When I opened the newspaper on Tuesday, I turned to page A13. There was no particular reason for the selection of that page. I never considered the number 13 to be either lucky or unlucky. I never got that whole 13 thing. How again was it supposed to be a sign of bad luck? Why did most elevators omit the thirteen button? Did it have anything to do with Friday the 13th? Was it a Christian thing? From what I recall Jews considered 13 to be a lucky number than an unlucky one. But Jews were luckier than most, Jewish men that was. At the age of 13 all Jewish boys turned into a men. That was when they celebrated their Bar Mitzvah and got a shitload of gifts, if I correctly recall.
My Jewish friend Jason Gad told me that back in the days fathers would take their thirteen year old boys to the local brothel where they made sure they became men. My father was never as generous. Maybe it had to do with the fact that I grew up in an Atheist family. My atheism never got me anywhere. If I were Jewish and lived back in the day I, then maybe, just maybe, I would not have to wait until the age of nineteen to pop my cherry, but hey, what can I say? One cannot change his past. One cannot turn back the clock and improve his record. And so, when it came to women, I just accepted the way things turned out and never bothered to think about the past too much.
On page A13, the newspaper ran a story about interoffice dynamics and the modern work environment. According to a recent poll conducted by the University of Pennsylvania’s Center for Public Opinion Research, the majority of people preferred to have a male as their boss then they did a female. The numbers got even more interesting when one considered the actual breakdown.
According to the survey, 34% of males preferred to have a male boss, 10% of them preferred a female boss, while the rest of them (56%) did not care either way. As for the women, they were much more adamant about the subject at hand. According to the survey 40% of female survey participants preferred a male boss, 26% of them preferred a female boss, while 32% of them did not care. Clearly women “did not care” less than did males which to me signified that they clearly did care and it was not in the favor of their fellow females.
This of course brought me to the obvious conclusion, one that I have intrinsically known for many years and did not need any newspaper or academic public opinion survey to confirm – Women were never big fans of other women, they never really trusted one another, they never really liked each other.
Yea, yea, I know what women will say, “most of my best friends are female, I have had the same female friends ever since I grew up and they would stand with me through thick and thin.”
That is what they would tell you, but I never believed this propaganda, I know better than that. I have seen enough in my short life and have tasted enough cheeseburgers to know better than to believe anything that they printed in the newspapers, especially when it comes to the New York Times.
Women to women were and always would be snakes; they were the thorn at the side of one another. But forget the analogies and all of those fancy metaphors, that junk is for writers. I am no writer nor am I a scholar of any sorts. I am a waiter. I work at a local TGI Friday’s restaurant. I wear the red and white stripes with much pride. I serve overpriced prepackaged junk food to a bunch of drunk customers who very much like me frequent the place just to catch a quick glance at our overzealous blond waitress whose fake smiles perfectly compliment their tightly packed anatomies.
This brings me to the whole point of the conversation and to that whole page A13 issue. It brings me to the unlikely topic of Jennifer Martin, my 6pm shift manager who recently altered the course of my once peaceful life.
Jennifer was a complete bitch on wheels. Jennifer was the kind of a boss that would make 99 out of a hundred males and females vote in opposition to any female boss regardless of their income level, age or education. Jennifer was the worst woman of all. She was menstruated 31 days out of the month. She housed the devil between her ears. She houses everyone else between her legs (with the exception of yours truly).
Jennifer was not a misunderstood person. She is clearly understood and the understanding pointed to her malevolence. There were not many good things that one could say about Jennifer even if they tried really hard. That of course was with the exception of her lovely tits. They were huge and they are real. They were the kind that would make any heterosexual male and every bicurious woman take a careful look and painfully yearn for nothing but a quick taste of God’s great creation.
