Then the economy took a dump, they fired the person at the front desk, and now they're all security-schmecurity. Kinda makes us scratch our heads and wonder -- if the Security System of Ages Past was so goddamn IMPERATIVE, are we safe... now?

The answer is no. No, we are not safe. Any bag of crazy can wander around our building unimpeded.

Case in point: Penny.

Or Crazy Penny, as she came to be known.

Penny showed up in our department, quite unannounced, which, in and of itself, isn't insane. People often come by and say Hello to Head Boss when they're in the building for a meeting. Head Boss is probably the most awesome person in all of Christendom. Alpha is constanting fielding people who just want to bask in the glow that is Head Boss for a couple minutes.

So imagine Alpha's surprise when Penny announced that she was here looking for "that man who was at Jeebus Advocacy Days two years ago."

Alpha cocked her head like a dog and was like, "You mean PhD Boss?"

"Maybe... How old is PhD Boss?"

"Uh... forty."

And Crazy Penny was all, "But he looks much younger, right? Really sharp dresser?"

And Alpha was like, "Um... yes?"

Well, thank God it wasn't ME talking to Crazy Penny because I would have been laughing hysterically by that point. Women of all walks of life just FLOCK to PhD Boss. It never fails to amuse me, and Alpha was geniunely stymied. PhD Boss -- young-looking and well-dressed?! Dude can't even match his socks to his pants!

Anyway, Alpha explained that PhD Boss was out of the office that day, and that should have been the last of Penny. But it turned out she had a meeting in the building THE NEXT DAY, but she just came into the building a day early to wander around and talk to people.

Sorry -- to talk at people. Penny handed Alpha her "business card," i.e. a penny. An actual copper penny. That's all, just a penny. And then she proceded to explain the Alpha -- who hadn't asked -- how she came to be named Penny when her parents were both Swedish so she should have been named Helga or something but blah blah luck blah blah red hair blah blah OH MY GOD.

Crazy Penny talked until Alpha's eyes glazed over. And believe me -- Alpha loves a good chat session as much as the next hen! But Alpha never got a word in edgewise because Penny, apparently, has gills and didn't need to pause to inhale.

Now, I realize that we work at a church-y organization. But the operative word in that sentence is work. Do you see a 40-cup, stainless steel coffee urn on my desk? No. Do you see a plastic tray of Jewel Bake Shop cookies? No. Because it ain't Sunday morning, and this ain't yo mama's Fellowship Hour!

I am trying to convert sea shells and pieces-of-eight to American dollars for PhD boss' expense report and where the fuck did this guy go last month anyway?! Jeebus, Mary and Joseph, we are not Passing the Peace at this moment, Penny! God A. Mighty!

Moral of the Story: Do NOT laugh at your receptionist and/or rent-a-cop, people! This is what happens when you don't have anyone at the front desk!

I don't know who she is or where she lives, or why in the hell she reads my blog (I'm pretty sure she's not a friend of my Mom), but Carole read one of the top ten best websites of all time -- Go Fug Yourself -- and recognized a Wenchie shout-out!

AND?! Carole emailed it to me! Which is more than the rest of you sad sacks ever do!

I'm mentioned in the same paragraph as Courtney Love and Raging Conjunctivitis! It's a dream come true! (For the full article -- and full photo -- go here.)

Pirate Wench: Inspiring celebrities since 2005!

I could not be more pleased. Or cracked out. And now, Carole and I are gonna go to Macy's and try on couture dresses that we have no intention of buying.

a. chocolate,
b. desserts,
c. carbination, and/or
d. caffiene

and won't shutthefuckup about it.

Hey, martyrs. I once read a thing called The Bible, and it says that, when you fast, you're not supposed to eat ash or rend your garments or complain all damn day about how much you want what you gave up. You didn't hear Jeebus bitching in the dessert, did you?!

[If a savior bitches in the middle of the dessert, does he make a sound?]

So, yeah, it's Lent, but I'm going to blog about Easter anyway because it's prettier than Lent and involves actual baskets full of chocolate.

I went to Target at lunch and then IMed Heather afterwards.

PW: god, there was so much pastel Eastery goodness at Target!
PW: I was bewitched!
PW: because I am gay

H: adorably so.
H: didn't see any high-waisted alexander mcqueen skirts, perchance/

PW: um, didn't look
PW: there were BUNNIES

H: ha.

