The influx of women into the work place has costs, benefits, and challenges. There are the endless gray areas of sexual harassment, various expectations of special treatment and more competition for good jobs. On the other hand, if it was 1933, my most fuckable co-worker would be the little Asian guy with soft eyes and a mysteriously plump rear end. And if you’re in a serious relationship, it’s nice to know with a high degree of certainty that she will be tied up for the next eight hours, freeing you to put on Crytopsy at full blast, masturbate to zoo porn onto the guest towels, pull the toilet seat up, then piss in a potted plant, eat both bags of New York Cheddar Kettle chips, drink a bottle of gin, masturbate to a photo of her sister, nut into the face of her stupid cat and collapse into her shelf of Oprah Book Club titles. Moreover, in spite of everything I’ve just written, I love women and enjoy their company. The workday goes much faster with a bit of flirting and teasing. It’s nice to show up for work with a sore throat and get some maternal compassion, instead of variations of, “Gonorrhea of the throat again, bitch? Can you stay away from that glory hole for one fucking week?” And eight times out of ten that a coworker spontaneously does something nice for me, she’s female. Seriously, women are my favorite things in the world and second through seventh place go to various parts of women.
However, one consequence of women in the workplace is plainly nefarious: the advent of the Secret Santa. Getting out to the store to buy my family a bunch of bullshit for the fucking bullshit holidays is quite enough of a pain in the ass, thank you. Thank God that I am of German-Irish stock and buy gifts only for my immediate family. Consequently, my Christmas shopping consists only of a half hour at Beverages and More on Christmas Eve. Nonetheless, this is a task that requires me to be relatively sober, out of bed and not playing poker. All of this during regular business hours. Is comparing myself to Sisyphus too obvious? It seems that the moment I recover from the effort described above, Christmas has come yet again and I must repeat it. The last fucking thing in the world I need is to be obligated to buy some taint I barely know a $15 piece of crap, so that some random cunt who doesn’t know me can give me a Forrest Gump DVD, which I have to smilingly carry with me all the way to the parking lot, because throwing it the trash in front of the person who gave it to me would be “rude.” All so some broads have an excuse to do more shopping and say, “Oh, you’re so sweet!” to each other, then privately talk shit about me for buying one of them a jug of vodka.