Loose lips sink moldy cubicles (also known as I'm not gone yet)

Do you have a family member or friend or co-worker who is always in the know? And is that person’s tongue so loose you sometimes worry it’ll drop right out of his or her mouth and slither down the street, slapping everything and everyone in its wake with such force, people and objects will be rocketed into outer space?

Yah, me too. Her name is Patty, and she works at my company. She knows—or portends to know—everything about everyone. For this reason, we call her Patty Post.

As fascinating as it is to talk to her (or rather, let her talk at you), I sometimes feel dirty afterward. Dirty as in I ate a bag of Funyuns, washed it down with some Nutter Butters and a liter of Pepsi, then licked a sugar bowl.

Anyway, missing co-worker Georgie Porgie came back yesterday morning and had the nerve to act like nothing had happened. After covering for his ass all week, I felt I deserved an explanation or, at the very least, a fricken thank you.

Nothing.

So while I was in the break room, I casually mentioned to Patty Post that George was back. And I waited.

0.2 seconds later I learned the reason(s) behind George's absence. Apparently, George hasn’t been getting any lovin’ from his wife. For, like, three years. And even though he and his wife have an agreement whereby she declared a complete loss of libido and gave George clearance to go to the “massage” parlor whenever he needed to—no questions asked—George decided to pop in and see his neighbor while his wife was away on business for the week.

Not only did George “see” his neighbor, he also “saw” her husband.

Over, and over, and over.

And over again.

Patty fed me so many scandalous details—weeklong orgy! midnight toga parties! weed and booze!—I upturned the entire bottle of Cremora. The whole time I kept thinking:

a) George and his neighbor and her husband?

b) OMG this explains why I was feeling feisty while sitting in George’s cubicle: all his unrequited lust must have impregnated the stagnant air and attacked my brain

c) George and his neighbor and her husband?

By the time Patty was done, I didn’t know where to put my Cremora. Up my nose? Down my pants? I felt I should do something for dramatic effect.

Whether or not the story is true (and I’ll never know; Patty claims her source was a neighbor of a neighbor of a friend of the husband), a few things are clear:

a) Patty can weave a damn good tale. She should get herself a blog. Or an agent.

b) George may very well be leading an exciting home life. He should get himself a blog. Or an agent.

c) Except for one person—me, hello—George just got a lot more popular with the ladies and the men at my office.

Schwing!