Day 422: I Think About Cock

It is little wonder that I am happy again, for I - Non-workingmonkey - am now back in my natural state: one of literal non-workingness.

It has been over week since I left my last job, and to my delight I am now completely recovered from the ill-effects of working (exhaustion, depression, refusal to see that there is in fact any point in living any more, hives, insomnia, alcoholism). My heart soars when I think of it!

The state of literal non-workingness also means that I have:

a. Lots of time

Which is excellent, despite the fact that I have:

b. Cock-all money.

Still, no matter. My good humour is returned. I am back to normal. I do not have to pretend I like people I don't like, and I do not have to do anything I do not find interesting. (Both of these things break my spirit. I am not, for once, exaggerating for comic effect. It is the absolute truth.)

I am also now - to my delight and, I am sure, yours - strong enough to cast my mind back a week to my leaving party. The photograph you see below is of the cake with which I was presented. It was fashioned by hand by the two ladies on reception, adorned with eight profiterole testes (which, of course, burst forth thick cream when opened), and coated in Lindt chocolate.

(If you are not sure what it is, look carefully: you will see a description of what it is written in sugar balls upon its glistening shaft. I have to confess I wasn't sure, and was very grateful for the clear labelling!)
















I was surprised, I must say. I do not see myself as a lover of cock-jokes, nor am I the sort of woman who goes to Ann Summers and laughs until her "crochless panties" split to her coccyx. I do not find male strippers funny, and nor do I go "phwoar" when I see a sweaty fireman. And yet my colleagues (of which more later) insisted on filling my evening with cock after cock.

For example, my leaving present was a URL. It is the name of the book I am definitely going to write, and is called www.whoownstheyes.com. Upon the holding page (which, to my delight, redirects to this exact blog), you will see another cock joke, with a picture of a cock; moreover, it is a cock joke that implies that I talk about cock a lot, which in fact I do not.

I asked my colleagues a bit about the cock thing. I wondered, you see. I was surprised they chose this thing about me, when there are so many other things that are more obvious (my beauty, my charm, my tiny little monkey hands, my pipe, my fez, my affection for scarves and Canadians). But they explained to me that apparently I say "cock" in various forms almost the whole time, incessantly and without end. Phrases I have been known to use include (apparently!):

- cocking hell
- cockmonkeys
- cockhead
- cocking fuckbrains
- cock, cock, cockitty cock
- fucking cockhead
- cretinous cock
- cockbiscuits
- "I have never heard so much cock in my life"
- "He is a cock"
- "She is a cock"
- "They are all cocks"

So that is OK then.

Some the people I worked with (in America you call them 'co-workers' which implies some kind of co-operative behaviour, and is therefore - in my experience - rather inaccurate) were alright, as it happens, although I cannot pretend I miss it at all (because I don't).

And so, in honour of most of my ex-colleagues (the ones that were not idiots), I leave you with this film in the hope of starting (on their behalf), a new craze. It has been explained to me like this (by another Swede; this is verbatim):

"There is a new trend raising to the surface and it is called Hatting. A extreme sport where you “hat” (toss a hat) to another “hatter” to catch the hat on his head, much like Harry Nilsson triangular toss:.

Watch it for yourself! You may like it. And you may know what "Harry Nilsson triangular toss" means. I don't.