My job is stupid my day’s a bore,Inside this office from eight to fourNothin’ ever happens my life is pretty bland,Pretending that I’m working, pray I don’t get canned.
My Cubicle, My cubicleIt’s One of Sixty twoIt’s my small space in a crowded placeJust a six-by-six foot boothAnd I hate it that’s the truth
Well, I give a sigh as the boss walks by,no one ever talks to me or looks me in the eye.And I really should work but instead I just sit here and surf the Internet.
In My Cubicle, My cubicleIt doesn’t have a view.It’s my small space in a crowded placeI sit in solitude.And sometimes I sit here nude.
http://www.lifeaftercoffee.com/2006/06/14/my-cubicle-song-lyrics/
Lyrics by: Morning SidekickPerformed by: Jym BrittonParody on “You’re Beautiful” by James Blunt
Deadwood, South Dakota has been a rough and tumble town since the 1870’s. The town began after a gold strike was discovered and since then many a man has lost his life. Prostitution always follows the prospectors and many a lady lost her life as well. The stories of Deadwood’s past are amazing. The television series named after the town may seem a bit far fetched but the show actually pales to the true history of the town. I was fortunate enough to visit Deadwood before legalized gambling returned on a full scale and ruined the charm of the small town.
When the gold ran out, Deadwood found other minerals to mine. When the mines finally ran dry of everything, Deadwood still had a thriving gambling and prostitution reputation. The Feds put an end to the illegal gambling in the 50’s but the prostitution trade remained strong until a disgruntled harlot spilled the beans on the Phil Donahue Show. Bye 1980 the last brothel was closed for good.
In 1991 I was searching for an interesting place to go for a vacation. I had always wanted to see Mount Rushmore as well as the Devil’s Tower (see Close Encounters of the Third Kind). Being a bit of a history buff I thought that I could tour Deadwood as well seeing how they were all near each other. Deadwood had just legalized gambling and only nine or so casinos had opened up. A few historical businesses were still open while waiting for someone to offer them the right price to sell out.
One afternoon while walking down Main Street I came upon a sign that read, “Come see what’s behind the purple door”. Knowing the history of Deadwood I had a pretty good idea what might be lurking behind said door. I climbed the stairs and opened the purple door and found a museum. Actually it was a museum of a brothel, supposedly the last one to close its doors. I thought it was a creative idea to make a buck. The owners could milk a few dollars out of the tourists while waiting for property values to increase. I’m sure they sold out eventually and made a fortune!
After a few minutes of examining the antique furniture in the foyer, a very lovely young lady walked in. She was truly quite stunning. She had long brown hair, radiant blue eyes, as well as a killer body draped by a classy silk dress. I began to wonder if this place was really a museum as I mentally tallied my cash on hand and questioned my core moral beliefs. She asked if I would like a private tour for just five dollars. “This is history,” I told my self and handed over the fin.
My gorgeous tour guide led me from room to room explaining how a brothel worked. She also had many stories to tell about the goings on in each room. Many of the stories had to do with some poor strumpet being killed violently. These stories didn’t bother me much. They were just the kind of stories you would expect to hear of a place like this. There was also some talk of some of these dead courtesans still strolling about the building. I didn’t believe in ghosts so I politely laughed while wondering if this tour offered a happy ending.
Finally after many rooms and even more sad stories of whores meeting their end, we came upon the last room. I watched my beautiful guide open the door and walk in while I had a few impure thoughts going through my head as I followed. I was wondering how this little tour would end when I reached the doorway itself and froze. I could not cross the threshold. My body would not move!
The cute tour guide smiled and asked me to come in. It took a moment before I could mutter, “I don’t want to!” Every hair on my body was standing up and I felt like I might be sick. She gave me a curious look and asked if I was all right. I was a young, virile young man who didn’t understand what he was feeling. I did know that I didn’t want to be embarrassed in front of such a pretty lady.
I began to feel just a little bit better and forced myself to walk into the room. It took everything I had. While the guide was explaining how a prostitute was killed and left in the closet for a few day before being found, I couldn’t pay any attention to her. I just wanted out. That was the day I truly understood the word loathing. I would have traded places with anyone to get out of that room. She said that I looked pale and asked if I would like to step into the hallway. I think I was in the hallway before she even finished the sentence.
When we were just ten feet away from the room I immediately felt better. I was still very confused and bewildered. I forgot all about how pretty my guide was as I thanked her and made my way out. I couldn’t wait to get on the other side of that purple door!
I nearly stumbled down the stairs as I left. I walked into the first bar I found and ordered a beer and a couple of shots. The bartender said that I seemed tense and asked if I lost a bundle at the blackjack table. I briefly told her what had happened and she nodded her head and said that I had been touched.
“What do you mean I was touched! No one touched me!” I let out while pointing to my empty shot glass.
“You were touched by a spirit. A ghost,” she explained.
“What the fu,” I stopped myself, downed my drink, then finished, “What are you talking about?”
The bartender began to tell me that some people feel the same way when they come into physical contact with a ghost or spirit. She said that a spirit was probably walking out of the doorway while I was approaching it. Either that or a spirit didn’t mind a woman entering the room but didn’t want a man to. I didn’t mention that I had been having lascivious thoughts at the time.
I figured that the bartender was crazy and sampling too much of her wares. I blew off the explanation but it still bothered me for years. As time went by I never forgot how I felt in that room. Later on I would hear stories from other people that sounded very familiar to mine. I finally came to the conclusion that I had witnessed a ghost. Fitting my first experience was in a brothel.
“That ring cost you two months sanity?” I asked my lovelorn friend.
“I think you mean two months salary,” he answered.
“No, that’s not what I meant. You’re crazy if you spent that much money for a ring!” I instructed him.
I think the biggest difference between men and women are their perceptions of reality. Men like fake stuff while women tend to appreciate things that are real. Invent something that’s fake, realistic and of course cheap and men are drawn like moths to a cashmere sweater. Men like cubic zirconium, fun fur and padded bras. Silicon breasts may not be real, but their real big.
I really don’t understand why women prefer the real things. They can’t tell the difference. It also seems hypocritical when they dye their hair, wear make up and press on nails. Men don’t forget their names in the morning they just think that the girl they went to bed with left and a different one snuck in. They don’t look anything alike.
I’ve always been curious why I get in trouble when the woman I’m involved with tells me, “No I don’t mind. Go ahead and go to the bar with your friends,” and then I get in trouble! I did what she said!
Women love it when we buy them flowers. Then they put them in a vase, forget about them, and watch them die a slow horrible death. I’ve got a few plastic plants that look just as good now as the day I bought them. They don’t even need a drop of water. What a great invention!
If a real diamond is that much better than cubic zirconium, why are we bastards when we buy it from a pawn shop. It’s the same thing, just not as expensive. It was at one time bought in some big name jewelry store. It’s not my fault it didn’t come with the original box. And by the way, why do you want to see the receipt anyway?
