A Hairy Day at the Office. Or something

Tonight at work I turn around and see a ‘woman’ waiting to ask me a question. She was shorter, heavy-set, and hairy like no one’s business. I mean she was wearing a sun dress with a T-shirt underneath and I saw chest hair, not to mention she had more hair on her legs than I did and could have used a shave up around her – well, what I’m guessing would be her face area, and a face only a mother could lie and say she loved when in fact she vomits upon site a little in her own mouth. So she opens her mouth and utters:

“Excuse me, what aisle are your safe-sex products?”

[chirp chirp; chirp chirp]

Oh I’m sorry, were you guys waiting for a punch line? Yeah… sorry, this isn’t a joke, it really happened. But, I guess I could give you a punch line anyway. It’s not like I didn’t have a thought or two in my head at the time. One of which was “Tag, you’re IT, bitch.” I mean c’mon, who’s trying to mount sasquatch, really? She was as good a buzz-kill as anything I’ve ever seen. If she was the last woman alive I’d switch teams.

Crap, though. I guess that her asking meant that she was going to be getting some. And it makes me sad in a way, because eventually that means she’ll breed. And I know that sounds mean, but why is it that the ones producing the most offspring are the ones that we need to be purging the most in the first place?

Holy crap, I’m doing it again: against my better judgement, go watch Idiocracy, you’ll understand what I mean.