Once a year, my boss takes our entire company out to a baseball game.
Our main office is in Denver, Colorado, and our second office is in Salt Lake City, Utah. Which means half my coworkers are Mormon.
Baseball + Mormons = Me In A Coma.
You think baseball is boring? Try having a conversation with a Mormon. I know inanimate objects with more personality. Mormons can't talk about anything fun (read: sex, drugs, alcohol). Mormons can only converse about three things: kids, church, and the weather. Which means I have more in common with serial killers than I do with Mormons.
So there I was, trapped watching a baseball game with a pack of Mormons. It was more torturous than waterboarding, and my boss was Dick Cheney.
"Isn't this great?" My boss asked excitedly, like an asshole. I wanted to hit him.
The game started with the national anthem, and the Mormons stood up excitedly, their hands over their hearts. Mormons love America. They also love being white, giving birth, khaki pants, and lemonade. They don't drink alcohol, so at the baseball game they were all drinking tons and tons of lemonade.
"You likey the game?" I slurred to the Mormon sitting next to me. I was on my fifth beer (can you blame me?) and desperately trying to entertain myself. I had a baseball game in front of me (yawn) and a Mormon to my right. I imagined it was how a gay man felt in between two women: not interested in either.
"This is fun," said the Mormon, sipping his lemonade. He looked like Howdy Doodie, the puppet. And I was pretty sure the only one handling his strings was God.
"So, you've only had sex with like, one person, right?" I mumbled, noting the ring on his left hand.
"Um..." Howdy squirmed uncomfortably.
"Isn't that like going to a buffet and only eating the dinner rolls?" I continued. "I mean, there's like, prime rib, and salad, and all those yummy desserts...." I raised my eyebrows suggestively.
I heard my boss bark my name behind me, and as I turned to look at him he glared at me. I raised my beer in greeting.
"So," I said, returning to my conversation with the Mormon. "You don't want a beer? It's REAL good." I knocked back the rest of mine. "Why don't you make yourself useful and get mommy another?" I asked, shaking my empty cup in front of him.
As Howdy raced off, my boss approached me. "You really need to tone it down," he said sternly.
"Is this about me pressing my tits against the glass on the elevator?" I asked. "Because only like half the office saw that."
My boss flinched. "We really need to not completely offend the Salt Lake group," he grumbled.
"You're the one who invited them out here," I snapped. "Me making jokes about being somebody's fifth wife is just my way of coping."
"Oh, God," my boss groaned.
"You invited him too? Fuck, I am screwed," I said.
I tried to be nice to them. Like, I let Howdy hold my hair back when I ended up vomiting into a nacho platter, and I told Lisa, the 23-year-old with four kids that her body seemed to bounce back nicely after delivering her litter. All in all, I thought the evening went well.
"The Salt Lake City group left this morning," my boss told me the next day. I was hungover and his voice hurt my ears.
"Looks like my prayers have been answered," I replied, before running to the bathroom to puke again.
Quarter Life Whatever
3 years ago