I’m a man without a country. Also, we’re out of toilet paper. I was going to stop on the way home but it was all cold. And rainy, ‘n shit. Just another minor detail making it easier to leave this third-world hole.
Now, as the clouds have cleared, the sky a faint blue with a dull pink hue that signifies any beautifully feminine sunset, I sit here, past du Lundi au Jeudi supermarket hours, thinking I should probably be developing my German.
Speaking of Germans, it was made clear to us that our favourite Japanese colleague really doesn’t understand a word we say. Here this whole time, with all that nodding and hesitant laughing, we thought we were getting through.
Or, maybe he’s just a complete dick.
We’ll let you, our viewer, decide.
. . .
Having been inquired about our lunch plans, Japanese style, we state that we’re finishing up a quick project and would love to grab something later. Ok.
Two ‘o clock. Parched. Famished. We’re a hungry bitch. Like a shoebox full of Ethiopian puppies. We find Japan, apologize, and invite him to split the last sandwich with us. We grab the knife, cut the cucumber, red onion, chicken breast laden between two mayonnaise-based sauced pretzel rolls sandwich into two equal halves, grab two plates, and as we turn around to grab two glasses, Japan puts both equal halves on one plate, and walks out of the kitchen.
Ok. That’s the polite thing to do. Take my half out there for me while I get two glasses of water. It’s thoughtful. Like opening the door. Or giving a courtesy flush.
As we walk back into the office, the first half is gone and he’s fist deep into the second half. My half. Hunger knows no funny.
Thinking back, I see the humour. It’s a fu*ked up thing to do. But I see the humour. Actually, it was funnier than an elevator fart. We’ve all been there. And we know how funny those can be.
Now, as the clouds have cleared, the sky a faint blue with a dull pink hue that signifies any beautifully feminine sunset, I sit here, past du Lundi au Jeudi supermarket hours, thinking I should probably be developing my German.
Speaking of Germans, it was made clear to us that our favourite Japanese colleague really doesn’t understand a word we say. Here this whole time, with all that nodding and hesitant laughing, we thought we were getting through.
Or, maybe he’s just a complete dick.
We’ll let you, our viewer, decide.
. . .
Having been inquired about our lunch plans, Japanese style, we state that we’re finishing up a quick project and would love to grab something later. Ok.
Two ‘o clock. Parched. Famished. We’re a hungry bitch. Like a shoebox full of Ethiopian puppies. We find Japan, apologize, and invite him to split the last sandwich with us. We grab the knife, cut the cucumber, red onion, chicken breast laden between two mayonnaise-based sauced pretzel rolls sandwich into two equal halves, grab two plates, and as we turn around to grab two glasses, Japan puts both equal halves on one plate, and walks out of the kitchen.
Ok. That’s the polite thing to do. Take my half out there for me while I get two glasses of water. It’s thoughtful. Like opening the door. Or giving a courtesy flush.
As we walk back into the office, the first half is gone and he’s fist deep into the second half. My half. Hunger knows no funny.
Thinking back, I see the humour. It’s a fu*ked up thing to do. But I see the humour. Actually, it was funnier than an elevator fart. We’ve all been there. And we know how funny those can be.
