Bifurcated Blancmanges And Leg Hair Loss

A big, brash and above all, LOUD good morning to all my Colonial friends with your delightful hangovers, groaning under the colonic burden of Thanksgiving turkey tonnage and eyeing the huge piles of yesterday's leftovers with growing nausea.

I hope you managed to get all the washing-up done. Staggering into the kitchen the morning after the night before to be confronted with piles of baked-on crap-encrusted crocks and pots is one of life's lessons from which some people seem never to learn.

As is the phrase "Oh, go on then; just one more glass."

Of course some of us don't have to suffer that; we have to get up at 4:40 in the bloody AM and head off to work …

I arrived at the office this morning to find that the usual Friday foul-up had been augmented by the creeping horror of boxes of Christmas decorations stacked on the girls' desks (somewhere in there is my nemesis; the fucking singing reindeer) and a roomful of scurrying IT dwarves muttering away in Klingon.

It appears we are in the middle of some kind of server / network apocalypse (again), the upshot of which means I have a small woman hiding under my desk while I work, who appears to be primarily engaged in swearing and hurling bundles of tangled leads across the room.
Whilst I rather enjoy having a woman under my desk the muffled warning to me not to dare say "While you're down there …" sounded ominous.

What's a man to do?
I managed a full twenty seconds of teeth-gritted agony before the phrase slipped out.

This is where a basic knowledge of conversational Klingon comes in real handy.
Thanks to my genetic nerdiness I am the only person in the office on good terms with the IT department and as a result still retain the use of my penis …

Having said that, I did lose several leg hairs.
IT girls are faster than a greased rattlesnake and the moment the phrase "While you're down there …" slipped out a hand shot up my trouserleg and nasty, tweezer-like little fingers yanked out a bunch of hairs from just above the sock line.
A short yelp from me and a long muffled giggle from under the desk and equilibrium had been restored.

My teeth are currently gritted once again, desperately holding back a comment about the inadvisability of crawling around under someone's desk with your rear on display whilst wearing fat-assed IT jeans that gape alarmingly when you bend over together with a quite revolting red thong.

My moan to Amanda about being up at the crack of dawn elicited naught but a raised eyebrow of confused misunderstanding until she turned and saw what was protruding from under my desk; the sight of those bifurcated blancmanges wobbling away sent her hurrying from the room, suppressing shrieked hysterics.
Since her return we have discussed black holes, a yawning chasm and the valley of the shadow of death with no further loss of leg hair but her giggling - and repeated use of the word "but" - is going to give the game away before much longer.

And still the gaping crack of doom wobbles enticingly from under my desk. Do I drop a stapler down there and run like hell?
Ah, the decisions one has to make in a modern office …