There’s a guy in our office who sits near my bitch Chad out in the non-restricted area of the ninth floor who sings when he talks. I mean, not every word or anything, but the guy sings when he should speak. Every time I see this guy in the hall or in an elevator or wherever, he sings his salutations. He’s like a one-man Glee Club.
I have a presentation at two for the steering committee, and I have this snazzy hand-out that I whipped up in Publisher that I’m passing out to everybody. I need Chad to run off a couple dozen color copies so I walk out to his desk to give him a disc with the file on it.
Singing Guy is leaning against Chad’s desk with a cup of coffee in his hand. So as not to be a dick, I say hi as I walk up.
Singing Guy literally sings, “Good morn-innnng!”
I look at him and managed a pained smile. “You have a good weekend?” I ask.
“Soooper, soooper,” he says lyrically. It sounds like he’s about to bust out in some Gilbert & Sullivan number. “Got some golfin’ in, never bad, never bad…” He pantomimes swinging a golf club as he sings.
“Right on,” I say unenthusiastically, then turn to Chad. I don’t want to encourage Singing Guy by feeding him anymore questions.
I give Chad the disc and some brief instructions, then excuse myself. “See you later.”
“Have a good one!” Singing Guy sings.
Briefly I consider punching his jaw clean off his face. I could, you know.