Not surprising, the nightly cleaning team here at my job is a real motley crew. I try to avoid the supervisor at all costs — she sits in her office with her fake beehive hairdo, scraping her lethal fake nails along the desk and berating whichever cleaner forgot to refill the paper towels in the upstairs bathroom. (Never does she reprimend any of them for raiding vacant cubicles of candy though. Oh wait, that’s me.)
Her wingman is this rotund piece of sloppy shit with flapping jowls and tinted glasses. He usually rides in with her, otherwise I bet he’d be driving an unmarked kidnapping van. He swears loudly in a voice that makes him sound mildly retarded. Or drunk. He looks like he could be the villain on a cartoon.
I bet he smokes cigars.
I can’t stand him. He makes me feel molested. He makes me feel like he crawled into my window last night and touch my boobies while talking to me in babytalk and is remembering it every time he looks at me.
Last night, I was on my way back inside from a short break. I was forced to pass by him, but felt relieved because a security guard and another cleaning person were with him.
I thought I was safe. I began to slip through the door, when he started shouting in his disgusting voice that hacks up perversion on everything within earshot.
"IT SUCKS REAL GOOD!" he barked. "IT SUCKS REAL GOOD!"
Horrifed, I did what any other person would do, and turned around to see if he was forcing someone’s mouth upon his yuckystick.
We locked eyes.
"The SWEEPER! I was talking about the SWEEPER!" he laughed. At that moment, I vowed to never have sex again.