Tag Archives: Ferrari

A Spider Web to the Face

I had a bad day today. This is my response to it.

Spider web to the face

There are a million and one opinions on almost anything you could name, but one thing most everyone can agree on is that walking suddenly and forcefully into a web of sticky filaments, filled with mummified insect carapaces (and if you are truly unlucky, the furious, eight-legged occupant) is a perfect way to start a Bad Day.

Such was the case for Francesca Guinevere Dubois IV, who went by the refreshingly plain name of Pat. Pat began the day in a comfortable, caffeine-supported middle ground of routine. She got ready for work and left the house, cutting through the idyllic little wooded area to get to the bus stop.

Whap! Something soft and clinging hit her in the face. A second later, she was clawing frantically at the spider web, trying to wipe it off her face and pull it out of her hair. Dead bugs dangled next to her earrings in filthy parody.

At least there was no spider, she thought. Her hair was messed up and her makeup smeared and she had no choice but to go back to the house and get herself back together. She had almost reached it when she felt a tickling on her neck as the spider that had been sitting quietly on her shoulder decided to look around a little more.

In the ensuing terror-induced flailing to get the uninvited passenger off her neck, Pat whacked her arm into a light pole, bruising her elbow badly. For the first time, it occurred to her that this might be the beginning of a Bad Day.

This little guy just arrived from someone's nightmare.

This little guy just arrived from someone’s nightmare.

There was no time to ice her elbow but she cleaned off her clothes and redid her hair and makeup. She did not dare go back through the woods and so had missed the bus by the time she got to the stop. Finally, 20 minutes late, she stumbled into work.

“Where have you been?” John, her supervisor, asked.

“I got a spider web in the face,” she replied.

He gave her a suspicious look. “Was the spider poisonous?”


“So it didn’t bite you?”


“Doesn’t seem like a good excuse then.” He walked away, looking disappointed with the world in general.

Typing was painful with her bruised elbow and Pat worked very slowly. Things did not improve when she spilled coffee on her keyboard and had to go down to maintenance and request a new one, as well as explain the whole situation several times over. She was far behind on her work when lunchtime arrived and was now thoroughly convinced that this was a Bad Day.

They were out of her favorite food at the cafeteria and a woman at her table complained about being cold (in August) and wouldn’t let them use the air conditioning. The icing on the cake came when she got back to her desk and John informed her that the director had asked to see her.

“I think it’s about your low productivity,” he said and then walked away with an expression that lamented that a phrase like “low productivity” even existed.

Pat crammed herself into the elevator with ten large men who had just gotten back from a long run. The elevator stopped at every floor until she finally got off on the 20th floor. She waited outside the director’s office for ten minutes before she was escorted in.

“Please, sit down,” he said. “So, can you guess why I called you in here?”

“Yes, I think so, sir,” Pat said. She wiped her hands on her pants and found them already damp. That was the point when she realized they were wet with the transferred sweat of one of the large men she had been squeezed up against. Suddenly and completely, the terrible, horrible Bad Day won. She broke down in tears.

The director blinked in surprise. “It’s nothing bad,” he said. “What’s wrong?”

“I’m sorry, sir,” she said. “I’m not like this usually. It’s just that this morning I took a spider web to the face.” She told him the whole story.

The director’s expression turned to shock. “And you still came in to work? You are an uncommonly strong person. I’ve seen grown men curl up in a fetal position for hours after walking into a spider web. I think you should go home for the rest of the day. Also, go get your elbow treated. You were coming to work so we’ll cover it under our health plan. Take tomorrow off too, just to be sure. Did you drive to work?”

“I took the bus.”

“Do you have a license? You do? Okay, take one of the company cars home. We just bought a Ferrari under our new Corporate Excess program. You can test it out for us.”

“Thank you so much,” was all Pat could say. She stood up and started to leave.

“Oh, I forgot to tell you the reason I called you in here,” the director said. “I wanted to let you know that you won the company charity raffle. Talk to my secretary and she’ll give you the $2000.”

As Pat drove home early in a brand-new Ferrari, $2000 in cash in her purse, she took a deep breath and smiled. It was a Good Day. She might have to go find that spider and say thank you.

