We couldn't find Grant when we got back in the office today, and his later Officewatch posts had suggested that he'd gone a little crazy over the holiday. Maybe we should have taken shifts to guard the intertubes, instead of assigning them to one beleaguered Brissey? An intern complained about a foul odor coming from The Stranger's conference room, and so we set out to investigate.
And there was Grant Brissey, all tuckered out from his Christmas adventures, nestled like a hibernating chipmunk on the conference room table, swaddled in Lindy West's fleece Time Traveler's Wife promotional blanket. He was surrounded by a halo made out of crushed cans of Rize, a book called Furverts, and a well-thumbed copy of the Butt Book. Kelly O's magical weight-lifting thong kept watch over him. Just look at how sweet he is: (Click to enlarge.)
If you can ignore the aged-malt-liquor-energy-drink reek in the air, he looks just like a little angel, doesn't he? We'll let him sleep for another five minutes before we wake him up and get him to work on setting his mess right. Those bathrooms ain't gonna clean themselves.
No one visited today, but I noticed two sets of mysterious and filthy socks directly outside the office door as I attempted to escape before the evil cheesecake had its way with me. I do believe they are from either Charles, the heads, or this spaceman across the street, who appeared the same night as the second head.
At some point between the last time I was in editorial (around 3 am this morning) and now, an evil mysterious cheesecake has appeared. There is no accompanying note and no clue as to its origin. Just cheese and cake heated into this sinister form of mockery delivered on a platter of styrofoam. I now believe that either someone from the staff—likely Charles, as it is easier for him to hide in the dark—is tormenting me, or the heads are more powerful than I first predicted.
Over the last week, some of these animals have become my friends:
The eel, who lives a life of solitude in the sales intern cubicle. I have named him Josh.
There were once fish in this box of algae otherwise known as an aquarium, which is located on the third-and-a-half floor, but apparently God had mercy on them at some point in the last six months or so.
This head, which I am now convinced is watching me every time I go to the third floor.
Here are the Christmas presents that Jim Beam and I wrapped for me night before last or yesterday morning (which caused me to go out on yet another overnight drunk, which in turn resulted in me sleeping under my desk until the P.M.):
Compaq laptop with no power chord:
Property of Amazon
Red Hot Chili Peppers picture book, Me and my Friends. (Stolen from Megan Seling's desk drawer, obviously.):
A four pack of Rize malt liquor with two Rize missing:
Upon not understanding the inner workings of a fax machine, and thusly not receiving any Christmas salutations via fax, then becoming even more distraught over Black Santa's situation, last night I decided to shirk my duties and go on an overnight drunk. Apparently, after returning to the office, Jim Beam and I wrapped me some presents and put them under the pink Christmas tree.
I stepped out for a bit to visit Black Santa in Santa Jail. The holidays are really tough on him. Also, I don't know how to use the fax machine. (This post was scheduled due to the fact that I am too hungover to post anything of substance.)
Our tech guys are apparently "sick," (which really means they're either smoking marijuana at home or smoking marijuana on vacation) so Tim offered me "one-hundred large," by which I assume he means either one hundred pennies or one hundred of God-knows-what from one of his drug dealers, to "stay around for the week and make sure the internet tubes don't overheat." And since he's still garnishing my wages for a clerical error, I figured I could use either to get through the winter.
There were a few stragglers left around the office yesterday, but today it looks like either Paul and Dan fired up those machines that write blog posts for them somewhere outside of the office, or they're not writing any (thanks guys), and it's mighty quiet in here.