nodding, smiling, and adding a pro, or frowning as you shake your head and put a con up there. Meanings, of course, should still be ambiguous.

Begin to do this completely unprovoked, like when you and the co-worker are sitting at your desks silently.

At some point. You should try completely erasing the pros from the list. Leave a question mark on that side. At this point, you have won the game.

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. . .go for breakfast with the coworkers

It beats working, and you'll be able to ostensibly discuss work, while instead you talk about who the boss hates the most, and whether you could get away with going home, sleeping until noon, and then showing up at work. You can't explain why, but all of this not-funny banter makes you more miserable than you usually are.

After breakfast, you do stop by your house. You turn on some music, and pretend like you'll lie down for a minute. An hour and a half later, you'll still feel miserable, but at least the work day will be shorter. Plus, you're doing better than Miranda. She stopped at the liquor store to pick up nip bottles. By the time you're at the office, she's drunk at her desk. So, be happy. You're only the second most miserable person around.

you should. . .go out for frozen custard

It felt like it was forty degrees out, maybe less, so when Gilberte and Miranda asked you to stand outside the frozen custard stand licking a glorified chink of ice, you initially declined. Then, you decided it would be preferable to work, so you went along.
You ordered a vanilla cone. You always do. You like how the simplicity of the vanilla bean’s flavor allows you to concentrate on the gentle egg tast of custard and the sweet cream texture. On hot days, you find this all quite refreshing. Today, it is agonizing. You wish that you had worn a jacket, hat, gloves, a scarf, and you wait for Gilberte and Miranda to finish their unnecessarily complex orders as you take enormous bites out of your custard pile.

You feel conflicted. The big bites make your whole face cold, but smaller bites would make you cold for longer. You go big.

You’ve eaten your cone by the time the girls have paid. You clutch your head and shiver as you all walk back to the office. Good decision, champ.

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.

later that day . . .from the boss to the office

Subject: model workers
I just wanted to note how nice it is to see Marcel Parcells and Miranda hard at work here at the office while everyone else is on vacation, working long hours and bringing me lattes. Marcel cleaned out the boiler in the basement Miranda reinsulated the attic. Your efforts are models of the ideal employees, and a paragon for other, lesser individuals, to live up to ...

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