Spider web

Good Old Sammy

I know you’ve been there, so don’t even pretend you haven’t. You’re right on the edge of doing something you know you’re going to regret and if any other guy but Sammy was there, you’d just walk away, but it’s Sammy and so you don’t walk away and you end up regretting it.

At least in my case it’s Sammy; We’ve all got that one friend that we like, even though he (or she) sometimes annoy us—the one we couldn’t get rid of even if we tried. The one that makes us do crazy things, like skinny-dipping in the town’s water supply. And for some reason, you just can’t say no to him.

Good old Sammy.

A few months, I was on my way to play pool with Sammy and my other friend James, who we called Jerve. We saw a Ferrari pull up to the curb ahead of us, blaring loud music. A bunch of guys got out, all slow-motion and cool-like and went into a club called The Speakeasy.


“Hey, let’s let the air out of their tires,” Sammy said.

“Are you crazy?” I asked. Sammy didn’t answer; maybe he didn’t know the answer either.

“Come on, it’ll be fun. They’re probably jerks anyway.” Then, without waiting, he sidled up to the car on the street side and started feeling around for the valve on the front wheel. “Are you coming, or not?” he whispered, and Jerve—being dumb and prone to peer pressure—went to the back wheel and crouched down.

That’s the genius of Sammy: sudden and explosive escalation of events. One moment you’re going to play pool; the next, you’re vandalizing a sports car.

“Don’t leave us hanging!” he hissed at me. I could already hear the air hissing as it came out of the tire. I hate to admit it, but I’m not very good at resisting peer pressure either, especially from Sammy.

I went over to the other side of the car, which unfortunately was facing the club and fully illuminated by the streetlights. I was just bending down to find the valve when I heard a shout from behind me.

“Hey, what do you think you’re doing?”

I straightened up. It was one of the guys from the car, looking at me in a threatening way.

“I just dropped my keys,” I said.

Jerve stood up at that moment. “Hey guys, the air’s all out of this one.” He noticed the guy and took off running, immediately slamming into Sammy who was just standing up after emptying his tire. Jerve hit the pavement and smacked his nose, but the knowledge that we were in serious trouble picked him up and all three of us were off and sprinting away before the rest of the guys could get out of the club.

What followed was an exhausting slog of a chase. We weren’t in great shape and were puffing and wheezing before we’d gotten 100 feet. Luckily for us, the guys behind us weren’t in any better shape, so the whole chase happened very, very slowly. Sometimes we were all just walking, with Sammy, Jerve and me about two hundred feet ahead. The guys following us wouldn’t give up though and they kept yelling terrible threats and insults at us when they had enough breath.

I wanted to find a taxi, but there weren’t any in the area and I was too out of breath to call for one. We’d be staggering along for about twenty minutes and had gotten into a pretty posh neighborhood. Sammy suddenly lurched to one side and started pounding on an iron gate. The sign on the gate said it was the Honduran embassy.

“Yes?” said a voice from a speaker by the gate.

“We want political asylum!” Sammy yelled. “We’re refugees.”

“From whom?” the voice asked.

“From the US. We’re being persecuted.”

“Just a moment.”

It was more like two minutes before the gate opened. Luckily for us, our pursuers seemed to have had enough of the chase and just wanted it over with. They slowed way down until the gate opened, and then made a rush at us as we ducked inside. Then, between gasps, they yelled some perfunctory death threats and trudged back towards their car

The next few hours were rather awkward, as we met with the ambassador and Sammy tried to explain how exactly we were being persecuted. His argument boiled down to taxes.

When Jerve found out that they spoke Spanish in Honduras, he wanted to practice all the Spanish he’d studied so hard in school. Unfortunately, all he remembered was “¿Dónde ésta la biblioteca?” He kept saying it so much that they finally took him to the house library.

It was about midnight when they finally decided we were full of it and kicked us out. Jerve really hit it off with the deputy ambassador though; they started dating after that. Apparently she really liked the library too.

Sammy chalked the whole thing up to a great night out.

Good old Sammy.

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