So, yesterday while we were busting our arses (as the Brits say), Clare London was having fun at our expense writing this funny piece chortling all the way. “Where is the sympathy?” I asked her. She didn’t respond because she was too busy rolling on the floor. See if we do this next year. I thought you should see what we have to put up with on this site from our authors. Kidding!!
Aunt Lynn, Feliz and Raine did the front end work and we all pitched in at the back end (did I really say that)? 😆 I hope Clare doesn’t read this because I don’t want to give her any more ideas. Here’s what that baitch wrote:
“Here.” Joe flung his arm across the front of Beth’s face, narrowly missing her nose with a permanent marker clutched in his hand. “I’ve done numbers 1 through 30, I need to take a break.”
“You can’t,” Grant said. He was sitting at the kitchen table opposite Joe, with his head bent over the mess of papers in front of him, gaze fixed with concentration.
Beth stretched over the table and snatched a yellow sheet off the top of her sister Anna’s pile. “I need that for number 57.”
“No you bloody don’t,” Anna snapped. “I promised it to 48.” With a grip that she’d been perfecting since they were competitive toddlers together, she snatched it back from Beth. The table rocked.
“Watch my coffee,” growled Eric from the head of the table, putting a protective hand around the giant-sized cup. The others looked startled at the sound of his voice. All they could see was the top of his head over his 27” monitor.
“I need to take a break,” Joe repeated.
“No,” both Grant and Anna snapped back.
Anna thrust another sheet of paper across the table top towards Joe. “You can take numbers 70 through 80 now.”
“What’s the status on the BDSM series?” Grant asked, blinking from behind his spectacles.
“Tied up,” Beth said, and sniggered.
“In transition.” She glanced at Anna and they both sniggered.
Grant rolled his eyes and moved a sheet on the table in front of him from the left hand pile into the right hand one. “That’s the 60s range finished.”
Eric’s PC gave a cheery ping. “More coming through!” he called. There was a chorus of good-natured(ish) groans in reply, and everyone went back to their work, checking, scribbling and striking out.
“Okay.” Joe picked up another sheet and checked across to the master list in front of him. “Where’s number 48?”
“Huh? You’re doing 70 through 80.”
Joe peered at the paper. “This is 40 through 50. I’ve already done half of them.”
“I’ve already done them all,” Anna wailed. “Who’s going to know which reply is right?”
“If they put the wrong author with the wrong book, which do I use?” Grant asked, of no one in particular, which was exactly who replied to him.
“Is that a 3 or an 8?” Beth said, peering at a half-crumpled sheet.
“And this person’s listed twice.” Grant shook his head. “Actually, four times.”
“This title has two lines through it already,” Eric muttered at his screen. “Total lack of audit control.”
“My hand hurts,” Anna whimpered. “It’s probably carpal tunnel syndrome.”
“More coffee?” Eric asked, but the same no one who replied to Grant also failed to put the kettle on.
Grant glanced up at Joe, who winked back at him. Grant flushed and dropped his eyes back to his paper. Then, flustered, turned it the right way up.
Joe leaned back in his chair with a sigh. “I’ll just do it here, then,” he said, quietly but with an indisputable hint of menace.
“What?” Beth said.
“Piss,” he said, quite cheerfully.
“What?” Beth and Grant both squealed.
“Since you won’t let me get up from the table.”
“Of course you can!” Beth snapped.
“But I can’t take a break, you said…”
“Get him out of here!” Beth yelled. “If he soils this kitchen, Mum will never forgive me!”
Joe was laughing.
“It was just a joke,” Anna said, grinning. “Wasn’t it, Joe?”
“That’s typical of you,” Beth glowered at him. “Always the joker.”
“Oh yeah?” Joe glared back at her. “Better than being tight-arsed.”
“And just what the hell do you mean by that?”
“Let’s keep up the momentum, people,” Eric said. No one was listening to him. He tapped firmly on his keyboard and sighed. “Grant, will you take out the 80s?”
“Someone should have done,” Joe muttered.
“It was just a joke,” Anna repeated, her head whipping between Joe and Beth. “Beth, don’t always take it to heart.”
“You mean, like you say I always do?” Beth snapped back at her sister.
Anna rolled her eyes. Unfortunately, Beth caught her doing it.
“More requests,” Eric called from the PC. He looked like he had serious doubts of a sensible response. “Joe, can you follow Grant with the 90-100s?”
“I’ll follow Grant happily, with anything,” Joe smirked.
Grant didn’t look up but he smirked as well. His neck was as red as his face and his palm had left sweaty little marks on his current workings.
Joe leaned forward towards him, tilting his chair on two legs.
“Watch the coffee!” Eric snapped.
Beth pushed out of her chair and marched out of the kitchen. Anna gave a strangled sob and followed on her heels.
“Perhaps they’ll piss for me while they’re there,” Joe murmured.
“Team work,” Eric said. His expression said he didn’t expect a response at all by now. “We work together and support the project. That’s the only way.”
Wails came from the kitchen, where Beth was complaining her mother had always loved Anna more, and Anna was yelling she shouldn’t be such a drama queen then, should she? Beth threw something across the room – heavy, judging from the thud when it hit the floor – and Anna lurched past the open doorway, hand clutching her nose and a trickle of blood running through her fingers.
“They’ll be back soon,” Eric said, despite all the obvious evidence to the contrary. “We just hit comment 150. We need all the help we can get. All hands to the pump, and all that.”
“Those spectacles look really good on you, Grant,” Joe said.
Grant looked up, smiled and flushed.
“No time for fraternising,” Eric said, tapping furiously on the keys. They ignored him.
“I’ve always admired you,” Grant said to Joe. His myopic gaze looked worryingly like a simpering puppy’s, but Joe seemed to like it. “Let me help you with the 100s.”
In the background, Anna and Beth’s sobs had turned to reconciling laughter.
Joe put his hand over Grant’s and aimlessly stroked Grant’s fingers. “You handle that permanent marker like you own it,” he purred.
Eric grabbed a slurp of coffee that was almost cold by now and sighed. “I’ll finish up then, shall I?” he muttered, his hands flickering over the keyboard.
No one answered. He wondered idly – and rather daringly – what he’d look like in one of those Santa-hat pouches that seemed to be featured so prominently at the male model’s groin.
He smirked to himself and clicked over to ebay.