PW: seriously
PW: cute bunnies
PW: like cute RUSTIC bunnies
PW: on tan canvas with muted pastel flowers and butterflies
PW: needless to say, I spent $50 on cute Easter shit

H: you're adorable, have I told you that often enough?

PW: awwwwwwww, am I rustic-pastel-bunny adorable?

H: yes, yes you are!

PW: so there's leftover food here AGAIN
PW: and I put some lasagna on my plate
PW: and then some salad because people were probably watching and judging
PW: and then I saw...
PW: PIZZA BREAD!
PW: like, pizza foccacia bread!
PW: and I was like "fuck this lasagna and salad! MORE PIZZA BREAD!"
PW: but I coudln't put back what I already took
PW: so now I'm gonna have to discreetly dump this and go get more pizza bread

H: ha.
H: I would totally dump it right there in front of people.

PW: there weren't even people in the room
PW: that's how lame I am
PW: I just felt like, it would be my luck for me to be putting it back, and someone would walk in

And then the conversation ended awkwardly when Heather disappeared from I.M.

Kinda like now.

Wednesday afternoon's email, however, deserved some special attention. Lucky for Billi, she happened to be on I.M. at the time.

PW: dude, you will love this.
PW: we have an "info" email where people can direct general Jeebus-related questions.
PW: this one got forwarded to my dept.
PW: "My favorite nephew has married a lady who is of the Latter Day Saints. If she is still a member of LDS when she dies, would she still go to heaven to be with God and nephew?"

B: OMG

PW: isn't that hilarious?

B: That's insane.

PW: welcome to my job.

[For those of you stalking me and trying to figure out where I work, you may assume that I do not work for the Latter Day Saints. Not that I wouldn't -- they just haven't made the right offer, yet.]

B: Just write back and say, "no, she's going to hell."

PW: actually, I'm tempted to say, "She's going to heaven. YOU're the one going to hell for questioning it, bitch!"

B: Ha! She'll go to pergatory, because she's too stupid to follow the light!

We watch a lot of t.v. together, Husband and I. Lots of complete t.v. shows on DVD. Netflix is our best friend. And we love watching stuff together because it brings up interesting topics to discuss, so that I don't have to hear him talk about work. (And let's face it, he can just read my blog if he wants to hear about my work.)

We have many What If discussion. Well, they're not so much "discussions" as they are me giving him instructions, i.e. What To Do If We Are Captured And Forced To Fight To The Death; What To Do If The Persian Army Invades Our Home; What To Do With My Remains When I Die. (We are currently just finishing up season four of "Six Feet Under.")

I want to be cremated and scattered somewhere pretty. And I'm pretty sure that he was paying attention for that one, but most of the time, he just nods humors the crazy lady. But mark my words -- SOME DAY, he will be scrambling around thinking, "What was it that she told me to do if The Rapture came?!" And he will WISH that he had paid closer attention to me!

Here are some real-life situations that I have given Husband explicit directions on:

What If The Revolution Starts?

What revolution? ANY revolution! It could happen! This place is a tinderbox! If we were Rome, we would just be wrapping things up right about now, so be looking for men with guns to come knocking on your door, inquiring as to which side you're on. [Hint: you're on their side.]

The plan is to meet at J and Egrau's house because, not only do they have enough guns and ammo to keep everone at bay, they have enough to WIN the whole damn thing. If there is time, I will grab all our food and the dogs. If not, war is hell. I'm sure the dogs and I will have some miraculous reunion when the dust settles. In slo-mo. With violins.

In the meantime, I will be a sniper because I have pretty good aim and enjoy sitting still for long periods of time.

What If We Win The Lottery?

We will give money away. HOWEVER. We will give it anonymously because I don't want my ungrateful, selfish friends (I'm looking at you, Heather) to come around expecting more, so that we end up friendless, bitter and alone, crying on Oprah about how money ruined our lives. Money is too awesome for that to happen! I will not let money get a bad rap because of my poor planning!

What If We Have Only Days/Hours Until Earth Is Destroyed?

Husband is to get onto an escape spaceship any way he can. I, however, will stay behind. I am not living on a fucking spaceship. I would rather get blown up. All Husband has to do is forgive me, from the bottom of his heart, when I have hot, anonymous, end-of-the-world sex with random strangers before we die.

What If I Have Some Supernatural Experience And No One Believes Me

Aside from plummeting to my death, this is probably my worst fear.

