Jiggling It.

Back before I became self-employed (and no, I don't mean that as a cute euphemism for unemployed) I worked for this company here in Baltimore, and this company had a security guy. I'm just talking about one dude here, one dude in a uniform whose job it was to patrol the building, walk the ladies to their cars and lock the joint up at night.

"A fine idea," I can hear many of you saying, "I like this security guy idea. Sign me up for one of those." And you are right. It is a fine idea.

Or rather, it would have been a fine idea if they hadn't hired Dan*.

(*Name changed to protect the not even remotely innocent. In fact, strike that and replace it with: Name changed to protect the axe murderer.)

Dan was a guy who took his job as lone security dude waaaaaaay too seriously. Dan was also a guy who probably liked to rape small animals. Dan had that look in his eyes that made you back slowly away, reaching for the nearest blunt object with which to defend yourself. Dan actually frightened the women he was supposed to be protecting. Dan was an insecurity guy.

When I say Dan frightened the women (and, let's be brutally honest, the men as well) I don't mean that he actively frightened them. He made no lude comments, he made no threats, he certainly didn't ever, to my knowledge, hurt anyone... He was just, you know... The kind of guy who has bodies buried in his back yard.

Let us now jump this story to a certain night, and imagine if you will, myself and two of my co-workers sitting in our shared office, burning the midnight oil.

That's an expression meaning "to work late," for those of you who are insufferably dense and are actually picturing me burning oil.

Dan's routine was to wander the building after hours, most likely stopping in each empty office and imagining how he would most like to murder that office's owner, and then at the end of the night, he would do a sweep of the place before arming the alarm and leaving. It was during this final sweep of the night, that he came upon myself and my buddies.

Again, for you extra-dense readers, "came upon," in this instance means he encountered us, not jizzed on us. Although I wouldn't put it past him.

Being "encountered" by Dan late at night in a deserted office building was not something that filled us with a sense of well-being. In fact, I would describe the sensation I had when he came in as being more of the "Oh god I don't want to be anally raped and left for dead" sort of thing. A glance around at my buddies told me I was not alone in this feeling. Have you ever heard the sound of three assholes clenching in panic simultaneously?

Dan was overly excited this evening because he had just gotten a brand new night-stick. Someone high-up in the company had wisely refused his request to come to work armed with a handgun, and so the night-stick was his weapon of choice. He brandished it and showed it to us, or at least showed it to us as best as one can when the three other people in the room are desperately trying to avoid eye contact with you.

The really exciting thing about this new night-stick, from Dan's point of view, was its handle. Imagine if you will, the night-stick as a meter long fiberglass rod. This one had a short handle about a third of the way up its length. You've seen the sort of thing I'm talking about in martial arts movies. This particular night-stick had at the end of its handle, a sort of mushroom-cap protrusion on it, making the handle look sort of like a stubby penis.

This comparison was made crystal clear to us when Dan pointed to the mushroom-cap and said "You know what they call this? Huh? Huh? The call it the head. Heh heh heh... The head..."

Never in my life have I wanted more to throw myself out of the nearest window. I was absolutely convinced that the anal rape was moments away from beginning. I wasn't the only one, either. Have you ever heard the sound of three assholes slamming shut in terror?

At this point the room is utterly silent. My co-workers and I are trying to pretend like we didn't hear what he said, and aren't aware that he's standing there grinning and stroking the head... I'm thinking "Look at your monitor... Don't turn around... Maybe he'll go after one of the other guys first..."

Then we hear him mutter to himself, the way somebody (somebody insane) might whisper to a girl in a centerfold, "Cause if anybody fucks with me, I'm going to stick this thing here straight up their ass.."

Have you ever heard the sound of three assholes positively inverting in abject horror?

But then, my friends, then, after a slight pause, he added: "...and jiggle it."

Soon afterwards he left the room, and no anal rapes were handed out on that night. Everybody breathe a big sigh of relief that my virgin ass is still intact. Go ahead, I'll wait.

...

My friends and I discussed the incident afterwards, and we all came to the conclusion that "I'm going to stick this straight up their ass..." may have been a terrifying thing to hear a psychotic muttering behind you, but it was "...and jiggle it" that was truly the cherry on top of our sundae of crippling horror. To this very day, whenever any one of us tells a dirty joke or a foul little anecdote, and then crosses over the line, (for example suddenly inserting a man drinking dead blended fetuses through a straw into an otherwise tame joke) we will agree that that person has "jiggled it."

As you may imagine, my friends, I get blamed for jiggling it quite a lot.

Anyway, the next time you're at the water cooler and a co-worker is telling you about their weekend, and begins graphically describing their sex life, or last bowel movement to you, just say "Dude, you just totally jiggled it."

This will catch on, I know it.