Nobody Works Around Here

Or at least it seems that way a lot of the time. Not that that's unusual for most places right about now, what with the holidays, and holiday parties. But I had no idea this was Rag-on-Mike week.
They're even giving me guff about the holidays, too. I get back from my solo lunch at Wang's Discount Sushi, and after posting a fresh round of Mike-abuse on their blogs, they're all talking about holiday wish lists. Oh, no, I think, and try to become invisible. No such luck.

"Hey, Mike, what do you want for Christmas?"

So I tell them the truth. "I like gift certificates."
They start the usual round of noise about how they're so impersonal, how it's not really a gift, blah, blah, blah.

I try reason. "Look, I'm a single guy. I want something, I buy it. Simple! If I don't have it, it's either too expensive, or I don't want it."

They start up again. I try emotional appeals.
"How many cute t-shirts and inflatable beer mugs do you think I need? None! Everybody's a comedian! You could take the cash, and I dunno, give it to the ASPCA or something. Donate it to starving streetwalkers in Bangkok. Just no more industrial-strength beer goggles, or wacky boxers, please."

They call me a grinch. Then the girls start really working on me. "You must want something. Come on, Mike."

"Ok. I want a massage." They punch me. "Not like that. And not one of those shady happy-ending ones, either. I'm talking about a real, get-the-kinks-out-of-your-back, no funny stuff, done-by-someone-with-a-license-and-without-a-rap-sheet massage. But someone's already getting me that."

"Who?"

"Me." Again, they start.

BG tries to make it serious. He leans forward, and says, "Come on, Mike. Everyone wants something from someone else. If you could really have anything, no matter how impossible, what would it be?"

Well, I'm about to crack wise, but they're all looking at me. And you know, they're a good group. I feel really like part of something good with these guys. If there was ever a moment for honesty, this is it.

"Ok." I say, taking a deep breath. "if you really want to know..." The expectant looks are still there. "I want a (barnyard term for an explicit act deleted ) from Dorothy Parker, circa 1920."

They're still looking at me, but they look kinda confused now.

"I mean, I would return the favor, and all, and it would be nice if it would lead to some (unspeakable acts deleted) but really, if the (left mercifully blank) was it, it'd be enough."

Well, they asked.



UPDATE:

Before you ask. She was witty, acerbic, and could drink like a fish, too.
Read this and tell me I'm wrong.