Skipper At The Porcelain Helm
I live in a charming little city in Wisconsin and have an insanely boring job. I am a junior partner in Trusts, Wills, and Estate Law. The fifty hours a week are mind-numbing, but the perks are darn good, the ladies are cute, the Country Club membership comes in handy, and the leased Mercedes is blue.
One of our founding partners, who also owns a couple of banks, is older than dirt. The old codger comes in to work bright an early every day at the crack of noon sporting a bow tie and one of many seersucker suits (in the summer). I gotta’ give the old fart some props, though, because after his first wife divorced him, he remarried a bleach blonde of the spry age of sixty or so, whom I will call Bambi. And the two of them popped out a little whippersnapper, whom I will call Skipper. Wouldn’t you know, but Bambi must have seriously fried her already-puckered uterus with a deadly combination of Virginia Slims, Peroxide, Ammonia, Tanning Oil, and Peach Brandy; because little Skipper seems to claim every questionable, dysfunctional disease on the planet: ADD, Tourette syndrome, addictions to both sports drinks and video games, tinnitis (ringing in the ears), and narcolepsy.
Actually, he’s not so little; he’s a grown boy in the body of a hairy hobbit. It’s not that I’m picking on Skipper, either, because he’s nice in his own way, and I try to help him around the office; buts its hard. You see, Skipper has failed the bar three times and has given up passing it.
So Clive Cusser (the nickname for the founding Partner) allows Skipper to work for the firm as if he’s an attorney—a sort of paralegal. Sometimes customers don’t know that he’s actually not an attorney, because he makes calls, takes people to lunch, gophers, goes to the printer, and picks up the mail.
Last week Dad decided to let Skipper think he was running the office while he and wife Bambi had violent Viagra sex followed by megadoses of nitroglycerin down in the Caribbean. On Friday, I showed up to work late; and my appointment, Mrs. Wiggins, was already waiting in the office. Skipper was trying to make conversation with the poor woman:
“Im running the … DONKEY KONG! DONKEY KONG! ... office this week for Dad”. (Donkey Kong is his favorite Tourette exclamation.) The woman looked horrified.
I ushered her into my office and told Skipper loudly, “I’ve got it from here!” I then gave her a pat on the back and whispered to her that Skipper was on medication, which seemed to relieve her.
Mrs. Wiggins is about eighty years old and had come in to redo her will. She looks like Betty White from that Golden Girls Show. She asked to use the restroom adjacent to my office, which gave me a chance to fire up the coffee pot and jump start my system. I was honestly barely awake at the time.
And that’s when I heard a bloodcurdling cry from the restroom.
”WHAT IS THAT THING?”
She opened the door. It smelled like somebody had sucked out a gallon of liquid poop from a ten year-old R.V. container and then threw it on a George Foreman grill until it got so hot that even the cord melted. Mildred became so sick that she started to vomit, went toward the toilet, thought better of it, and then spewed chunks into the trash can. Her projections sounded like somebody grinding light bulbs in a garbage disposer.
I immediately retreated into the office and opened the window, and almost hurled myself out; I had never smelled anything so vile.
A few minutes later, Mildred practically crawled out of the bathroom, and I went in to have a look. A nineteen inch festering turd the color of a burned marshmallow was roped around the bowl. It appeared that a foggy haze surrounded it, rising up like a toxic chemical reaction. I think there were giant lumps of peppers and onions sticking out of it .
I immediately hit the flush button, and somehow two thirds of the behemoth slithered out of site. Five flushes later there was only a big skid mark in the bowl marking its territory, as if awaiting a bureaucrat to arrive from the Guinness book of World Records.
We were unable to continue our meeting after this, and I relieved Skipper of his duties for the day, which made him agreeable happy. His explanation for the turd was that he had experienced a harrowing brush with death from a Taco Bell at closing time the previous evening. The employee working the drive-thru handed him his burrito as if it was about to burst into flames. Apparently, as some sort of high school prank, the giddy closing crew made a joke burrito stuffed with jalapenos. Skipper is quite well-known at that Taco Bell, as he tries to hit on the cute high school girls at the drive-thru window. Naturally, Skipper ate the whole concoction, washed down by giant gulps of Mountain Dew.
I’m still not sure how to explain to Clive what happened.