Plan A: I made Husband swear on a Bible that he will believe anything I tell him and NOT have me locked up.

Plan B: When Husband tries to have me locked up (and he will!), I will flee and go tell my cousin Ramone because Ramone will believe me!

What If I'm Turned Into a Vampire?

This really depends upon what kind of vampire I'm turned into. If I'm just mindless walking dead, feeding on my family -- you know, like a REAL vampire -- then he should kill me. But if I'm, like, Louis-a-la-Anne-Rice, eating rats and evil-doers, then he should just let me go.

And he's all, "How will I know the difference?" Because he likes to bait me.

And I said, "If I'm trying to EAT YOU, kill me. If I still care how my hair looks, we're cool."

Idiot.

Stupid boy.

Luckily, he barely knows who I am, let alone my secret identity, so it's safe to share it here with all of you.

Enjoy.

So last night I dreamt that I was at Bristol Ren Fair, with my family, and I got really tired of waiting around with them to do something, so I wandered off into a shop that was in the center of the fair that looked like an old farm house. I went inside and it was kind of like a sterotypical movie like Moroccan street market. I was wandering round through it and I ran into you and your mom and dad and sister.

No, English is not his second language. But I believe Runonsentence is his first language.

You were wearing a costume, but it was kind of weird...blousy pants and boots, and then a blousy top with a half-corset sort of thing on the outside. The top was very gauzy, and I could see all of your nubbly bits. Which was really cool.

Nubbly bits?

But you were annoyed at me, because I was wearing my video camera hat and was threatening to post video of you onto YouTube as soon as I got back.

Oh, irony.

So we all went walking as a group, and we suddenly were in another part of the field, and there were all of these mini-tornados all around us. You could walk through them, and they would kind of break up and fall apart, and it tickled. So we did this for a while, until I spotted this GIANT tornado heading right for us.

I think this part is a premonition that his ridiculous dream will get posted on the internet, and he won't be able to escape the embarassment.

We started to run, but the tornado kept chasing us, so finally I grabbed your hand and dragged you under a building and then the tornado whipped through the building and ripped it off of us, but I was holding onto you and some floor joists to keep us from going up into the tornado, but unfortunately it did rip your shirt off,...

Oh, of course it did. How unfortunate.

...so you were topless and that was really cool because to hold onto you and the floor joists I had to bury my face in your chest, but you were all annoyed that your shirt got ripped off, but somehow my hat video camera stayed on my head, and that didn't make any sense, and I agreed, and thats when I woke up.

Woke up and decided it would be a really good idea to commit this to email and send it along.

You know, if it wasn't for most people in the world being completely out of their minds, I wouldn't even have a blog.

Thank you, people! You make it almost worthwhile to have to put up with you when I'm not blogging!

But I made a pact with everyone else I know -- "Don't get me anything, and I won't get you anything." Everyone was very agreeable. Which means that what I did get remains that much clearer in my memory.

And I can't believe I haven't showed you guys this stuff, yet. Look what Husband got me!

Yay! Girlie pirate gigabytes! Awesome.

But this is what really floored me.

Naughty nurse outfit! Can you believe that?! Something about this purchase makes me think that he secretly wants to play Barbies, too...

"Ready for your spongebath, Mr. Wenchie?"

And then THIS!

How did Husband know that Barbie Basics are, like, all the rage in the Barbie world this season?!

Here's a Top Model Barbie and a Milan Model Barbie doing what they do best -- modeling their new accessories!

Either he's been spending time with Joe behind my back, or he really IS gay from the waist up, as I've always said.

(Yes, I know there's a third possibility, but I shall just ignore the obvious and remain confident that Husband just knows my Barbie tastes really, really well.)

The body language was unmistakable, and PhD was riveted. They laughed and whispered like they were on their third date and they both knew that sex was inevitable. See, Meg is currently off-again with her on-again-off-again boyfriend, so she was in need of some male attention.

Finally, they wrapped up their pre-mating ritual, just as I was prepping for my lunch date with Bobbi. A woman. Whom I always call "Bobbi the Girl" when I talk to Husband, so he doesn't think I'm lunching every week with some guy.

PhD: Wenchie, can you come over here for a minute?

PW: Fine. But when my phone rings, I'm outta here. So make it quick.

PhD: You know that meeting on March 4th? Did you reserve a room for that?

Phone: *ring* *ring*

PW: Later. [answers phone] Okay, I'll be right down.

