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Guys Being Dudes: Deadlines

Guys Being Dudes: Deadlines

The phone on the corner of his desk rang incessantly as he blankly stared at the spreadsheet displayed on his computer screen. A small red light on the phone’s touch-screen blinked on and off as he let it go to voicemail. Or did he even have a voicemail? Regardless, if anyone really needed him, they could get him on his cell.

It was 3 p.m. on a Tuesday, the prime hour for not giving a flying fuck. He had spent the weekend disturbingly hungover, as usual, and was just now getting back to normal two days later. Not only had Macy dropped a fucking emotional bomb on him over the weekend, leading him to drink like Trump was about to bring back Prohibition, but he was also running completely behind on work projects and other responsibilities.

He sat immobile, staring at the blinking cursor. His mind wandered, contemplating weekend plans and potential Netflix binges. He had an imaginary argument with Macy in his head. His eyes were practically glazed over when one of his supervisors aggressively stepped into the doorway of his tiny office. He was a man of small stature, with the hair of a young Michael Douglas, a la 1987 Wall Street. What he lacked in height, he made up for in flashy attire and accessories. He gestured wildly as he spoke, a tacky gold Hublot taking up the entirety of his wrist.

“Um…excuse me,” he said, with a sharp exhale from his flared nostrils. “Did you not hear your phone ringing?”

“Ummm…yeah, sorry I was just caught up working on something,” he stammered with uncertainty. “What’s going on?”

“Right. Ok. Yeah, so we are on a strict fucking deadline for those client forms I gave you, like, two weeks ago. Where are we on that?”

“Yeah, definitely almost done, I just have to…”

But his supervisor raised his manicured-hand in a “stop” motion, cutting off his words, shutting his eyes.

“Honestly, I don’t care about your excuses. Get it fucking done and get it back to me. By the way, you smelled like a bar all day yesterday. Get yourself together, please. Thanks.”

And with that, he spun around on one loafered-heel and disappeared down the hallway.

He let out the chest-full of air he had been holding in during the entire uncomfortable encounter. Fuck. He felt like he was walking on thin ice around here. First of all, he didn’t have a clue about what he was supposed to be doing most of the time. He pretty much just did things his own way, and hoped for the best. No one ever really even checked in with him. At first he thought it was because he must be doing everything so well that there were no changes that needed to be made, but now as these deadlines loomed overhead, he realized he was up shit creek without a paddle. Maybe it was time to actually do his job.

The familiar chime of his Outlook inbox played through his speakers. Another goddamn email. He sighed, exasperated, as he grabbed the computer mouse and clicked on the blue icon. He was sure it would be his supervisor, probably sending something along the lines of the exact same conversation they had just had, this time in email form.

Surprisingly, the unread message was from Logan. Hm, he thought to himself. That’s weird. None of the guys ever sent emails, and they definitely did not send them to his work email. The subject simply read, “HOLA EL HIJO DE PUTA!!!!” His face scrunched up in confusion. Wtf did that mean?

He contemplated opening the message, as Logan was a known wild-card. It could literally contain anything. Porn. A link to Silk Road. Who knew? He pondered these thoughts for exactly 2.3 seconds before clicking the link to open it.

The image before him loaded, the entire message displayed in one short paragraph and attachment.

His eyes brightened and a sly smile slowly crept across his face like the Grinch.

He had forgotten about fucking Mexico.

Image via Shutterstock

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