Let’s just get this out in the open: I’m not not going to do blow in the office. I’m addicted to it. You’ve got your coffee, Tina in accounting has her green tea, Brock has his protein shakes, but me? I’m a coke guy. It’s literally the air I breathe. It’s where I dedicate my paycheck to rather than eating martini and crab lunches (but we expense those anyway because my job is based on greed and glutton).
I’m not going to say our office condones our abuse, but they don’t deter it because they know we need our lifeblood in order to make the company bank. When it’s all said and done, we aren’t the Wolf Of Wall Street motherfuckers that everyone thinks we are. Truthfully, I didn’t even do cocaine before I got here. I dabbled in adderall in college just to keep my grades up and get up for tailgates. It just turns out that cocaine is a lot more fun to do. Who knew?
Around the office, you have to be somewhat candid when you’re dancing with the white lady or else the interns think they can just rock out a party vibe once they hit the big leagues. If anyone’s going to have a cocaine problem around here, it’s gonna be me. Not those nerds pushing paper and getting my coffee that I end up pouring out in the sink while laughing at them while they sweat through their Joseph A. Banks suits. So when I’m trying to enjoy some Charlie, I have to pick my spots.
Ivory Toilet Seats
It’s not ideal, but if we’ve got clients slithering around the office, I can’t just be horking fatties off my desk with my door closed while listening to a playlist called “Angry Kanye.” Yeah, the huge downside of going to the bathroom is that my loud snorts and coughing echo super hard off the marble floors and vessel sinks, but the chances are that someone else in the bathroom is doing the exact same thing as me.
Ultimately, the ivory on the toilet is a gloriously smooth surface where there won’t be any evidence of me feeding my nostrils. Does it stunt my numbie game because I refuse to put my finger in my mouth while I’m in the presence of toilets? Yeah, but who cares? If I was worried about losing a little bit of blow to the cause, I wouldn’t be financially stable enough to do it in the first place.
The Conference Room
“Hey Brad, can you come in the conference room and go over some numbers with me?” Blinds closed, door locked, massive table, and a television that has the Golf Channel on it. Done and done.
It’s the best. Not only do you get an excuse to do it with your boys, but you can spend an hour doing it because everything thinks you’re working. Meanwhile, you’re just kicking back talking about swing tips and pussy. Life, man. Gotta love it.
The Copy Machine
Truthfully, if it wasn’t for us doing a little Chuck Norris around the workplace, we probably would have gotten rid of that copy machine years ago. I’m 99 percent sure we’re considered “paperless,” but I wouldn’t know because I pass everything off to the bullpen anyway.
Have you ever done a line off a fully-functional copy machine with the light blasting in your face while also warming up the sugar? It’s like the closest I can get to being poolside in Miami if I’m taking a weekend off. Plus, the noise of the copy machine completely drowns out the “WOO!” I let out afterward.
And there’s a lock on the door too? It’s like they’re begging us to blow lines in there.
The iPads in IT
Why the fuck do we have iPads? No clue. But boy oh boy, those things are made for ingesting some flakes. Nothing makes me feel as rich as I am like chopping up a gator tail with my black card on an iPad that I just took the plastic covering off of.
Sure, every Monday we get an email from some nerd pleading for us to stop unwrapping the iPads, but I just send back some variation of a middle-finger GIF and while CC’ing all my boys. It’s a guaranteed laugh every single time. Fuckin’ losers.
I know, I know, I said it wasn’t all that responsible to do it at my desk but sometimes it’s just the nature of the beast. I mean, it’s right there in a box on the corner of my desk. And after a night out at Skylark where I find myself waking up hungover at my apartment in Midtown, I’m too tired to make my way to anywhere else in the office. You can’t actually expect me to walk out of my office, through the scum who make less than six figures, and into the bathroom when I’m that hungover. Sure, I can puke in the toilet instead of my trashcan, but if I do that, what’s my secretary going to do when she’s not cleaning my barf up all morning? Worst comes to worse, maybe she’ll even let me do a line off her babylons. .
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