PhD: So what're you doing for lunch? You wanna go get lunch?

PW: ... Noooooooo. I have plans.

PhD: With who?

PW: Bobbi.

PhD: Who's Bobbi?

PW: My boyfriend.

PhD: Oh.

PW: Besides, the way you were eating up Meg, I 'm surprised you're even hungry for lunch.

PhD: [audible intake of breath] Wow.

Uh-huh. That's right. I don't "share" my muffin.

It's called "Lime Lights!"

And because Miss V. loves dark humor...

At work, Alpha has been trying to to figure out what gifts Head Boss should bring on his tour of all the important world religious leaders next month. (No, I'm totally serious. Head Boss has met ALL of Jeebus' rock stars. Yes, they let me work with important, holy people. Can you believe it?!)

For the Pope's gift, I suggested, "a nice burning-heretic-scented candle."

And then I remembered that Alpha is Catholic.

D'oh!

Hey, at least I didn't suggest one that smells like a boys' locker room. Because THAT would've been over the edge.

I am referrring, of course, to Vicki's request that I post "a photo spread of things that begin with the letters P and W."

Your wish is my command, fair Vicki! Let's start with P for Pirate and...

Plate! You guys, I'm Scandinavian. Of COURSE, I collect Royal Copenhagen. I got at least a dozen of these plates.

Polar bear! My Royal Copenhagen collection is not limited to plates. I also have a RC bunny!

Pirate minis! Weird that I'm not a gamer, and yet I own three minis. (Not pictured: Legolas.) In retrospect, I should have put a nickel in the photo so you could see how truly miniscule these things are. They stand less than an inch tall!

Pussywillows! You would not believe how old these things are. They're from a tree long since gone, that stood behind the neighbors' garage at my parents' old house... where I have not lived for twenty-one years. Assuming they don't turn to dust before then, I'm having these pussywillows buried with me.

Now for the things that start with the same letter as Wenchie...

Watch! I'm kind of impressed at what a nice picture my camera took.

Wheat! Is it weird that I have wheat in an antique bottle as decor? Heather is having a stroke just looking at this photo.

Woodcuts! I like leaves. I have no idea where I found these. Probably the flea market.

Wonder Woman! Last, but certainly not least.

I hope you've enjoyed today's tour of Wenchie's Alphabet. Today's blog brought to you by the letters P and W, and by the number sixty-nine. Tee-hee!

And isn't that a weird word -- thousandth? It has a N-D-T-H all in a row. That seems odd and like I'm speaking Elvish or something. (That's the language of the Elves, not Elvis with a speech impedement.)

What were we talking about? Oh yeah. Here's the formal, heartfelt, congratulatory announcement that I sent to Vicki:

Well, well, well. What have we here? It's a little mamasita named Vicki who just happens to be the author of WENCHIE'S 2000th COMMENT!!!

You know what this means! Or maybe you don't, I don't know. It's been a hella long time since my 1,500th comment. You can read about them all here.

Tell her what she's won, Don!

1. A photo spread of whatever you wanna see (within FCC guidelines, you sick bitch).

2. To ask me any question in the universe, and I will answer it, completely and truthfully, right here in my blog, for all the world to see.

3. Because you are the 2,000th commenter, you may make any request of me that you wish. Any desire, any belonging, any favor, any thing -- it's yours for the asking.

So whaddaya say to that?

After a day's thought, this is what Vicki said to that:

1. I would like a photo spread of things that begin with the letters P and W.

Okay, now, that's funny. Gimme a couple weeks to work on that.

2. My question is: WHere does your refined wit and fantastic humor come from? Do you cultivate it, like a beloved garden, or is it pure God-given talent? Do you draft out posts? Or just publish off the cuff? (ok, that's 3 questions)

Um... yes? I was unaware that I posessed "refined wit" and "fantastic humor," but now that you've enlightened me, I'm certainly not going to saddle God with the responsibility.

My Dad thinks that introducing my Mom as "my first wife" is the height of comedic pizzazz, so it's probably not him. My Mom is pretty freakin' funny, especially in writing, but I think it would be mean to lay my anger-fueled, expletive-laced word-vomit at her feet.

My official answer is -- the people in my head. Seriously, I don't know where this stuff comes from. Things just pop into my head, and since I have little or no brain-to-mouth filter, they just come unbidden to my lips. Or keyboard. Whatever.

