Attack of the Blob of Doom
Why do these things keep happening to me? I refuse to believe in a vindictive biblical Providence but it’s getting difficult.
Hung out at The Secret Hangout with Fazal for an hour. Had what was probably the worst cold of the millennium, the kind that leaves you blinded, bloody-nosed, and bereft of any sensation.
Drank four cups of coffee, and just as I was about to drain the last one, a fly staggered and fell in. I didn’t actually see it fall in, though—being practically blind—and I instantly gagged at the thought of having drunk about a litre of fly-infused coffee.
Got to work, stumbled in, needing desperately to pee. Was pulling up my pants when, horror of horrors, I discovered something sticky, positioned right below the right-bum pocket of my jeans. “Shit,” I said to myself. Rapid on the heels of this, came another thought. “Shit,” I said, and this time I wasn’t swearing. Could it be? But it didn’t smell, and didn’t look like the substance in question.
The possibilities came chasing after each other into my brain: Did I sit on someone’s lunch? Was I attacked by a squadron of ketchup-wielding space monkeys? Did I accidentally lean against a used tampon or a bleeding corpse? You would think that one would notice that sort of thing, but my cold-impaired senses had left me in a state of absolute senselessness, so none of these options could be ruled out.
I had no choice but to strip down to my knickers and try to scrub the damn thing out. At the top of the list of things to do to ensure that your cold rapidly turns into a raging fever: standing barefoot and pant-less in a cold-tiled wet lavatory for forty minutes, waiting for your goddamn jeans to dry. And staring at your jeans not only doesn't speed up the process, but also has the unfortunate side-effect of making you dizzy and unable to judge if the blob has truly been eradicated, or if there are tell-tale patches like the color-blindness test you do before getting a driver's licence.
By the time they were (somewhat) dry, and I had stumbled out, people were giving me that funny look of, “What were you doing in there?” I didn’t much fancy the idea of explaining: I was certain that no one would believe me. Instead, for the rest of the evening I stayed seated as far as possible, scooting from one place to another only after casing the joint and making sure there was no one in the vicinity, especially anywhere behind me. I walked backwards out of rooms, blatantly ignored the Flint’s request to see me (which would have involved walking in — and out — of his room in full view of the entire editorial section), and dashed out of the office the moment I was done.
Once in the car (with a copy of the Daily Beard shielding the car seat) another horrific thought struck me. Did this happen at, or before, our sojourn to The Secret Hangout? We went in Fazal’s car, incapacitated as I was by the sneezathon… I called him and made him check his car, promising eternal servitude—and the best drycleaners in town—if he found any muck on the seat.
“You are, hands down, the most elegant person I know,” he said, when I had described my ordeal of the past few hours. “How could you not have known that you sat on something? Didn’t it squelch, or make a noise when it was dying?”
“I know! I know. I have no idea,” I said. “Do you think anyone noticed? Did you notice anything?”
“Did I notice anything?” he said. “You mean when I groped your ass and ogled you when we were walking to the car? No. No, I did not notice anything.”
“Right,” I said. “And by, the way, eww.”
“Well, if it’s any comfort, there’s nothing on the car seat,” he said.
Five minutes later, I called him back. “Don’t tell anyone,” I said. “In case nobody noticed.”
“Er, ah.”
“WHAAAAAAT? Whom did you tell?”
“Um, no one… except Darcy.”
“You told DARCY?” I screamed. Fazal was laughing now.
“No, relax, I didn’t tell anyone. I didn’t know you could sound so shrill,” he said, chortling.
“Thanks, and f--- you,” I said, with genuine gratitude. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going home, where I plan to curl up in a corner and die of mortification.”
Hung out at The Secret Hangout with Fazal for an hour. Had what was probably the worst cold of the millennium, the kind that leaves you blinded, bloody-nosed, and bereft of any sensation.
Drank four cups of coffee, and just as I was about to drain the last one, a fly staggered and fell in. I didn’t actually see it fall in, though—being practically blind—and I instantly gagged at the thought of having drunk about a litre of fly-infused coffee.
Got to work, stumbled in, needing desperately to pee. Was pulling up my pants when, horror of horrors, I discovered something sticky, positioned right below the right-bum pocket of my jeans. “Shit,” I said to myself. Rapid on the heels of this, came another thought. “Shit,” I said, and this time I wasn’t swearing. Could it be? But it didn’t smell, and didn’t look like the substance in question.
The possibilities came chasing after each other into my brain: Did I sit on someone’s lunch? Was I attacked by a squadron of ketchup-wielding space monkeys? Did I accidentally lean against a used tampon or a bleeding corpse? You would think that one would notice that sort of thing, but my cold-impaired senses had left me in a state of absolute senselessness, so none of these options could be ruled out.
I had no choice but to strip down to my knickers and try to scrub the damn thing out. At the top of the list of things to do to ensure that your cold rapidly turns into a raging fever: standing barefoot and pant-less in a cold-tiled wet lavatory for forty minutes, waiting for your goddamn jeans to dry. And staring at your jeans not only doesn't speed up the process, but also has the unfortunate side-effect of making you dizzy and unable to judge if the blob has truly been eradicated, or if there are tell-tale patches like the color-blindness test you do before getting a driver's licence.
By the time they were (somewhat) dry, and I had stumbled out, people were giving me that funny look of, “What were you doing in there?” I didn’t much fancy the idea of explaining: I was certain that no one would believe me. Instead, for the rest of the evening I stayed seated as far as possible, scooting from one place to another only after casing the joint and making sure there was no one in the vicinity, especially anywhere behind me. I walked backwards out of rooms, blatantly ignored the Flint’s request to see me (which would have involved walking in — and out — of his room in full view of the entire editorial section), and dashed out of the office the moment I was done.
Once in the car (with a copy of the Daily Beard shielding the car seat) another horrific thought struck me. Did this happen at, or before, our sojourn to The Secret Hangout? We went in Fazal’s car, incapacitated as I was by the sneezathon… I called him and made him check his car, promising eternal servitude—and the best drycleaners in town—if he found any muck on the seat.
“You are, hands down, the most elegant person I know,” he said, when I had described my ordeal of the past few hours. “How could you not have known that you sat on something? Didn’t it squelch, or make a noise when it was dying?”
“I know! I know. I have no idea,” I said. “Do you think anyone noticed? Did you notice anything?”
“Did I notice anything?” he said. “You mean when I groped your ass and ogled you when we were walking to the car? No. No, I did not notice anything.”
“Right,” I said. “And by, the way, eww.”
“Well, if it’s any comfort, there’s nothing on the car seat,” he said.
Five minutes later, I called him back. “Don’t tell anyone,” I said. “In case nobody noticed.”
“Er, ah.”
“WHAAAAAAT? Whom did you tell?”
“Um, no one… except Darcy.”
“You told DARCY?” I screamed. Fazal was laughing now.
“No, relax, I didn’t tell anyone. I didn’t know you could sound so shrill,” he said, chortling.
“Thanks, and f--- you,” I said, with genuine gratitude. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going home, where I plan to curl up in a corner and die of mortification.”
