So I used to work for this guy, call him Biff. If I must spell it out, Biff is an idiot. I tend to use that description often, but Biff is a different kettle of guppy altogether. On a regular basis, Biff would use what I call Biff-isms. I suppose they were expressions that he thought were amusing, witty and cool. Sigh.
A few examples: he liked to call me dude (I must explain that both of us are well past our 20’s, neither of us are surfers, nor snow/skate boarders, and I am a GIRL!!), he would tell me I rock, and would – frequently – ask me to give him props (and yes, he had his fist held out, knuckles forward, each and every time). He’s the type of guy who really enjoyed telling people that they should stop looking at porn and get back to work. He ALWAYS emphasized the word porn.
The best of the worst had to be whenever I would go out for a smoke – ya ya, I am a smoker and yes, I am single-handedly responsible for global warming AND every case of second-hand-smoke related lung cancer world-wide AND the increase in juvenile asthma AND swine flu AND breaking up the Beatles AND why don’t you just get your ass into your gas guzzling SUV, drive on over here and bite me.
But I digress. So I would go out for my disgusting habit and he would invariably say “Going for a smoke and a pancake?”. To which I would be forced to reply “No, I’m trying to cut down on pancakes”.
We’ve all had a boss like that, or a co-worker, or a friend, or a parent/family member. The one who tries too hard, uses what I call MuchMusicSpeak, completely inappropriately, and tells the same old lame jokes. We sigh and, depending on who they are, muster up a lacklustre smile. Then we go on with our lives.
My problem is no longer dealing with Biff. It’s been a while since I have had the pleasure. I found me a new job and I currently work with some very smart, funny, clever and savvy people. None of whom call me dude. I sighed my last sigh, mustered my last fake, feeble smile and I went on with my life. Or so I thought. Recently, I realized the Biff-isms have become brainworms. When someone asks me if I am going for a smoke, I catch myself thinking – you guessed it – “and a pancake”. I haven’t said it out loud. Yet. But I think it every single freakin’ time.