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6:04 a.m. - 2002-10-02


God ... I feel like crap today.

I met my former evil boss Wendigo for lunch at Moe's yesterday and ordered the Homewrecker burrito.

Now ... normally I don't get along too well with Mexican food. I'm Dean Martin and Mexican food is Jerry Lewis. I'm cool, calm and sexy with the ladies. Mexican food is loud, obnoxious and says "LAYYYY-DEEEEE!!!" a lot.

So we go there and they make your food right in front of you. It's like Subway, except it's Mexican food. So you can stand there and scream "NO CHEESE ON THE HOMEWRECKER!!!" when the guy absentmindedly tries to put cheese on your burrito after you've already firmly told him once that you wanted a Homewrecker with no cheese.

Therefore, I thought that maybe this time I could get along okay with the Mexican food.

And it was good. It was damned good. The burrito was bigger than Hulk Hogan's forearm. But I ate every bite because it was damned good (in case you didn't get the gist that this was a DAMNED GOOD burrito).

Came back to the office and was sitting there working when my stomach started doing flip-flops.

Not poopy flip-flops. These were flip-flops like I was about to cough up a small unicorn or something.

I started getting dizzy and sweaty. I put my head on my desk to stop the spinning.

The rest of the day, I felt like crap. I stayed at work but got absolutely nothing done. I came home and laid on the couch for an eternity. Susie and Andrew got home two hours late and I didn't even care. As it turns out, she got into it with her boss. She came home, asked me to watch Andrew and called one of the higher-ups in her company to spill the beans on what a dick her boss is. This may have been an okay thing to do if she had another job lined up, but she doesn't.

She told the guy how her boss will leave the office to go "wash his car" and be gone for 4-5 hours. This happens 2-3 times a week.

Some days, he doesn't come in at all.

One day a few weeks ago, he came in all beat up and admitted that his 32 year-old son beat the crap out of him for having an affair on his wife of 35 years. Apparently, this affair has been going on for several years.

The girl he's having an affair with is 29. He's 58.

He's tried several times to get his mistress a job working for him. Meaning he wants to give the girl MY WIFE'S job.

So he's been trying to get my wife to quit since he came on board about 18 months ago. My wife's been with the company almost nine years. He's been there 18 months.

None of the upper management knew this about the guy because my wife has kept it all quiet, not wanting to rock the boat. But she got written up by this jerk yesterday for not eliminating four lines off of a 1,600 line document. The four lines contained the salaries of four managers of two stores in Florida. Don't ask me ... I don't know her job. All I know is that the salaries of four guys of parts stores became public knowledge amongst all the people who saw this document if they bothered to read it all.

So now she's written up for this mistake.

There's a lot more stuff that this weasel has done to force her to quit, but I won't get into it here.

But now...the people at corporate have heard just what a piece of white trash this guy really is and how he's using company time each week to bang a woman young enough to be his daughter while campaigning to get her a job.

We'll see who wins this battle. Something tells me that he will. Which is fine. I want my wife to get a better job anyway and she does too.


So she goes to make this call to management and leaves me with Andrew.

We stare at each other for a few minutes. He wants dinner. I want my stomach to quit bungee jumping off my intestines.

I get up to fix him some chicken nuggets and get hit with the overwhelming urge to vomit.

Trouble is ... if I'm in the kitchen, the dog is at my feet. The dog is like a snake, wrapped around my feet. Because she knows the kitchen has food and if I'm in the kitchen I MUST give her food. And to make sure that I'm going to give her food, she hovers inches away from my feet at all times, making walking difficult.

At this point, with a few gallons of puke barrelling up my trachea I temporarily forget that the dog is RIGHTTHERE at my feet.

I go to run to the bathroom and trip over the dog.

I try to catch myself, but it's too late. I'm off balance and am toppling over. I reach out for our breakfast room table but it's several feet away and only LOOKS like it's right there.

I hit the floor.

And proceed to vomit on the new vinyl floor.

Which amuses Andrew to no end.

He's laughing and clapping in his high chair like The Wiggles have come to our house to perform a concert especially for him.

Meanwhile, I'm curled up in a fetal position, trying to get up off the floor and get to the bathroom to vomit some more.

Susie hears the commotion, comes running out because she's been crying on the phone to upper management and finds her husband crawling around the kitchen floor and vomiting while the dog and baby watch in amusement.

Luckily, she had the common courtesy to tell the guy she'd call him back in a minute, hung up and helped me to the bathroom where I hurled some more.

She fed the baby while I staggered back to the bedroom and passed out.

I still feel like crap today. I barely slept all night and generally feel like death warmed over.

But hey .... eat at Moe's.

Just stay away from the Homewrecker.

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