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Chests Roasting on an Open Fire .... by Adam (2001) _________________________________________________________________
Most of my friends won't tuck their skirts into their underwear and
pretend to be retarded at a crowded bar. (Although my Mom does
something similar at family reunions.) But my crazy friend Anna
from Vancouver came for Christmas this year and added sparks to a
wacky Burmese Christmas.
Since the Thai-Burmese border-towns aren't exactly hotbeds of
yuletide glee, X-mas itself was spent in a refugee camp. Many Karen
are Christian, but the same day also featured Karen New Years. Good
thing, because Santa didn't seem to make it to the camp this year.
Word is that the ruling military junta in Burma provides Santa with
forced labourers for his illegal logging operations and in return he
refuses toy delivery to any of the ethnic people. Christmas exists
here, but given the state of human rights in Burma, the only nuts
roasting on the open fire are testicles. Roasted chests, as well,
make an occasional village treat for the bored torturer.
There is something quite classy and mature about secretly trashing your
co-workers in a mass email. So let’s begin. My boss is perhaps the most
single-minded individual I have ever come across. If the Karen democracy
movement was an ice cream cone, he would have methodically tongued the
creamy dessert into a long, conical protrusion, thrust it between his
jaws until his lips covered the cone’s stiff rim, tore off the milky
elongation and the hard cone ridge with one head jerk, deposited the
remaining crumbs down the front of his underwear, pulled up his Karen 'jammie
bottoms and gone to sleep.
My boss (who coincidentally went to my friggin’ high school!!) has an
unfortunate way about him. You know how unpleasant some people are when
they just wake up? Well, he’s like that all day. It's sometimes tough to
pull myself into the office when each days starts with a his unshaven
horse-face greeting me with a "----". Yep, we dont do "Good Morning"'s
- or many other pleasantries - around this office.
He's not ugly but he's the sort who looks like he suffers from bad
breath. And in this case looks do not deceive. Items directly in his
path seem to fall off his desk, if that means anything. I once actually
witnessed a wad of nebulous murk drift out from the back of his throat,
sail through the office window and smother several small dogs and an
infant before local authorities could disperse it.
However, his breath is a bed of jasmine misted with mint vapour when
compared with the smell of his personality. Storm clouds of tension lurk
over his shoulders, waiting to pour down negativity and ill-feelings on
anything in his path. And I, unfortunately, am rarely wearing my
rubbers. When we were nominated for the Nobel Peace Prize, my
friend Jeff said, "I hope Kevin never wins the Nobel Prize. He's such
an asshole." - something rarely heard about Ghandi.
Up until January, I was living at the office, sleeping three feet from
my boss and 15 from my desk. I've had a lot of bosses in my life, some
good, some bad. But I've never really wanted to live with any of them.
Nothing has changed on that front.
My boss does not exactly employ a creative management style. He
seems to perceive any new ideas as a threat to his control. In
fact, the other day he said to me, "Adam, I perceive any new ideas
as a threat to my control." He also claims that my writing style is
too sensational for human rights documentation. But, come on, what
the hell is wrong with: "Fueled by inhuman sadism and an insatiable
thirst for ethnic blood, depraved Burmese rat-bastard goons have
launched an orgy of blood-soaked slaughter campaigns."?? Or maybe
he just meant, "Wow, your writing style is sensational!!"
My boss is a lot of things, but hilarious doesn't spring to mind.
But when he shares a story, my American co-worker starts letting out
ass-kissing yelps of obsequious laughter before the story has even
reached its first verb. Oh well, in a human rights office, you take
all the laughter you can get. The American is pretty easy to get
along with, but not my favourite guy or anything. He is a thickset,
orange-coloured American from Missouri that has somehow co-opted an
Irish accent.
In fact, he seems to be an unsuccessful collection of various
affectations, ranging from a fist-sized cheekful of betelnut (a
stimulant nut that you see old ladies roll in leaves and chew on in
Vietnam war movies. It can stain your teeth red - which, to him, is
probably a badge of honour) to a refusal to eat with utensils.
Actually I can deal with finger-feeding. But he must realize that
Westerners would find his chewing method of open-mouthed food
smacking to be a tad unappetizing. But that’s the way the Karen eat,
and he is Karen. Oh ...wait. I’m sorry, he’s from Missouri.
Actually, he’s not even really from Missouri. I later learned that
he spent most of his life in Milwaukee, which I think is a small
farming village in central Ireland. (Note: I tell people I am from
Vancouver rather than Onterrible, so I can’t really criticise his
hesitancy to admit to Wisconsinhood). When he speaks he punctuates
each sentence with a short, crispy slurp of air and rubs his orange,
balding pate in circular motions.
This guy also possesses an exceptional set of man-boobs, the likes of
which would cause most 13-year-old girls to feign sick from school
on phys-ed days. They are the shape of giant IV drip bags and I
think he secures them with masking tape so they don’t swing around
and damage any of the office computer equipment. In my opinion, it
is not fair to have such large breasts when the people we work with
can barely feed their families.
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