Ehren: Fascist Dictator Of Lunch Breaks

While I appreciate the saying “Seize the Day,” I feel that the phrase doesn’t quite capture my true level of intensity when it comes to getting shit done. I don’t so much "seize" it as much as I "drug it, bind it, throw it in my trunk, drive it out to the desert, penetrate it’s every orifice in ways that would violate all decency or feelings of self-worth, and leave it sobbing and broken on the side of interstate 50."

I’m not like this all the time—just when I’ve got something to do. Which is why I put out on the first date. Or at least rub one out in her soup when she goes to check her make-up.

Today’s lunch break was a good example of my “Rape the Moment” philosophy. Generally, I spend my lunch periods napping on the couch in the break room, or violating all laws of decency (and sexual harassment) joking with co-workers. Of course, there was that one super-productive day when I multitasked and did both. Let’s just say it involved a wet-dream in the break room.

Today, however, my eyes were on a prize far-greater than the mere dry-humping of a $3000 couch. Tomorrow night is my company’s Christmas party and, seeing as I make up a good portion of the company’s hardest-drinking department, the rumors were thick in the air. Let’s put it this way: we’re pre-gaming an open-bar event. That should give you an idea of the levels of depravity I fully expect to surpass tomorrow evening. Word is that we also have a VIP table at a club for afterwards.

I believe that anything worth doing is worth doing in style. And as I anticipate being fired first thing the next morning, really the only thing to do was look sharp as I destroyed my career binging on off-color humor, women, and Jack Daniels. It was with that in mind that I decided to go clothes shopping.

1:35: Get up from my desk and recruit two co-workers/fashion advisors. I’ve learned the hard way that I desperately require a babysitter when shopping. Shopping alone has led to such questionable decisions as FUBU shirts, blue velvet pants, and prescription welder’s goggles.

1:40: Arrive at a men’s clothing store that sports a huge sign reading “Liquidation Sale! Everything must go!” I’m Jewish. Lay off me.

1:41: I’m the only white man in the store. I resist the urge to demand the clerk “dress me like Jay Z's drug-dealer.”

1:43: I find a suit that looks pimptastic. My advisors let me know I’m not hallucinating.

1:44: The salesman fits me for the pants. I enjoy being felt up a little more than is appropriate. Such is the price when I skip my afternoon masturbation session.

1:50: I leave the store with a receipt for a brand new suit in my pocket and turn my attention to my date situation. The alternative is being molested by drunk women from sales as per last year. This is far less fun than it sounds, as the phrase “more loquacious than a cattle auctioneer and roughly as feminine” is shockingly accurate. It’s your word of the day, fuckers. Look it up.

1:52: I have successfully uninvited a girl I know is notoriously antisocial and now have plans with a hot Italian girl. I am mother-fucking Benito Mussolini: partly because of my ability to get shit done but mostly because of my sinister plot to defile and enslave the Italian people...or at least their women, anyway.

To put my lunchtime of kicking-ass into perspective, while I was out plotting an evening to set the progress of women back 50 years, my co-worker stood on line at a deli and ordered a sandwich. I won’t say whose time was more productive, but unless his sandwich had an ass that was so large, round and perfect that it made smaller asses orbit it, I’m guessing it was me.

“How was your lunch?” a co-worker asked, as I assumed my on-going project of turning a leather couch into a biological disaster.

“It was great!” I responded. “I bought a suit and got a date.”

“Sounds productive.”

“Yeah. It really makes me think of all the similarities: both are dark, on sale, and of course, I hope to be inside each of them for a generous portion of the night.”