It was a Monday morning. As usual, I was sitting at my cubicle, quietly obsessing over the growth rates of my fingernails. They say that if they don’t grow at the same rate then you’re probably in the beginning stages of carpal tunnel syndrome! At least that’s what I heard from the webpage of my roommate’s best friend’s sister’s boyfriend’s cousin who is training to be a vet in Nicaragua. Anyway, I had just finished comparing the fingernails on my ring fingers when I felt a tap on the shoulder. Naturally, I assumed it was the shambling corpse of Ed McMahon come from the grave to award me the million dollar novelty check I’d been expecting since 1995. With a mix of pants-sh*tting terror and gassy anticipation (I really should have gone to the bathroom before I left home), I turned around to stare into the paint-smeared face of Michael, the other Humor Hotlines intern.
“Do you have any Maalox?” I asked.
He flailed his arms in a strange dance that didn’t come close to answering my question.
“That doesn’t come close to answering my question,” I said. I hated charades.
He frowned and pointed to his face which I then noticed was coated in thick white paint, like he’d passed out face first into a bucket of whale sperm after a night of Remy Martin and Quaaludes at Sea World. He continued to flap around as if what he was doing should have been obvious, but I still didn’t get it.
“I still don’t get it,” I told him, going back to measuring my cuticle lengths.
“I’m a mime!” he shouted.
“Then you’re obviously not a very good one because mimes don’t talk,” I told him.
He mumbled a few expletives and something about my not being able to appreciate art and went outside to terrorize passersby with his mute clown routine. Since the Humor Hotlines office is located on the border between the territories of two of the city’s largest street gangs, I didn’t expect him to come back anytime soon. I helped myself to his lunch…and his Macbook.
Half an hour later, the UPS guy comes in with a fist smeared with white paint and a story to tell. But no one really listened to the whole thing. He’s the UPS guy. However, I did manage to catch a few key words while I signed for my Celine Dion boxed set (don’t judge me!): “mime,” “demand,” and“restraining order.” It was like a lightbulb clicked on over my head. And not one of those ridiculous twisty ones that are just as bright as the regular kind but you hate them anyway because those condescending eco-pricks accuse you of going around and beating baby seals with brass knuckles if you still use normal light bulbs. No, this was a good, old-fashioned, public school fluorescent. I immediately ran to my desk and banged out a script for a “Demand a Restraining Order on all Mimes!” hotline and sent it to our creative director and creator of the Original Rejection Hotline, Jeff…who subsequently sent it off to some hotshot L.A. writers who turned it into this: 781-452-2659. The creative process is fascinating isn’t it, folks?
Until I get jumped by a gang of disgruntled mimes,
DeVon
