Origin Story, Part Two

The first thing that gets to you about this place is the paperwork.

Forget about the multiple background checks, drug testing, and battery of inoculations I had to go through – it was the frigging paperwork that pissed me off. Once I was cleared for employment, I spent the first week reading and filling out paperwork.

And I’m not talking like a regular work week, I’m talking seven business days. Eight straight hours. Sitting in some windowless over-air-conditioned room, reading text the size of a midget’s pecker and having to initial every. Freaking. Page. By the time I hit Day Six, I was worried I’d have to immediately go on disability because I was going BLIND.

But I got through it with my eyesight relatively intact. I started my illustrious job as an Area 51 janitor, only to discover the paperwork had just begun. Every day, my email inbox was filled with at least 200 new memos, missives, and addendums to stuff that had gone out on previous days. There were updates on security protocols. Suggestions on dealing with bacterial contamination. Even stupid sermons about appropriate workplace behavior.

It would be one thing if you could just blow it off. But if you weren’t up-to-date on the latest directives, your butt would be barbecue before you could say “bubonic plague.” Example: you suit up for a chemical spill, but it turns out the substance has been re-synthesized the night before to eat through reinforced rubber, so you’re on the ground with your bones melting like ice cream, the only condolence you get is: “Didn’t you read the memo?”

So I developed a photographic memory. I’d take a mental snapshot of the latest blabbering email, then scan it for any words that applied to me. “Radioactive,” “flesh-eating,” and “overtime” were always sure signs that my next clean-up would be a little hairy.

After the first couple months, though, I started to get a handle on life at Groom Lake. When there wasn’t some kind of accident or spill, most of my job consisted of keeping the labs tidy. Which, as those of you with scientists in the family will know, was a major freaking job. Not only are these eggheads filthy, but man, they’re forgetful. They’ll knock over a can of Coke, then get all excited about the latest E. Coli orgy and completely forget about the puddle of soda. So by the time Yours Truly shows up, it’s a sticky mass of immovable ass-jizz. One of the only upsides about being a janitor here is that I have access to cleaning products that could take the stains off a skeleton in a tar pit.

In fact, I’d pretty much given up on anything interesting happening in this joint until this morning. I was just finishing a six-day rotation, when I saw a new scientist (let’s call her Doc Hotness) enter the locker room. Unlike the other eggheads, this chick knew how to rock a lab coat. She was like every sexy librarian fantasy you’ve ever had poured into one curvy-creamy package, with cute glasses. She only had to tie her curly hair back in a ponytail, and I was at full attention.

There’s only 2000 or so people who work Homey Airport, so a new arrival is like chum in the water. But before I could even introduce myself to the hot doc, this douchebag IT guy I call Phildo the Dildo gets in her grill and is all, “I’ll give you the tour (slobber, slobber).”

So I’m totally cock-blocked. And the old Joe, he would have just sat back and eaten a full helping of pussy pudding. But no more. I’ve been here almost two years, and I’m sick of crying on the sidelines. It’s time for this QB to get in the game and fuck some shit UP.

So here’s the deal: Hotness and I are working the same rotation five days from now. I am going to finally take charge of my life, get off my ass, and make something happen. I’m gonna grab hold of my balls, and use ‘em for what the Good Lord intended:

I am going to ask out Doc Hotness.