A Column That Has Absolutely Nothing to Do with the Open House Held at My Work

There was an "open house" at The Newspaper – which employs me – today. Unfortunately, the "open house" was more like the summer keg party a friend and I once had in college.

We had just moved into a new house, and we decided, "What better way to celebrate our freedom from the dorms than to have a kegger?" One thing we forgot was that it was summer, and we didn't really know anyone.

At 8 p.m., there were zero people at the party. At 9 p.m., there were zero people at the party. At 10 p.m.–gasp!–there were four people there. The embarrassment wouldn't have been quite so bad if I hadn't invited a cute girl from my work to the party as well. She showed at 10:15 p.m. She left at 10:22 p.m. She no longer sat next to me in our telemarketing cubicles at work.

That's okay, though. I quit telemarketing after two months, while she continued to work there for what I imagine was a slow and painful eternity. Because of this, I also imagine that the plummet straight into the fiery depths of hell will be must faster for her than for me. Such things are based on telemarketing experience, you know. Not that hot women care about "such things".

In a rare coincidence, my uncle also does not care about "such things", and he is not a hot woman in any way, shape or form. Or so we're all led to believe.

But anyway, back to the point at hand, which was . . . um . . . okay, back to the tangent. No, no, wait! I've got the point again! I had to cheat and look at the earlier part of the column for a second time, though.

So. The open house. No one was there. That's all I really have to go on with this column. I was at work, and nobody but the people employed by the company were there. It's a story so hot that the New York Times is calling me every hour, and refuses to stop. That is, until I return their shaven monkey outhouse. But I will NOT.

You see, I acquired the shaven monkey outhouse while on a fur trading trip through Goat Scrotum, Ontario. It cost me a mighty large bit of goods, for it's not often that you find an outhouse a shaven monkey can use. My shaven monkey, Ebeneezer, is quite fond of it. So, you see, even if I wanted to return it, I couldn't.

So please stop calling my apartment and threatening my mother. She doesn't even live there, for Christ's sake. I mean, come on. If you can find a better place for a shaven monkey to drop his deposits, by all means, let me know. I'm always interested in new ideas.

P.S. If this is your first time reading my column, don't think poorly of me. It's 3 a.m., and I had to do two interviews for The Newspaper – which employs me – tonight. Come back Monday. The column will be better then, for that one will be entirely about shaven monkey outhouses.