Tuesday, July 20, 2010

Those ARE rather nice trousers though.

"Wow, having been in this industry for five years, I sure see a lotta abominations of science. But you, Bro, you really take the cake!"

I wasn't sure how to react to that. Seeing as I was strapped to a filthy operating table and half sedated by anesthetic that this particular seedy secret laboratory had probably scored off the fine folk in the next-door crack house, I couldn't pursue the obvious actions that immediately came to mind, them being:

1) Smash the be-labcoated jackass in the face with a chair.

2) Think up and write a mile-long essay that comprehensively explained that as the experiment had not yet taken place, I was not yet a scientific abomination of any degree of attractiveness and that he fornicated with goats.

3) Smash him in the face with a foot-stool.

Feeling that the natural way of things had suffered a great loss, I settled for giving the smug bastard a sheepish smile and incomprehensibly (thanks to the wondrous aforementioned drugs) pointing out that no essay was needed to conclusively prove his obvious sexual preferences.

"Hehee, good to hear it! You take care now , bro!", Suggested the abominable Merv (for Merv was the name I groggily made out to be on his greasy name tag) before smugly joining his cohorts in scientific villainy, who all stood giggling in a small control room overlooking the lab I found myself in.

The low-budget nature of this week's dubious corporation was made apparent by the fact that said control room didn't have any of that nifty one way glass you see in shitty police shows, for I could hazily make out that frantic work was being done by said cohorts, on what must have been intensely complicated panels and switchboards.

I mused briefly about the fact that in every single one of the godawful jobs that the temp agency has set me up with has been shared with at least one member of the "Obnoxious Dickwad" archetype, a role now filled by the towering pile of solid bacon grease unconvincingly assuring the human race that it is a human called Merv. I've been told that finding consistency in one's life is a good way to deal with trying times, and I can tell you that thinking about how every position I've been in for the entirety of my working life has been spent alongside people who deserve nothing less than to watch "The Hot Chick" repeatedly for the remainder of their natural lives almost completely took my mind off the ridiculously elaborate and pointy looking device hovering evilly over my crotch.
(It looked kinda like this, but with flesh-hooks placed around the tip and a sticker on its base advising not to point it at any living body parts. My new employers clearly weren't all that concerned about the well-being of temp-agency employees. Shocking, I know.)

As the activity in the control room became more frantic and the (rather cliche'd) Tesla-esque electro-thingies positioned around my unfortunate self began to crackle with static (as a result, I'm guessing), I resolved then and there to pay more attention to the job descriptions my temp agent might give me in future. From this job's description, all I could vaguely remember were the words "Guinea-pig", "Synthesis", "Wombat" and "Paste". The fact that these words were all part of the same sentence probably should have tipped me into not accepting the job. Hindsight's a bitch, ain't it?
Ah well, "Terminal Test Subject" was a pretty new field for me, and it's always useful to have some variety on your CV.

The crotch-pointed-at device (which I had lovingly nicknamed "Manhood-Muncher", if by lovingly you mean the precise and utter opposite of lovingly) began to hum menacingly, much like a thuggish bee would after having being told that "This whole honey thing is a hippie fad anyways". As the pointy bits of the machine began to spin and glow to the great delight of Merv and his posse in the control room (and my not quite so great delight), a new irony about the term "Temporary employee" became painfully apparent.

Closing my eyes and contemplating in horror that I'd probably have to share the pre-afterlife waiting room with Michael Jackson, I waited for the inevitable *BBBRRRIZZFWORP*, unimaginable burning crotch pain, and the end of my altogether-too-wasted-on-videogames existence on this mortal coil. In that order unless I was lucky.

What followed was more of a *KLAKBWOOANG* and not so much of a burning crotch pain as a mildly warm reprieve from the chilly lab air around my entire lower body. This was surprising to me and the total lack of exclamations concerning the status of my life signs implied that the nutty scientist blokes felt likewise. Merv was the first to react with anything other than a valiant attempt to break the record for the largest distance between one's jaw and skull by bursting out of the control room and rushing towards my table, lab-coat constantly catching on the unnecessarily spiky parts of the dingy lab's architecture.

Other than the fact that I evidently would not have to ask future romantic interests if they felt particularly aroused by the concept of raw mince, I wondered what the possible presidential candidate was so surprised about. Looking down with a level of caution previously restricted to Viet Nam veterans at a landmine convention, I noticed that the reason for my newly acquired leg-coziness were a pair of brand new trousers. At least five shades of purple at once in any given place and inexplicably glowing a faint orange in the dim lab lighting, but completely tangible backside-attire nonetheless.

By now Merv was standing next to my table in a state of shock and confusion and was staring at my new and embarrassingly flamboyant pants. Although somewhat understandable under the circumstances, the idea of a slimy looking gentleman staring at my lower half while lay strapped to a table and wore nothing but a pair of glowing purple denims was one that seemed a bit dodgy to me, and mostly with the hope of this status quo changing I quickly demanded to be untied and told what-in-the-sweet-name-of-your-mother-and-all-of-her-friends-named-Dave was going on.

"Well", said Merv, "it seems that instead of doing it's, um, intended purpose, the device seems to have knitted you a pair of rather fabulous trousers."

"Well yes, I've got that. What I'm not clear on is how that makes any damn kind of sense."

"Urgh", groaned Merv, cradling his likely to be illegally ugly face in his altogether unhygenic palm and showing signs of great annoyance, "I've been warning the guys upstairs about this shit going down for years! It's just with having the underground lab in the secret moon base and all the maniacal laughing over experiments while guys called Igor prance around and singing "Deh Marstah iz a geniosss", the inherent wackiness of the whole goddamn system (Joe from accounting has crazy Einstein hair for fuck's sake!) actually becomes tangible and leaks into the machinery, leading to, err, THIS I guess."

"I'm not so sure making glowing purple trousers appear out of thin air is so much wacky as it is completely fucking impossible, Merv."

"Guh, I dunno...Wait, can you move them?"

I gave a quick tug on the pant leg which yielded no movement and caused my leg to seemingly explode with burning and previously unimaginable pain

"Ah", said Merv, knowingly, "It seems they're knitted out of your own leg hairs. Wacky, amirite?"

"Very", I grunted, blinking tears from my eyes, "I suppose that explains why they're purple and glowing then."

"Indeed." replied Merv, the sarcasm flying over him with all the majesty of an eagle in flight, "They ARE rather nice trousers though."

"Thanks, I thought so too. Hey what's the time by the way?

"About 5pm", Merv stated after glancing at his novelty Dr. Evil wrist watch.

"Well that'd be the end of my shift, when's the next shuttle leaving the moon base?"

"In about five minutes, you can probably make it if you cut through The Sea of Tranquility."

"Thanks. Guess I'll see you tomorrow, Merv."

"Catch ya later, Bro!"

"Asshole", I muttered as I bounded out of the lab, taking some comfort in the fact that I was leaving work slightly less naked than usual.

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