u s e y o u r h a n d s

Someone was leaving. I forgot my soup. I think that’s the way the group co-worker lunch often begins. It’s the first time I’ve ever been to lunch with people I work with. I didn’t even get invited anywhere for the first day, which I might say, is a first. But, yes, let’s go to Bennigan’s. Let’s all go to Bennigan’s!

So we go to Bennigan’s. And who doesn’t like to see their culture misappropriated in the name of shitty chain food? Boy, I sure do. Bring on the Irish Nachos! But my little group gets stuck at this side table. And it’s fun. I don’t talk that often at work. This place is a weird political minefield and I’m having issues with that and other things. So I don’t talk a lot. But there’s a few people I feel comfortable around and I sat with them.

And then, off in the distance, I saw something that made me take pause over my chicken sammitch. Bennigan’s employees had gathered round some poor son of a bitch and had begun singing their weird version of Happy Birthday. They were clapping. They were pointing at the birthday boy’s head.

That is my own personal picture of hell.

Do not do this for me on my birthday (Nov. 25). I will not enjoy it and neither will you, your family, your pets, or your neighbors. In other news, I just sent out the invite for the Turkey Deb Ball. I need to purchase a) food for party, but that’s some distance away b) a ball gown, the more lurid the better and c) chairs.

Wendy has promised Alize.