I'm going to attempt to tell this story with as much tact and diplomacy as I can muster. (I just went downstairs to my neighbor's place to borrow a cup of good taste; I hope it helps.)
My name has been submitted by the staff here at the All John All The Time World Church for consideration for the annual "Most Courageous Man" award, given each year to some deserving gentleman out there who, by the standards we all hold near and dear, rises to an occasion and comports himself in a brave and undaunted manner when faced by the vagaries that life has thrown in his path.
Got all that? Okay, here we go.
Full disclosure: Your Pope has another job, besides dispensing the message of the soothing balm of Johnism to all my loyal followers and other seekers of the truth along the path of enlightenment. While its an unfortunate necessity at this juncture in the history of the AJATTWC, as we are just getting started on our mission of bringing the message of Johnism to the masses, that because revenues are limited, (last week's collection brought in $26.88, plus a couple of coupons for Milkbones; Harley was pleased), it's necessary for your Pope Guy to have other employment besides his Pope gig. But hopefully not for long, as we work to establish the Church as a "premier", one-of-a-kind, media-savvy religious organization. You know, like the Roman Catholics.
Without getting into a lot of details of my "other" life, suffice to say that what I do to supplement my Pope wages is legal and borderline ethical. Sometimes. (No, I'm not a politician or a Scientologist.) And as part of my operation, I have to occasionally interview, and hire, part-time employees. I only have two, but I do have to replace them periodically. (They wear out; who would have thought it?)
(And no, the Harley Dog is NOT an employee, despite his constant attempts to have himself put on the payroll and be given benefits: he thinks next year's annual bonus for furry executives should be all the Milkbones they can eat; I told him okay, I'll give you the gig, and the 'Bones, but there's a condition; all he has to do is carry them out of the kitchen without using his mouth.)
One of my current employees is a neighbor of mine who happens to be a transgender woman. (Welcome to Southern California; I wish I could remember the person who once described SoCal as "being similar to a bowl of granola: what isn't fruits and nuts is flakes".) I knew "her" when she was still "him", and I don't mean to insinuate anything about her by the "fruits/nuts/flakes" thing; what she does with her life is totally her business, and I do not sit in judgment. Its just that, back in the Midwest where I'm from, you don't get too many opportunities to hire people who used to have testicles, and now don't.
She's a very nice person, she does a nice job and she's a big fan of the Pope, although that wasn't why I hired her originally. (I conducted a lengthy job interview with this lady; scene: out on the sidewalk, in front of our building, getting the mail. TGP (transgender person) approaches Pope, says hello. Pope responds, hey, how you doin', you still looking for a part-time job? TGP says yes. Pope says, when can you start? TGP says yesterday. Pope says, do you do drugs, and do you have any? TGP yes to both, Pope says you're hired, end of story.)
Unfortunately, after a few months of successful "employeeship", my TGP is leaving me, to move on to greener pastures. (I think that only works for sheep, but whatever.) But she said she had a friend that was looking for work, and would I interview her for the position? Sure, I said, I'd hire Jack The Ripper if his background check came out okay.
So it was with no particular thoughts one way or the other about the situation that I went to meet my TGP and her friend, Harold, (the names of the innocent have been changed to protect the guilty), at a local cafe to "interview" Harold for the job opening.
The ladies were seated at a table when I walked in, punctually as always, and rose to greet me as I approached. (I arrived punctually, the girls weren't sitting at the table punctually, you doofuses.) The first thing I noticed about my prospective new employee was that she was unusually tall for a woman, standing almost eye to eye with me. I'm 6'2', tall by "normal people" standards, short for the NBA and the source for my name PJ The Tall. (As the Brits would say, ripping bit of a connection, what?) We all shook hands and came out fighting.
Harold had slightly longer than shoulder length blond hair, blue eyes and appeared to be a woman in her mid-thirties. She was very attractive and very pleasant, had a nice confidence about herself, and after we ordered coffee and sodas, we talked and I found out that her background was good as well. (There was a Picasso print on the wall behind her.)
Now I admit to being a man rapidly approaching "tortoise" age (some sea tortoises have been known to live up 150 years, right up there with redwoods and Dick Clark), but beyond that I am, above all else, two things: a) a guy, which means I'm a hopeless horndog most of the time, even given the advanced age, and b) not dead. I would lie down if I were; it's a courtesy thing.
So at one point in the conversation, my TGP, my almost new employee (I had already decided to hire her, I just hadn't told her yet) and I were discussing some of the requirements of the job, one of which is to, because it involves the proper handling of food, wear a head-covering at all times. (My folks wear ballcaps.) Since what I know about the fine art of women's hairstyles could be put in a thimble, I deferred to the "girls" on how to best wear one's hair when required to place a ballcap over same.
Now how in the hell I missed it prior to this point is beyond me completely, but I suddenly became aware of the fact that my almost new employee was, how can I say this delicately, rather well-endowed? (She wasn't in the league with Norma Stitz, the lady with the 105ZZZ-sized bra that I wrote about in my post on 7/5, but she sure as hell wasn't going to be confused for an eight-year old boy by any means, either. Or a thirteen-year old girl for that matter.)
I pride myself on the fact that I am an old-fashioned gentleman; I'm polite to people, I hold doors for folks, I say "please/thank you" at the appropriate times (Mom would be proud), and I treat women like ladies until they prove themselves to be the contrary. And I qualified myself for that nomination when my almost new employee leans back in her chair, puts her hands behind her head into her long, blond hair and twirls it up into a bun, with the most amazing display of "rackage" I believe I have ever been privileged to almost see...
...because I was a true gentleman, and never took my eyes from hers. Stared right across that table, into those big, baby blues and thought to myself...
...if I look down, I'm screwed. If I let my eyes sink to her chest, I have, intentionally or not, confirmed all the horrible things that women believe about men, all of which are true, of course, but I don't want to be the Neanderthal that validates the theory.
But why do I have to be the pillar of strength and decency here? I don't want to wear this mantle, let somebody else be noble and uplifting. Me, I want a gander at those tits.
The duality was terrible; I would not allow myself to give in to temptation ("...papa was a rolling stone, wherever he laid his hat was his home...". Motown; thanks guys.) and stare at this woman's breasts, even when they're sitting there, calling me, daring me to do so. Just like the no-hands kid on his bike, hey, Mom, look at me, look at me. (Imagine being stared at by two sixteen-inch softballs.)
It was awful.
I earned that "Courageous Man" award in the next few moments after Harold exhibited her amazing bosoms while demonstrating for TGP and I how she would "style" her hair up under her cap to maximum efficiency. After holding her hair in place for about a three-count (just when I started to perspire), she let it down and lowered her arms, eliminating the Grand Canyon view and letting me off the hook. It was a gruesome three seconds that I'll remember for a lifetime.
I hope Harold works out; I really liked her and I think she will be very good at the work we do.
But I'm instituting a new dress code for my employees, something I have never done before. In the future, all female (duh) employees with a bra size that requires more letters than numbers will be required to wear loose-fitting, voluminous (look that up in your Funk and Wagnall's) garments that in no way reveal the wearer's gender, let alone their physical attributes. No more surprise "rackage" views for this Pope Guy.
It's a damn good I didn't take the Harley Dog to the interview; wouldn't that be just great, trying to get to know someone so you can hire them for a job, and all the time your dog is humping their leg under the table.
And if Harold had held her arms up for another three seconds, I would have been on the floor with Harley, trying to push him out of the way.
Love and harassment suits,
PJTT
copyright 2011 Krissongs, Inc.
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