And Then There Were Two

The Company converted my contract to a full-time position this week. My conversion was made official as of Monday.

In reality, negotiations had been going on for over a month. Their initial offer was, to say the least, insulting to me, and my morale had taken a pretty hard hit over the past month. My résumé had been updated and floating around job search Web sites since then.

Despite the economic climate, I gambled on the job a bit, turning down the conversion offer twice before finally reaching an agreement.

On day one, The Company sent me a brand new laptop, fresh with all the manufacturer stickers and protective transparent film still attached, top of the line specs and configurations -- an expensive machine that I'll probably never use because I'm on client-site all day. It's almost hard to imagine that eight percent of the nation is unemployed and fourteen percent of folks in my age demographic can't find a job right now.

I spent the entire first full-time day on conference calls, being introduced to the who's who of people you need to know when shit hits the fan. Most of the week was spent watching on-boarding training videos and taking relating tests. Apparently, The Company frowns on sexual harrassment in the workplace.

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I met up with a couple of guys from The Ex-Company after work on Thursday for happy hour at a micro-brewery in The Village. There were four of us that met during our introductory training bootcamp at The Ex-Company, and we regularly come together every couple of months for drinks and shit-shooting despite my departure from the company.

One of the guys, a former University of Texas student, had left the company as well as of last week. He had told us he was game for a drink, but sold out and, instead, packed his stuff and left out of town. He was leaving the job to go to graduate school and was taking an internship before the Fall semester started.

Despite it being a Thursday night on the edge of a college campus on the first weekend back to school, the bars were dead. There were no rowdy crowds or drunk college girls. The three of us shot the shit amongst ourselves and played games of Erotic Photo Hunt.

Somewhere along the way, somehow, the conversation devolved to the subject of armpit fucking. The question was: if you met a smokin' hot girl, but she would not have vaginal or oral sex with you, but she was willing to fuck you with her armpit and it still felt good, would you be okay with it?

I decided that it couldn't be that much different from a handjob or titty-fucking, so why the hell not?

Then we asked: if fucking her armpit turned out to be the best sex ever in the entire universe, better than any blowjob or vaginal sex or anal sex or any other way to skeet in the entire universe, would you take her to be your wife -- with the caveat that her armpit will be the only part of her you ever get to fuck?

I decided that mediocre vaginal sex and blowjobs still had to trump any sort of armpit-fucking on any day of the week, so no.

And finally: if you were Muslim and could marry up to four wives, would you take armpit-fucker as one?

I decided yes.

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Within my first forty-hour work week with the new position, I showed up to my desk with a hangover.