Did I mention that I preferred the fake ones? I never understood why anyone preferred naturals. Fake tits never dropped. Real ones eventually did. Of course there were exceptions. But with fake ones, you never had to deal with physics. They always stood up right no matter if the woman was twenty five or fifty two years of age. I was always a big fan of huge tits. There was no particular reason for that. Like most men, I had no real utility for them, I sometimes just felt like sticking my face in between that cushioned valley and tossing my nose from side to side. Talk about exercise. Look at all of those things that men would do to burn off calories. So ladies, any volunteers out there? Leave a message on my answering machine. I usually checked my voicemail late on Wednesdays; sometimes I checked them early on Thursday mornings. Ladies, do you want to show off your true nature? Send a few photos to my PO Box and wait for a reply.
But Jennifer, she never called, she never left a message nor did she ever send any revealing photos in the mail. She must have been too busy fucking our restaurant manager, Mark Epstein (The Second). That guy was falsely assembled at the factory. Someone accidently misplaced his ass in the same location where his face should have been positioned. After all, what else would account for the large amounts of bullshit that came out of his mouth on the daily?
To someone who did not know any better, it may seem that I was simply jealous of Mark, jealous of another man’s ability to go to places where I have never ventured before. But such was not the case. Such would simply be a misinterpretation of my true nature. I was not the jealous type. However, I could be described as the covetous type.
But this whole Jennifer story had nothing to do with Mark Epstein (The Second); it had nothing to do with Jennifer’s perfect pair of tits or with the fact that I had not had sexual relations with any woman in twelve days, three hours and seventeen long minutes.
Everything that had to do with Page A13 only reminded me of Jennifer Martin. But I tend to misrepresent. Jennifer was never anything but nice to me in the year and a half that she served as my boss. She was a fair boss, she never busted my balls and she was always good for a late night drink. Everything between the two of us was always good until that day that she introduced me to Lisa Nguyen, her best friend and old college roommate from Colorado State University.
At closing time, a few days ago, we all gathered around the bar, counted tips and told stories about the idiotic customers that we encountered on that night. Everything was pretty much as ordinary, good times and free drinks. Jody was working the bar that night. After all the customers left, she let the drinks flow like butter on a ham. Free drinks always tasted better than those you had to pay for. It was one of the key perks of wearing the old red and white suspenders.
Jody and Jennifer were laughing with Bruce, our assistant manager. I just smiled and enjoyed the moment, thinking what it would be like to see naked at my side. Around 1am, Jennifer’s cell phone rang. I suspected that we would soon encounter Mr. Mark Epstein (The Second) but was soon happy to head Jenn announce that Lisa visiting from out of town.
Lisa and I met a few times before. She recently moved out to Delaware where she worked as an admission’s counselor at some small private university. Apparently, there was not much to do around Newark, DE (pronounced Ne-Wark as opposed to Ne-Work, NJ) and so she would hop in her car on weekends and find her way to our TGIF.
The last time we all met was a few weeks ago. Jenn and Lisa got all drunk and dragged me back to Jenn’s apartment were we all played Karaoke on her Sony Playstation. They must have gone through an entire rendition of songs from the 80s and 90s that almost drove me nuts. Jennifer loved Brittney Spears and I had no choice but to play along. The worst was when they made me join them in a drunk version of the Spice Girls song, If You Want To Be My Lover.
One that night, after all the singing and boozing, Lisa and I made out while Jenn passed out on the couch. I tried my best to stick my busy fingers under Lisa’s tiny Asian bra but she would have none of it.
And now, here she was, once again, she was all smiles.
Jody made Lisa her favorite cocktail, a Gray Goose dirty martini with an extra shot of olive juice and two extra shots of vodka. Soon enough, Lisa was ready to go. But it was getting late and Jennifer was too tired to party on that night. And besides, Mark was waiting for her to show up at his place. They planned a big trip to Upstate on the following morning and she really needed to catch some sleep.
To my surprise, Jennifer suggested that I would be the one to take Lisa out and show her a good time. This brings me back to page A13 of the New York Times. When the survey participants had to answer whether they preferred a male to a female boss, no one ever mentioned to them just how gorgeous their female boss would be, how amazingly hot their old college roommates would be and how the rest of the night turned out.
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