Monday, May 25, 2009

FedEx Man

Let's take a break from all this writing-advice bullshit and talk about FedEx Man. Every publishing house has a FedEx Man. Ours happens to be a short, tanned dude with big muscles and slicked-back hair like a Bollywood movie star. FedEx Man comes by every day. He sometimes carries an amusing accessory, like big sunglasses or a pen with a naked lady floating inside it. Something small and funny to spark conversation while THE INTERN signs the pad. Today FedEx man was carrying an acoustic guitar.

THE INTERN shits you not.

He proceeds to play La Bamba while I count the boxes and sign the thingy.

What is a ragged, weary intern supposed to say to that? THE INTERN tries to eject an appreciative "Whoa, FedEx Man, you da bomb!" but all that comes out is a terrified-sounding "Whoa."

"I see you later, awright?" says FedEx Man, in a tone that sounds jocular but could also be menacing. He casually slings his guitar over his shoulder and leaves.

INTERN has panic attack.

Is this arousal she feels? Or batshit, five-alarm terror?

Why La Bamba?



  1. Listen to this: "The repeated lyric, "Yo no soy marinero, soy capitán" (lit: "I am not a sailor, I am a captain") refers to Veracruz's marine locale and the husband's promise that he will remain faithful to his wife."


  2. You MADE me laugh. And that was not easy today. hahaha...

    Comb your hair -- this is your mother speaking, well maybe not YOUR mother, but somebody's mother.

  3. Dear mother-surrogate:

    INTERN does not own a comb.
    INTERN might own a brush, but if so brush has probably been used as a projectile and never located.

    INTERN thanks you for your concern!

  4. Thanks for your amusing posts! (Great way to put a smile on my face when I should be working.)

  5. Your stuff is pure gold. If you ever want to make less money, you should think about stand-up.

    Thanks for the laughs.