Tenth Muse

I hate Whisperers.  You know those people I’m talking about—those that find it necessary to get right in your personal space and whisper at you, for usually one of two reasons: they’re gossiping about something you don’t give a rat’s ass about or they’re just smarmy like that.

I have two such people in my office.  One is a girl I’ve dubbed Whispering Punanni because my friend GeeDub says that he can smell her chocha when she’s over whispering at his desk.  She’s always gossiping about something, usually something as thrilling as last night’s hootchie extravaganza involving apple martinis.  You can hear her whispering.  You can almost hear the spittle.  Whispering Punanni is part of a clan I call the Halter-Top Bitches(tm).  You know, the type of girls who care what kind of car you drive, have rhinestones on their toenails and compare themselves to the characters on Sex in the City.

The other guy is someone I call Slick Dick.  You know the one.  The one who calls people “Guy” as in, “Hey guy, do you have that file for me?” He has an intimate relationship with his mousse.  He wears slip on Kenneth Cole mules with stripped socks, grinds his Starbucks at his desk and smacks of smarm.  He often sidles up to me, completely oblivious to my intentional lack of eye-contact, lest I inadvertently invite him to converse with me, and whispers something like, “Hey Jo…how you doin’?” then he’ll swallow and wink.  Fuck off.

Jo.  He calls me Jo.  The few and privileged call me Jo.  My name is Joelle, dude. Not “guy”, not “babe”, and certainly, for you, not Jo.  So why don’t you take your closeted ass out of my personal space and take Punanni with you.

This entry was posted on Monday, February 3rd, 2003 at 10:36 am and is filed under Uncategorized. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. Both comments and pings are currently closed.