Baring it all.

12 Feb

I hate people who fill the rear window of their car with stuffed animals. What’s the point? Does your limited edition 4th of July bear help you navigate through traffic? Do they keep you company? What’s the story behind this? I’ll be the first to admit that I have a braggable collection of Beanie Babies buried in the closet at home from my childhood obsession, but I don’t have them on display to everyone east-bound on I-80. People.

So the other day I was running an interview in the office. A man named Taylor arrives and begins filling out his application in the waiting room. A few minutes later I call his name and invite him into my office to begin asking him the usual questions before the interview actually begins. He sits down across from me, and I notice something peculiar:

This man’s shirt, from the second button all the way down to the bottom, is completely open, exposing his white, fat belly to me and the rest of the world. I discreetly retrieve my cell phone, and under the cover of claiming to “check the time,” I snap the above photo. Surely he’ll notice, I say to myself. Five or six minutes go by, and he has not discovered his revealing midriff. He gets up to go wait in the other room again. Of COURSE by now he has to feel a draft on his belly button and fix his wardrobe malfunction, right? Wrong. By now there are six other people in the room. It is obvious that every person in that room is now aware of the open-shirted peep show we’re getting from 250 pound Taylor. Every person except him, that is. The interview begins. Forty-five minutes go by. He still doesn’t notice.

I meet with him one more time and finish asking him questions, but still the man is oblivious to his partial nudity. He leaves. I’m a bitch for not telling him. Ha. How does this happen? How do you not feel the air flowing free as a bird over your stomach, sir? Interesting. Reaaaally interesting.

In just a few short hours, Trenton and I will be south-bound to a wedding in Texas where everything’s bigger. Maybe some of that will rub off in my bra. Probably not. I have never been to the great state of Texas, so this will be fun. Granted I will be passed out for the eight hour drive there and then drunk for the remainder of my visit, I can’t make any promises that I’ll have any enriching stories to tell of upon my return, but that’s not my problem, ya dig?

People need to stop carrying their dogs around in bags. It’s getting ridiculous. If you want something to carry around on your shoulder, get a purse. And put things in it that belong. Like a wallet. Or your cell phone. Or your car keys. Not a shitzu. “But Becca, what would we use?!?!” I have a couple suggestions:

1) Let them walk.
PREPOSTEROUS, I know. But attention ladies and gentlemen: dogs have legs. In fact, they have four of them! Twice as many as we do!

2) Have you ever seen one of these before?

This is called a leash. (“leesh”) noun: a chain, strap, etc., for controlling or leading a dog or other animal; lead. People used to use these in the olden days to walk their dog, meaning letting them use their legs to move about. Try it out, let me know what you think.

WELL, I’m off to slurp vegetable noodle soup and pack for the great confederate state of Tex-ass. See you kiddies later.

“I have an ENORMOUS childhood Beanie Baby collection. I’m embarrassed. I mean we’re talking collector items–Princess Diana–bull shit like that.”
-Cole.

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