How to Deal with the Office Perv

One of my friends is keeping a sexual harassment log. The office perv has set his 58 year old, married with children sights on her. My advice was as follows:

Your normal office pervs are fun to screw with... mentally. Ask about his wife when he asks about going to "lunch" if he tells you about how they are having trouble and he feels trapped start to tell him that you know exactly what he means:

"Like in that movie Brokeback Mountain. The main character felt trapped too but if you just come out and tell your wife you're gay then things will eventually get better. "

If he tries to refute his homosexuality. Nod sympathetically but lace it with condescending undertones. Let him know that he should not be ashamed of himself. That the truth will set him free.

If he counters this by redoubling his efforts to get into your pants.

a: Invite him out to lunch and have one of your actual gay friends "drop by" introduce them, sit back and enjoy the show.
b:Invite him out to lunch and have one of your girlfriends come by.

I did this once for one of my friends. I dressed in my best bitch-fit and strolled into the restaurant and gave her a big kiss before sitting down. The guy was flabbergasted. Once recovered he tried to hint at the whole I'm into lesbian thing but I made it quite clear that my dick was bigger than his.

Anyway be creative. Have fun with it. And remember if you need me to I can come grab your ass and stick my tongue down your throat because that's what friends are for.

Fat gurl @ the gym (intro to my autobiography blah blah blah)

I haven’t always been fat.

But that doesn’t really matter now does it?

             Because I’ve always considered myself to be fat, large, rotund, morbidly obese and doomed by my anti-aesthetic monstrosity to a lonely life.  A horrible, torrid, terrible affair, brimming with romantic rejections, jobs that had me stuffed in the farthest darkest cubical, and the occasional snickering of small children.  I would only find peace by my merciful and satirical death.  Which would involve a two year old twinke and a Jerry Springer rerun.

As I would laugh merrily at the misfortune of some skinny bitch I would choke on the twinke I just found under my seat cushion.   would tumble from my recliner (an awkward pathetic slow fall) with my flower print mumu flailing out around me  (except for where it was pinched between my ass cheeks in  a gigantic weggie).  My chubby sausage fingers would rake the air knocking over my sad collection of crystals, precious moments children and snowglobes.

No one would come.  I would be alone.  I didn’t date. I wasn’t married.  I never had children, because I was still scared from elementary school and the kids who pointed and snickered on the streetcar.  As I lay there drowning in my own vomit while simultaneous reliving all my nightmares and daydreams  my eyes would catch a rumpled ad from Jenny Craig that read “Isn’t today the day?”

With that the curtain would fall heavily on the Shakespearian tragedy that was my life.  From there I would go to heaven  (because I died a virgin)  where I would be given a set of 3x size wings (because I was still fat).  This makes me sad but I forget all that because for the first time that I since I was seven that horrible lower back pain is gone and I don’t get winded standing up.

I’d float all happy like down from heaven to take a peek at my sparsely attended funeral only to find that it is a closed casket because my nine cats had partial eaten my face before they found me in my backstreet, ground level, studio apartment.  Surrounded by broken glass and dried bits of confetti snow with the mother of all wedgies stuck between my asscheeks.

                 It is preordained, predetermined… destiny.

 

Even when I managed to lose my virginity, meet a man who wanted to marry me and developed an allergy to cats I knew better.  I had seen it.  The same vision since I was sixteen…. Trust me its going to happen.

 

Or so I thought.