What’s your price?

Every Wednesday at work is hot dog day.  It’s like any other day, the chief difference being that the snack bar on the second floor sells hot dogs for $2.  Tax is included.  Like gasoline.

I’m not sure why they only do this on Wednesdays, like hot dogs are some luxurious delicacy only able to be shipped in weekly.  My suspicions are it’s because the lady who works at the second floor snack bar, whose name is Marge, is approximately 200 infinity thousand years old.   Her wee old heart can only handle the mad rush of hot dog-craving people once per week, else she may fill with stress and slip into the realm of the deceased and ne’er again dispense hot dogs to eager denizens of corporate America yearning for that salty rod of distraction in the middle of their week.  And mad rushes are not uncommon at the bargain price of $2.  Indeed, people flock to her.

Slip Marge two crisp paper Washingtons and she’ll make you fat and pretty with a six-inch bread-wrapped meat post and an aura of uninhibited satisfaction, complete with its very own ribbed paper sleeve of power.

Hot dog day is the most thrilling thing ever.  My gaggle and I go down to see the delightful little lady every Wednesday at exactly 1:45pm, no delays, no excuses.  We almost never get hot dogs.  They are disgusting.

What we do often get is frozen yogurt, which we refer to as “hot dogs.”  Frozen yogurt is available every day of the week, but since we only go to the second floor for snacks on Wednesdays, we decided to refer to “frozen yogurt” as “hot dogs” to celebrate the day, and to make it feel like we’re going to get something special that we couldn’t get any time.  But then if we talk about them, we still have to refer to actual hot dogs as hot dogs, which becomes tricky.  In short, hot dogs are our term for frozen yogurt.  But there are also hot dogs.  Here’s a visual aid:

Hot dog equals hot dog, and frozen yogurt equals hot dog. Obviously.

We like to guess the yogurt flavor of the week during the elevator ride.  We guess things like marinara, lizard, grilled cheese, pine, Tennessee.  We are never right.

Only one of our flock consistently buys food on hot dog day, while the rest of us sit there and watch him eat.  His name is Eric.  He’s the one member of our gang who we all adore, not only for his tremendous manly pectoral muscles and his love of breakfast cereal that outshines Lady Gaga’s love of Cheerios, but because of his adorable child-like naivete of basically everything in the world that never ceases to make us question how he’s managed to survive on this planet for 26 years.  He’s also the one to whom we pose all of our difficult questions.  Such as:

“Eric, how much to eat Marge?  Not sexually.  Cannibal style.  Literally eat her.  All of her.  And her clothes.  That might be the worst part, with that sweater she has on.”

The thing that helps us get through our days is hypothesizing horrific situations or things to do around the building and determining what sum of money it would take for us to do them.

“Can I grind everything up and sprinkle it on my food as I please?”

“Yes, and you have 1 year to finish her.”

“Eight million and 47 dollars.”

That was his answer only after I reminded him that Marge has old lady pubic hair, plus he’d have to eat her intestines and any feces that was present in her body at the time*.  His original answer was $19,000.  Therein lies the problem.

Eric’s answers never make any logical sense.  For instance, he would knock out a UPS driver in the elevator, hide his body, steal his clothing, steal a package, and deliver the package to the CEO’s office with his penis hanging out of the UPS uniform fly for $400.  He would lift the three giant ceramic soup basins out of the salad bar in the cafeteria and shatter them on the floor for $700.  He would mummy wrap his face in toilet paper, dunk it in the toilet so the water goes up to his shoulders, and with the soggy toilet water-soaked tissue face mask covering him, run blind into a crowd of people while making zombie noises for $2,000.  But when asked how much he would require to use a ball-peen hammer to individually smash 2,000 Cheerios in the building lobby, assuming nobody would stop him or care that he was doing it, he said $174,000.  Because “that would be boring.

That doesn’t seem right.

