Oh poopers, he saw me. He saw me and, accidentally, we made eye contact. Like clockwork every Monday; like blonde, obnoxious twenty-something with Chiclet teeth clockwork. Great, Darren, let’s try to get this over as quick as possible, because I know if I tell you I’m busy you’ll badger me for the rest of the day until I give in even though I’ve said “no” more times than a speaker at a D.A.R.E. assembly. You’re some sort of non-sexual and non-carnivorous predator, Darren—preying on the common courtesy of the other people in the office who have to listen to your god-awful weekend recaps.
Nope, Darren, don’t even act like you think this conversation is a two-way street. You know I don’t have anything to say to you. Just get on with it so I can go back to processing data and eating chicken potpies while I wait, trying to build up the courage to quit this job.
Come on, Darren; even by the low standards you have set for yourself the beginning of this story is horrible. Seriously, please, keep elaborating on how fast you were driving your Nissan X-Terra. Do you really think a tale about you going eighty on the freeway while blasting Papa Roach is interesting to anyone? Anne Frankly, I don’t care, Darren, and I don’t care how many “hilarious” vanity plates you saw or how “totally Death Race” you think you are. Honestly, Darren, you should consider stealing a page out of Hemmingway’s book, so to speak; not on how to improve your storytelling, mind you, but rather for tips for how to commit suicide effectively.
Introspectively, I really hope I wasn’t this desperate for attention when I was his age. If I was like Darren then I suppose it’s poetically just how depressed I am now. Is this Hell; is Hell just hearing the same boring story over and over again? Apologies, world, if that was me twenty years ago, but at least I didn’t have that untrustworthy blonde hair Darren does.
Finally, this narrative is moving on from just being in Darren’s car. Now he’ at some party and talking about drinking, nicknames, and arguments over who should get what nickname. This is just pathetic, even by Darren standards. I really can’t imagine why he thought I would be interested in this; in a sad way this is quite reminiscent to every Christmas present my wife has ever given me. No, wife, I don’t want, yet another, Garfield calendar.
Now trouble is breaking out at this party, apparently someone thinks Darren hit a girl. I’ve never been one to jump to conclusions, but based on his blonde hair and puka shell necklace I’d say he’s guilty. I’ve said it before and I say it again, I’d let one thousand guilty men go free before I locked up an innocent man—provided none of the guilty or innocent men in the scenario were wearing puka shell necklaces.
Dammit, it looks like Darren was able to explain the situation to these people. Every week I always identify with the antagonists in Darren’s lack-of adventures. Predictably, this yawn of a yarn is heading in the direction of Darren telling me about some mildly sexual exploits. Here it goes, Darren lowers his voice and leans in as if the information he is telling me could destroy the company if it got into the wrong hands.
Nope, although his tale could destroy the company’s morale and put everyone into a deep depression it could do nothing to damage the company’s financial holdings. You see it was just an anecdote about how he got a squeezer from a girl after he told her he was Jude Law’s younger brother. Darren further illustrated the duped girl as “looking like Mandy Moore, but, like, if Mandy had a droopy lip from being hit in the face.” A depressing account, but far from the fiscally disruptive bombshell his body language tried to sell it as, however, he description reveals he knows what battered girls women look like which further supports my theory that he punches women.
Darren, you make me think workplace violence could be justifiable.
Finally, after three and a half torturous minutes I think he’s wrapping it up. You’re almost there; focus and just take a step towards the door to let him know you’re leaving. You’re almost at the best part of the week: the longest possible time before you’ll have to listen to Darren again.
“Cool story, bro; now I gotta go do work.”