I get to work this morning, and as usual my brain is half asleep and half fuzzy, deluded, coffee energy. I’ve still got the Foo Fighters song in my head that I was listening to in the car, and I’m humming it as I walk in the building. I’m alone on the elevator, and for some reason I always feel compelled to act like a jackass when I’m alone on elevators. One of the many times.
So I start singing out loud, and I don’t even really know the words to the song:
There’s not a pig in the womb around here.
That’s not as big as the spoon in my ear.
Any no-talent bozo can sing muddled rock lyrics, so I decide to kick it up a notch and sing the guitar parts as well:
Bow now now
Dikka dikka dow Dikka dikka dow
Dikka dikka dow Dikka dikka doooowwwww
Now the itch is getting scratched. I’m a complete, shameless dullard, protected only by the impenetrable sanctity of the elevator. The big finish to the elevator routine is to keep acting the dolt until the door actually starts to open, then suddenly become dour and professional, so if there happens to be a crowd of people on the other side, they won’t suspect a thing.
And of course, there was a group of my co-workers waiting there. Including the president of the company. And they were all smirking. And then the small, rarely used part of my brain that actually has a little sense woke up briefly to make two points:
- Sound carries.
- Elevators do not exist in some alternate dimension.
As I moved through my colleagues, they watched me smiling. One laughed quietly to himself. I expect to be fired any minute now.