Other things Eric would do, and their prices:

  • Ride a bicycle down 3 floors in the glass-encased stairway in the atrium of the building: $72,000
  • Let Tiger Woods drive a golf ball into his chest from 10 feet away: $17,000
  • Take an old, extremely moldy container of spaghetti we found in the kitchen, brew it in the coffee maker, and drink the pot of the liquid it brewed: $325
  • Stick an angel Christmas decoration (which looks like this) in his butthole, jump on a table and dance in front of no less than 7 people: $900
  • From the second floor, pee over the balcony onto people’s heads as they enter the building on the first floor (stipulation: he is permitted crouch so they can’t see him): $400
  • Hang up naked pictures of himself in every hallway of the building: $80,000 (not because of the task, but because walking around the building would be boring)
  • Climb the 20′ Christmas tree in the main lobby and throw the contents of one grocery-sized bag worth of feces at people on their way to lunch: $2,000
  • Bathe in a public fountain, complete with bath towel and bar soap, naked: $900
  • Go to work wearing only rubber bands: $942
  • Ride a bike wearing no pants past the CEO’s office: $400
  • Eat a dead bee: $12
  • Eat a live bee: $87
  • Fill a snack machine’s depository tray with urine he has collected and bottled from public toilets people failed to flush, purchase three snacks, let them fall into the pee, retrieve and consume them: $7,000
  • Sit naked in the middle of the infield of the baseball field next to the office parking lot for 2 hours: $200
  • Sit naked in the baseball field during a rainstorm for 2 hours: $400
  • Sit naked in the baseball field during a rainstorm for 2 hours where a man comes and pees on his face every 20 minutes, totaling 6 pees: $490,000

All of these values are insane, either much too high or far too low.  I was going to add some character information about Eric and mention how he also didn’t know you don’t actually have to buy 5 of something in a 5 for $10 sale to get the sale price, and how he thinks FX is the best channel in the history of television – but it’s not even necessary now that you know he’d eat a pubic hair-encrusted chicken breast for $600.

That’s messed up.  But hey, it could always be worse.  He could be a Duggar.

Do you and your co-workers ever come up with things like this to ask each other?  How do you make your days less mundane?  Let me know.  Surely we can’t be the only ones.

*That sentence lost me approximately 9.72 readers.
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6 thoughts on “What’s your price?”

  1. My coworker Allan and I throw Nerf darts at each other. I say “throw” instead of “shoot” because even though we have 60 hundred Nerf guns between the two of us, the ladies on the other side of the building thought it was somehow LOUD to have five writers pulling Mission Impossible-type moves as all-out Nerf bedlam ensued at 2:46pm on a given Tuesday. So now we can only fire the guns after 5:30 pm. Boring. So we throw the darts instead. Sometimes I like to dip the darts in something wet or cold or both first. Allan doesn’t like that as much as I do.

    We have a full bar at my office and we are permitted to drink from it after 4:30. So that’s fun.

    Sometimes Allan takes pictures of himself with hand puppets. One of the puppets is named Harold and the other one is named Allannnn. In fact, he is doing that right at this very moment. He has a whole series of them on Facebook. Very droll.

    Josh sits next to a filing cabinet covered in business-themed magnetic poetry. He likes to write poems like “idea men have no p p product” and “I say we eat out after more faxing” and “we want on her together/team up yet compete” and “let my robust machine in there/and create life.”

    Some of my coworkers and I like to play a game with IMDB. The game is that you go to IMDB, look up an actor, and then turn all of their movies into porn movie titles. I like to remind everyone that if we get caught, we will be what is known as “insta-fired.”

    Notable examples from Julia Roberts’ entry:

    Erin Cockovich
    Eat Pray Love Swallow
    The Pelican MILF
    Cumspiracy Theory
    Sleeping with the Enemy…and the Enemy’s Roommate Tim
    America’s Sweat Farts

    The jury is still out on what a “sweat fart” is. I was threatened with an actual demonstration if I didn’t persist in my inquiry.

    So, you know. That’s fun.

  2. Sigh. I’ve never had any real co-workers. Well, okay, I’ll be straight with you. I’ve never held on to a job long enough to form any bonds with people who I am working with. There, that’s the truth.

    Hey, can I come on Wednesdays? I want to eat a hot dog and meet someone who is 200 infinity thousand years old.

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