Frieda Gets Uncomfortable

“Wait, ok, so you mean like slapped your ass and told you to give him head?” Proctor asked Frieda moments later. Cuckler had headed out the door and been followed by most of the interns. Frieda was the angriest Proctor had seen since Bush’s opening up of the Alaskan Reserves for drilling. “No! He just slapped my ass and said Hobart was never coming back. What does it matter what he did afterwards? That is inappropriate conduct and, an-“ Frieda stammered. Proctor sat her down and gave her a glass of water. “It’s like it just won’t stop. He finally quits asking me out to dinner and now he’s always buying me these little gifts. Look, a sausage gift basket. I told him I don’t eat meat and he just went nuts. Like I was yelling at him because he did eat meat,” Frieda said. Proctor looked at the gift basket, still unopened, and saw that it was indeed comprised mostly of pork products. Taped to it was a note that said, ‘To the best Secretary at Globo-Warriors, a little sausage surprise.’ “I didn’t know you were a vegetarian,” Proctor said, unsure what he could add or do to help. Cuckler’s success almost made things more difficult because now no one could question him. “Because I don’t my fucking rub my vegetarianism in people’s face. I just don’t eat meat. That’s it. I’m not on a fucking mission or anything. But every damn time there is always somebody who has a problem with it. Like I’m trying to make them feel bad. Cuckler shoving these stupid sausages in my face and telling me to just try one. Right, this piece of packaged shit is going to be any different from the rest of the meat that grosses me out.” Proctor didn’t have the heart to point out that Cuckler may have been insinuating something much cruder with the gesture. Before he could say anything more another strange man in a suit stepped out of the bathroom. “Wow, he wasn’t kidding about that boob statue. It really just helps things go smoother,” the stranger said. Both Frieda and Proctor stared at him. “Well, tell Cuckler I’d love to hear more about this Prop 415 business. This could just be the thing to help get everyone on the board organized on this global warming stuff,” the stranger added, looking totally unconcerned with the two glaring employees. He dropped a business card on the desk, took a handful of candy from Frieda’s jar, and walked out humming the chorus of ‘When the Saints Go Marching’. Over and over again. On the card was inscribed, ‘International Committee of Car Manufacturers’. Every major car industry in the world was represented in that group. And they had never once uttered a word to an environmental lobby about curbing emissions. “What the fuck is Prop 415?” Frieda yelled.