There's a Piranha around here who insists - insists on hitching up his pants and adjusting his parts in front of me all the time. He's a tiny, odious little man with the same kind of attitude that those yappy little lapdogs have. In order to make up for his lack of stature, he makes more noise than the average kindergarten class on speed.
This is placebo week; my wayward hormones have annexed my brain, and I'm dealing with the new hearing aids to boot. Fifteen minutes ago, he came a'yellin' and a'stompin' to my desk, adjusting all the while. Completely oblivious of the fact that I had my system shut down, a book in one hand and a tuna wrap in the other, he dropped some report or other on my desk and demanded an explanation for the alleged error in it. Then he adjusted again.
I was this close, thisclose, to slowly raising my gaze up from my book, swallowing the bite in my mouth, jamming my scissors into the general zipper area of his pants, and remarking, "Here. Let me take care of those for you", then using his report to gently wipe the blood from the blades.
Would that have been so wrong?
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