Believe me, if I were going to carefully cultivate a particular brand of humor, it would not be this one. You have NO IDEA how much trouble I get in, how routinely I have people tell me that they don't get my jokes. I am a freak of nature, legitimized only by my anonymous blog and dozen or so fans.

Some of my posts come out completely intact and need very little revision from me. That is, they get very little revision from me. Anything that's an angry rant about a particular person or event is definitely "off the cuff." So is anything that's a conversation -- I.M. or face-to-face.

The rest take writing and re-writing and sometimes leaving for two years and coming back to, or eventually just dumping. And sometimes that's because I'm not feeling it as much as when I started, and sometimes it's just time constraints. Sometimes I'll get three or four ideas in one week; sometimes I'm hoping someone will do or say anything remotely interesting -- or rage-inducing -- because I'm tapped out. Throw me a bone, Universe!

This post? Off-the-cuff. Like you couldn't tell.

3. Favor? Duh - you, me, Heather - next Twilight movie we go together. YOu can buy the popcorn.

Well, duh, indeed. Shall I get us each our own bag? Or should we get one big bag and make Heather sit in the middle and hold it on her lap, so we can "accidentally" graze her boob when we reach for it?

These are my wishes!!

As you wish, my dear.

As you wish.

Green? Are you kidding me?! Back in the day, if you wanted green nails, you first had to paint them with Liquid Paper and then color them in with green marker. Neon green highlighters worked the best.

And if you wanted your jeans fashionably worn to pieces? You couldn't just pay some designer $180 to do it for you. Oh no. You had to do it yourself. For a truly broken-in look, you could spend hours in front of the t.v. watching The Kenny Everett Show with a nail file and a pair of jeans from Lerner. (It was LERNER back then -- none of this pseudo-urban New York & Co. crap! And we liked it!) Or if you were lazy, you could just cut a couple holes with scissors and run them through the laundry once to fray the edges. (Also works with cut-off jean shorts!)

And you know what's weird? I drew on my Lee jeans and my Keds white canvas tennies with ballpoint pens all the time, and I don't remember my Mom ever yelling at me for that. Seems like something a snotty teenaged girl should get yelled at for, doesn't it? "Your father works hard to make money to buy you clothes, and you go and RUIN THEM???" Nope. Not once.

So where was I going with this? Absolutely nowhere. Just got me thinking because I haven't done my nails in WEEKS, and it's like I'm inhabiting someone else's body. So I was deciding on a color, when I remembered that Billi told me about Girl Child's new nail polish, and I was thinking, "She'd better not show her face in my home with green nail polish on or she's getting a pedicure RIGHT THAT MINUTE."

But now it's too close to bedtime so I'm just -- Jesus Christ on clearance, how do you stand me?

Just in case you are stupid enough (and I think you are!) to continue to pursue a career that puts you in constant contact with the public, I'd like to help you out with a little contructive criticism.

Shut your fucking mouth.

Because I don't live in a cave, I noticed and recognized your SIX pieces of Tiffany jewelry the minute I walked in the door. You really didn't need to point them out to me. In fact, you'd better thank whatever god will claim you that there were witnesses, or your shiny silver would have been in the bottom of my purse.

You know what? If you have enough money to be buying yourself multiple pieces of Tiffany jewelry, then you DO NOT get to complain to ANYONE that your horrible mother actually expects you to start paying for some of your own upkeep. Don't kid yourself that I was listening sympathetically. I was only smiling and nodding because I was picturing myself gouging your eyes out and shoving them down your throat.

What makes you think I give a shit about you and all your new clothes (some of which still reside, in the bags with tags on, in the back of your car since before Christmas)? Are you TRYING to make me hate you? You know who washes all your piles of clothes? YOUR MOTHER! Pay her some fucking RENT, ya little shit!

Look at me. I have crow's feet. I wear sensible shoes. I have some grey hairs in my bangs. I am quite obviously a GROWN UP. For me to commiserate with your spoiled, ungrateful ass, I would have to defy all the known laws of the universe.

I have a mortgage. I have a stressful, low-paying job. I have a dog on THREE medications. I have one stepdaughter in college and the other one getting married. And I only have one piece of Tiffany jewelry.

And you know what? I wouldn't trade my life for yours for all the shoes at the Coach store. You know why? Because everyone forced to spend more than two seconds with you knows that you are a worthless, self-centered, ignorant insect who does nothing but accumulate useless crap and doesn't make one bit of difference to anyone or anything around you.

