The Day My Job Became the Greatest Job in the History of Jobs

Normally, I don’t like my job. It pays well, and does involve using my brain. But, for the most part, I spend my days dreaming of jumping out the (first floor) window, flipping a double bird, and throwing my tie into the nearest thorn bush as I stomp madly toward the local pub.

My biggest complaint: Not enough hot chicks. You need hot chicks in the office because hot chicks make the day so much more pleasant. How can anything bother me when Sheila from Accounting is wearing her pants that tight? Exactly. Distraction, my ass. Hot chicks actually help to increase productivity and give me that extra step in my stride that normally I’d turn to recreational drugs for.

But things changed last week, when I hired… well, let’s call her Sandy Wentzuckle of Dorchester, Massachusetts. Don’t get me wrong, Sandy had the experience, the credentials, the degree. She also had an ass that looked like someone swiped the backside off a marble statue at the MFA and nestled it gently within the streamlined goodness of her jeans. It was eye candy, but it was the good kind of eye candy. The kind that actually inspired me to get out of bed in the morning and kick fear and doubt in the balls and embrace each day at the office like it was a magical passport to Candyland. Eye Candyland.

And just when I thought it couldn’t get any better, it did.

Yesterday, after a team meeting, as the rest of the group shuffled out of my office, Sandy stayed behind. Without warning, she casually shut my office door, trapping both of us inside, and told me she wanted to show me something, teeing it up with the caveat: “Just a warning, though… you might see some butt crack.”

As my saliva glands shifted into overdrive, she undid her belt, turned around and dropped trou, showcasing a tattoo that extended from her left butt cheek to the small of her back.

“I got this on Saturday. What do you think?”

In the wake of that glorious real estate, my senses departed, and I was incapable of speech. I simply nodded, smiled, and uttered something that sounded like, “Fzsd.”

She smiled, pulled her pants — oh, to be born again as fabric — back across her curves, and sashayed to her cube. I wiped my mouth and descended back into my chair. At least most of me.

Had I walked into a female coworker’s office and pulled the same stunt, they’d be fitting me for prison garments at this very moment. But for the hotness that is Sandy Wentuckle, a glowing review is in the mail. And a healthy raise.

1 Comment

  1. greg

    December 11, 2012 at 5:53 am

    I must say there were 2-3 things that caught my eye, the smooth ass crack, the lovely pink thong, and a WEDDING RING! Oh yeah, she got a tat

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