The Office Whacker (A True Story)
Good people of NYC – I bring to you today a terrible tale of office tomfoolery and very bad etiquette.
Needless to say, it is not for the squeamish, nor is it for the easily offended…
I had an odd situation arise at work the other afternoon.
There is this sales guy that works out of my facility, but we hardly ever see him. His office is up in the front part of the facility, out of the way of all the real work going on up in the joint. This cat works fucking banker’s hours – he rolls in around 11, and usually slinks out around 4. Which is good, because he’s a fucking idiot. I mean that, too. An idiot of the Highest Order, the kind of moron that refuses to come and do a little bot of production work, which would ultimately do nothing but help him sell our services to potential clients. Duh, right?
He also refuses to clean his office, which falls under the jurisdiction of SEAN IS KING KONG UP IN THIS PIECE, AND ALL Y’ALL MUST DO AS HE SAYS OR PAY A FUCKING PRICE. I sent the Director of Sales some phone pics of this fool’s sty of an office the other day, and needless to say, the DoS was not a happy man. Maybe twenty minutes later, I received an e-mail from the slovenly sales guy that said “Cleaning isn’t my forte, bro – I’m still a bachelor!”
Yeah. I bet you can imagine my response, right? Good.
His office is now as clean as it can possibly be, and he is not happy with the fact that I threw out his gym bag full of dirty clothes. He was also unhappy that I tossed out his stash of fuck-books he had under his desk. Whatever – I’m running a business here, it’s not like you’re staying with your weird Uncle Felix for the summer – we do work here. God forbid a client comes to the shop or something like that.
Today, as I was in the front part of the office cleaning out the server closet, I heard some fucking bizarre sounds coming from The Bachelor’s office. His door was a little bit ajar, and the sounds coming from inside almost sounded like homeboy was sick and groaning. I edged a little closer to his office, and heard that he was definitely making some grunting sounds, and he seemed to be shifting around in his chair a bit.
Concerned, I called out to him as I pushed his door open with the palm of my hand –
“Yo, son – you alright up in there, or do I need to call you an ambulance or something?”
That motherfucker must’ve jumped out of his chair as fast as humanly possible, because his foot hit that door with the quickness, slamming it shut so hard it jammed my wrist.
“I’m okay man! I’m just on a call – I’M OKAY, THANKS!”
Right then it hit me dead solid:
This motherfucker was up in there whacking his nut!
I couldn’t stop laughing. I realized that the groaning I was hearing was some porno shit he was watching on his laptop, and the shifting around sounds I had heard were him, sitting in his chair, punching the fucking clown. AT WORK, NO LESS.
“Dude? They make bathroom stalls for that shit, don’t fucking rub one out in the office, that’s not fucking classy!”
I went outside to smoke and called my boss to tell him the story, and he was laughing so hard I could hear him crying on the other end of the phone. We decided to leave him alone about it for a few days, but starting Monday – SHIT IS ON, SON. I am going to razz this kid until he dies.
By the time I went back up front, his office door was wide open and as dark as The Congo – The Office Whacker had bounced out to avoid being confronted for his inability to NOT jerk-off at the office.
I love New York City, don’t you?