When You Care Enough To Do The Very Least; Part The Second

Throughout my adult life people have asked me why I refuse to go out and get a “real” job – and by people I mean Mother. And by “real” job I mean marriage. I can’t tell you how many times I have to stress to them(her) that the only way to really make any money doing anything is by getting paid cash under the table. Being all around better than everyone else is hard work enough, add on top of that the daily stress of singlehandedly managing one of the biggest prescription drug cartels on the east coast, and it leaves little time for a “respectable” job like trophy wife.

But no matter how many times Daddykins tells me I’m the apple of his good eye (his left one was gouged out in a moment of fury that Momsy refers to as “The Stiletto Incident” following father’s blatant disrespect when he missed her yorkie Mr. Periwinkle’s fifth birthday party), we still seem to always have to explain to my mother that making my own money is far better than marrying into it.

But there’s another reason why I despise lowering myself to the level of the general public – and that’s the actual public. Yes, people themselves – you’re gross. That’s right – people gross me out. They gross everyone out here at the fine institution of Donnybrook – we are a clean people, free of germs, with perfect skin and teeth. We never fart, or expel any other bodily fluid for that matter. Most of us don’t even eat, as eating in public is fucking disgusting. Unless I’m at the Manse or on Arabella grounds, I would meet the world encased in rubber. I wouldn’t, that’s a lie – how on earth would little Fauntleroy feel with rubber fingers grasping at him from all angles? Never mind. He’d probably like that shit. I bet he wears a latex suit when I’m not around. Dirty little man.

No, little Fauntleroy and I like to keep a good 10 foot clearance between us and the dirty masses, and offices are disgusting. I have yet to enter one that doesn’t smell like a dirty poon that’s been sitting in a hot car in traffic all day leaving a sweaty landing strip on the seat, and I refuse to engage in small talk – when anyone asks me about the weather I like to stare at them blankly until they awkwardly turn and walk away. However, I do understand that some people do in fact have no other choice but to waste away in the cell of a cubicle surrounded by men and women like them, who are too lazy to strive for something better like prostitution – getting paid to lay on your back, plenty of fresh air – it’s really the poor person’s best option for work, in my opinion. But since most of the people out there are too ugly to make a really decent living off of selling their bodies, here is some advice for how to deal with some of the nasty habits the human animal is known to exude at work when they should be keeping all personal grooming habits locked away behind closed doors lest anyone in passing find out that they’re not the paragon of human existence and immune from the need to eliminate, or “do a twosy” as Momsy describes it to Mr. Periwinkle.

Enjoy. And you’re welcome.

Dear Alistair,

My coworker keeps clipping his fingernails while at work. It’s so annoying! Every time I see his trashcan pulled out from under the desk and those silver clippers, I just want to spit my gum at him! Is that what a classy lady like you would do? What do I do if I can’t stab him with his clippers?

- Grossed out in Georgetown

Of course the first thing that jumps out at me is how completely intelligent you are, as you can see what an incredible model of class and taste I am. But the true measure of power and class is to know when to turn it off and when to turn it on. I can dress up as nicely as you want me to, but say one wrong word and these acrylics will be shoved so far up your nasal cavity it’ll require a team of Korean women to pull the brain matter out from underneath them. Bonus points if I’ve just had the Cherish…Me team out to my house for my weekly Iced Manicure appointment.

Spitting your gum is only the beginning – I suggest making his entire cubicle your new powder room / trash can – every morning, go straight to his office to begin applying your make-up and hair products – leaving all tissues and dead hair on his desk. If possible, begin collecting as many clipped nail leavings as you can so that you can sprinkle these around his keyboard for prime finger stabbing when they become dried half-moon slivers. Bonus points if he then gets an infection from them.

Dear Alistair,

Every time I talk with one coworker in particular, they proceed to pick in their ear like they’re looking for lost treasure. It’s so annoying that whenever they do it, I tend to forget what I was talking about! Then in the end, it looks like I’m the dunce!

- Albert, Cleveland, OH

Ah – you’re falling victim to the old “gross ‘em out to the point of stupidity power play” move I’ve seen a million times. When a person can’t command respect by their mere presence alone as I can, they occasionally have to resort to these tried and true methods of dominance. You’re abhorrence and recoiling at his grooming habits is his way of getting the upper hand, and there’d better be no way IN HELL you’re going to keep standing for that.

Next time wax-puss starts digging in, pull out a Q-tip of your own and begin helping him with the other ear. When he rears back, tell him that it’s obvious he can’t handle this task himself as he seems to never be finished. There will be a slight struggle, much like trying to pin down an excited Jack Russell puppy, but a few soothing murmurs as you groom him Capuchin monkey-style should calm him down long enough for you to then jam your Q-Tip in his ear and sever his ear drum. Here is an informative diagram of what I’m talking about:

Really, you’re doing him a favor by eliminating half of the problem. What’s the point of clearing out an ear you’re not using anyway?

Please remember that if I am anything, it’s a giver, and I love nothing more than to tell you how to live your life, because frankly, I’ll do a much better job of it – write me at AskAlistair@gmail.com and if I’m drunk/bored/high enough, I’ll respond by putting you on blast in this column, as I don’t engage in direct conversation with anyone that’s beneath me.