Underpants On The Outside

The first thing you must know to understand my story is that Wonder Wife and I have no security at our building, so any packages we order have to be delivered to my job at “The Magic Kingdom.”

The second thing you have to know is that Wonder Wife and I are the type of lame-asses who order coffee from across the country.  We drink expensive coffee and cheap wine.  That fact didn’t seem stupid to me until I had to write it out.  That’s like saying I’ve got a solid gold bedspring for my futon.

A box of coffee arrived for me at the office the other day.  The entire mail room smelled like it. The mailroom attendent even commented on it by saying she couldn’t smell anything else.  I replied, “That’s the idea!”  For some reason I wanted to imply that I was using the coffee to transport cocaine and thereby seem bad-ass; looking back on it now, I hope I didn’t give her the impression that I had farted.

(Dear “Magic Kingdom” HR reps.  There was no cocaine in the box.  I also did not fart.)

By sheer coincidence, we had some co-workers from our Chicago office in town, and I had had a spirited discussion about coffee with one of them the day before.  I had even given her the name of my supplier.  (To reiterate, HR reps: no cocaine.  I did, however, fart just now.)

With a box of the good shit in my hand, it occurred to me that my colleague might enjoy a little sniff or two. (Okay, that time I tried to make it sound like coke.)

There are times – all too rare in my life – when I actually think about what I’m going to say before I say it.  Thankfully, the short walk from the mail room back to my desk gave me just enough time for such an opportunity.  Otherwise I would have walked right up to a co-worker, in an office environment, and invited her to take a whiff of my package.  Oh dear.

Regretably, the moment of realization came afterI had got her attention.  So now that she was looking at me expectantly, all the muscles in my face went slack as I stared off into space and tried and think of a better wording. But under the pressure, every phrasing I could think of was worse than the last.  Wanna smell my box?… Put your nose to this here box of mine…My package gives off a fragrance you’re sure to enjoy…

In hindsight, I was way too focused on the verb, rather than the noun. If I had just thought of the word “parcel” I’d have been home free.  Eventually, I went with something filled with too much social awkwardness to ever be mistaken for a come-on: “The, uh… contents of this box… which I received in the mail just now, mind you… give off an odor that… er… I think you would enjoy… y’know, from a safe distance…” (In my high school years, that was how I asked girls out.)

Just when I think my career has made a Matrix-style bullet-dodge, another co-worker sitting two feet away whips around and says, “He wants you to smell his package!” then looks at me like I should high-five him.

In the end, I think the moral of this story is that there are many ladies who should take my package gently in their hands, bring their face in close, open up their sensory organs and prepare to be amazed.  If only there was some way for me to tell them that…

Oh yeah.  If you want a kilo or two of this high quality shit (though they’ll probably make you buy it by the pound) go to Graffeo.com.  Get the dark roast.  Personally, I get the shit raw and step on it myself.  (I mean, you can’t beat fresh grounds, right?)  Tell them Z sent you, and I want to say thank you to Thunder Lizard for hooking me up in the first place.

Man, I miss The Wire.