Do What Now?

Have you ever put on so much deoderant that you actually cause yourself to believe you have on none because your underarms feel kinda damp? Then you step into an elevator and it smells like roses and pizza, all the while not noticing the figure creeping up behind you, knife raised, stayed from his gruesome desires by the quickly closing elevator door. Bing! And that sound. That wretched sound. MU-ZAK? What the hell is it? Daydream Believer? Rape Me by Nirvana? The theme from Shaft? You feel your breakfast creeping up, getting on deck, preparing for launch, but then, just as you are about to yodel groceries, the door opens. You bolt towards your office like Tammy Faye rushing the Clinique counter on free sample day. Must-have-little-velvet-bag! Speaking of bag, you set yours, clinking and heavy with varied detritus and cough drop wrappers and a starlight mint that you will never eat, by your desk. You dig around in it to see what all the fuss is about. Why do I have these rubber gloves, a roll of wax paper, and some Jesus candles? And did I put on deoderant today?