Don't talk to me. Don't whine to me. Don't gimme your little pouty face. You know what? I'm done trying to be nice to you. I liked you better when you were scared of me, so we're going back to that. Buckle up, bitch.

Nice sparkly headband.

All my love,
Wenchie

Anyway, ML owns a ranch, complete with sheep and geese. (Geese are what they use to train the very small puppies who might be intimidated by big-ass sheep. See how much you're learning? My blog is educational!) And all my jokes about rural life aside (and there are puh-LENTY) -- she is the SHIZZLE. If you owned a dog that actually herded and didn't sleep in your bed and eat homemade, organic food and wear little sweaters, you would know who ML is. She is The Dog Yeller.

She owns eight dogs, all working dogs. Two Great Pyrenees, five Belgian Tervurens, and one Border Collie. The Collie and one of the Tervurens are CHAMPIONS in their field (pun intended). The Great Pyreanees are employed to protect the sheep. They live with the sheep and keep the coyotes and wolves and eagles away.

(Sadly, there are no protective dogs living with the geese, and last summer, a couple of eagles made off with the entire flock. BWAAAAAAAAA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA! Oh my God, rural life just never gets un-funny! I shouldn't be laughing, as it is expensive to replace a flock of geese, but that is one thing that us suburbanites and city slickers never have to worry about -- finding our goose's entrails hanging from a tree. See? FUNNY!)

Meanwhile, back in civilization, The Boy Child and The Spare continue their tormenting of their own dog, as well as my dogs. These boys luuuuuuuv dogs. So what better field trip to take them on than to a RANCH with EIGHT DOGS! It's every little boy's dream, right? Dogs big enough for them to ride! Woo-hoo!

And if we go in the beginning of April? In addition to wonderful doggies and barnyard animals? There will be BABY LAMBIES!!! ML is mating 40 of her sheep this month, and is therefore expecting 40 baby lambies the first few weeks of April! And don't even think of correcting me and telling me that a baby sheep is a kid. I don't care. It's a BABY LAMBIE!!!

So, being the awesome aunt that I am, I wrote an email to Billi outlining my idea for an outing to the wilds of Indiana. I included a lovely description of the scenery, the wilderness to explore, the dogs, the sheep, the baby lambies. But I made sure that she knew it would also involve a trip across state lines, a sleepover at a ranch, a gorge on the property big enough to hide bodies in, and various and sundry carnivores.

I mean, these are her babies I'm potentially absconding with, and I'd understand completely if she was apprehensive about letting me take her blessed treasures three hours away into coyote country.

Here is my sister's reply, verbatim:

Please. Take my children.

Their spring break is that week of March 29 - April 2.

Go! Take them! Spend the night! Have fun!

Wow. I don't even think she talked to Brad first. She just hit reply and started doing her happy dance.

Why do I get the feeling that I'll be ending some future blog post with the words "...and she left no forwarding address"?

But first I had to wait for him while he was distracted by Meg, the Rubenesque blonde who has a cube near us.

Meg: Bye! See you in February!

PhD: Oh, that's right! Where are you going this time?

Meg: Tanzania, then Palestine, then London.

PhD: Wow. Well, have a safe journey! *smooch*

Meg: Oooooh, you're all scratchy!

PW: *eyeroll* God. Are you dating her now, too?

PhD: What? Nooooooooo!

PW: Dude. You kissed her.

PhD: We're friends!

PW: Whatever. I don't kiss my friends.

PhD: Oh, stop.

PW: And I sure as hell don't kiss anyone at work.

PhD: Did you see Alpha's face?! She was, like, COMPLETELY taken aback!

[Alpha is the other secretary here, if you'll remember.]

PW: Yeah, that's cuz you kissed Meg. On the lips.

PhD: I've seen Alpha kiss Head Boss.

PW: Neither of them are a hott, young blonde.

PhD: So you don't kiss people.

PW: Dude, I'm Norwegian. I barely hug. If someone hugs me, fine, but I don't initiate. And the only people I kiss are my parents.

PhD: What if someone's going away on a long trip?

PW: Nope. Oh, wait, Heather and I kiss, but it's that Hollywood kiss, where you kiss the air next to their face. I don't even know how that started.

PhD: See!

PW: ... Don't ever kiss me.

PhD: Really?

PW: Really really.

And for the record, my car could eat his car for breakfast.