"Lumbergh's gonna have me work on Saturday. I can tell already. And I'm gonna end up doing it, because, uh...because I'm a big pussy...which is why I work at Initech to begin with."

As I've evolved (kinda), I've come up with phrases. First chief amongst them: life, like comedy, is 90% timing.

My personal favorite that I came up with during the Great Depression of 2002 was that which does not kill us may merely paralyze us for life.

Something I came up with last year and sadly seem to lean on when I'm doing things that don't involve staring straight ahead at a screen providing me with entertainment?

"This is some real could-only-happen-to-me shit right here."

To wit, I win an auction for a McNabb jersey and figure leaving a couple hours before work will allow me time to get downtown, send the cash off for it, mayhaps jack a bite and go.

In retrospect? BAH HA.

Both the rides are late by 10 minutes, so in my frustration I go up the block and finally buy American Wedding and fifty billionty finally get Get Rich Or Die Trying.

It is only when I put on "Many Men" that I realize about half the words are missing because they've sold me a censored version. This is like trying to watch Scarface on USA.

I arrive at work, and New Butch has taken over. We're going to ask her out, the days of cowardice are over, and it's a very stirring little speech. New Butch is marching up the escalator, ready to mark the first significant change of the new year.

New Butch is set.

Problem with New Butch: Old Butch's brain is still in him. One look at her and it's like Fresh Prince set off the Neuralizer. So I stammer my way through conversation and she says she'll see me later to return Office Space, which she loved. [Like any decent human being wouldn't, but anyway.]

Prevalent voice in my head for the next hour, strangely enough with a Japanese accent: STUPID! You're so STUPID! And I realize I said earlier the crux of the job is to not go crazy dealing with people at their stupidest but it's so extra stupid today I thought the Republican National Convention from '96 was still in session ha ha ha SNAP. That, plus the Jerry Lewis homage and the shitty trip in and I'm about ready to firebomb the place back into the Stone Age.

Football calms me. It always does.

I see her again before she's to leave and I'm going back to my spot. I tell her where it is so I can get Office Space back from her. Since I didn't celebrate Christmas old school in '03 I then proceed to play "Is It Her?" for the better part of twenty minutes.

But wait, there's more!

'Cause it turns out in the dying hours of the show, incoming attendance has tapered off. Once I was busy up to my eyelids, now is a trickle. Thus the boss decides I can either go home early or stay and possibly get moved.

What the hell am I going to do, leave? She'll be there. She's coming. Plus it's a short shift and I've just come off of my lunch. So I, being the company litmus test I am, opt for staying. She doesn't come. I get moved.

Why is it when I want to get moved I get grief for sneezing but when I actually want to stay where I am...oh, right, my last name's really Murphy, I forgot. So I leave my hour-long forwarding address to a couple other workers in the vicinity and I go. Nothing happens, just exhibitors going outside to smoke and people leaving for the rear parking lot. And it's halftime at New England so I can't watch the game, and I'm getting downright bummed.

She appears. Royal blue with some gold stripes. siiiiiiiigh

Of course she got to where I was as I wasn't there, and after some "can you believe that?" she really liked Office Space. So I start doing Milton and every line sends her into a fit of giggles. New Butch, who had been beaten into the ground by the day's events, suddenly re-emerges. She looks around the lot. I ask what she's looking for, and she's wondering where her ride is. So she decides to call this guy up.

Well, here we go. Time for my heart to be ripped out at high velocity.

"Boyfriend?" I ask, as non-commital as I can make my voice. Hooray B+ in Drama.

"Nope." She has no boyfriend, and sort of lets some apologetic tone in her voice explaining all her friends are hooked up already. I'm trying to figure that out at the same time the voice in my head that sees the Scarlet Letter upside down every waking second is screaming ASK NOW! FOR THE LOVE OF ALL OF US UP HERE, DO IT! DO IT NOW! COWARDS DIE ALONE! But she says he's just a friend.

"Hm." I say, while the highlight reel of my mind plays Billy Madison's reaction to meeting Veronica Vaughn.

We continue talking and just before I can get to if she's doing anything Wednesday for the second time in six months I get a massive cockblock away from a pretty brunette on the east side of the loading dock. At least this was unintentional, but still. Anyway, my friend working east patrol is wondering about the in/out policy in the time remaining, and she goes on his cart back down to base and I am standing there, alone, with the wind chopping me in the chest.

There are no words.

Unless you count expletives.

We talk about football and proceed to do half of Office Space when he comes back because he has no idea what he's done and that's what guys do.

I'm going to give it another shot tomorrow.

Because the law of averages says I can't have another today.

Right?

RIGHT?

Currently playing: Seether's "Fine Again"