by John
Mar 21, 2005 06:52
Unless you live in Houston, you appreciate good zoning. This area is designated for housing. This area is designated for agriculture. And so forth. Not only does this reduce the chances of a head-on with a John Deere, it keeps things nicely divided. Otherwise, you’re cramming the apples into the butter tray and the 20-pound turkey into the crisper.
I elect this division of appropriate activity be extended to work. Nay. I demand. The break room is zoned for recreation. John’s desk is zoned for the John Zone (a nonstop 24/7 affair of unadulterated vigor). The desk of the “up-and-coming” worthless new-age technoshit is zoned for eating, sleeping, stupid horned-rimmed glasses, and secretly hating his life before he crawls back to his Jetta. The restroom is zoned for business and business only.
Yes, when I’m returning God’s call, I simply don’t want to speak to you. You may get a nod or a “hey,” but the niceties end there. If you hear a grunt, it’s not for you; it’s simply a matter of circumstance.
I don’t want to know how things are going as we stand three across at the urinals. This isn’t a bar. No one is serving me a brewskie. In fact, I’m vacating the remnants. Don’t tell me a joke. Don’t discuss politics, the weather, or your recent mole removal. Shut up and piss.
I rue the day I am once again subjected to a higher-up, hands-free at the urinal turning slightly to give me a “Hey, how’s it goin’?!” Better before I walked in. This is a business zone and it requires a concentrated hands-on approach lest anything spill over into leisure.
If you live in Houston, your neighborhood is likely zoned for cousins and nothing else.