SIDEQUESTIONS

Yes, for you down the left side there with the question about what it was like to be an assistant – what follows are harrowingly outlandish slightly embellished accounts of those days at the desk many moons ago. Names have been changed, obvi. And now, without further adieu…

(32 Minute Read)

THE CHRONICLES
🤦 OF 🤦
SQUAREFEET

TABLE OF CONTENT
CHAPTER 1: DISCONNECT
CHAPTER 2: ZOOKA LAND
CHAPTER 3: ODE TO CUISINART ART
CHAPTER 4: POPCORN SHRIMP
CHAPTER 5: CANON BRAND
CHAPTER 6: TOUR DAY
CHAPTER 7: THE MAGIC CD
PROLOGUE: ORIGINS OF SQUAREFEET

CHAPTER 1: “DISCONNECT”

Monday! The continuing adventures of SquareFeet finds our flat-footed hero stumbling into an assistant job for two bosses. Aspirations of self sufficient poetry career prompted previous mullet-sporting assistant to up and quit without courtesy two week notice. BossDoom and BossGloom, left in lurch, forced to offer immediate position to all full-time couriers in current rotation, but StareFeet only one stupid enough to accept.

Assistant title bestowed on StareFeet by default.

First day! StareFeet entrusted with two documents to deliver to BossDoom in his meeting in progress. Trick conference room door opts to be squeaky, creaking, shrilling as StareFeet struggles to locate BossDoom in sea of suits.

Twelve VP-And-Above types crink their necks towards the noise, squinting at our now red-faced hero.

StareFeet fleetingly considers turning back to fully close door, but finds himself already midway into the room. Squeaking continues to higher and higher pitch levels matching the higher and higher face burning sensation on StareFeet’s face, and lower and lower levels of the shoulders.

BossDoom spotted finally and StareFeet beelines with documents in hand. Snaking phone cord leaps up, lashing out, catching lip of StareFeet’s shoe, disconnecting CEO of giant parent company from conference call on speaker phone. Horribly loud bang as receiver bounces, jolts end-on-end, impacting conference table. Shifting and squirming as StareFeet tries in vain to reset receiver, corral flying pages, remain calm, and right the situation.

“CEO? CEO?? Are you there? Hello?”

Dirty looks from instant arch-nemesis President of Presidents. Grumbling and sideways disappointment from StareFeet’s own BossDoom & BossGloom.

“CEO?”

Line dead noise sings out from phone unit. More grumbling stink-eye. With new shades of face redness, StareFeet retreats to messy stinky office cave that he will come to call home, continuing his work on schematic for hand held radar system and discrete way to lo-jack tag bosses clothes for future treks into unknown meetings in progress.

CHAPTER 2: “ZOOKA LAND”

Flash! The continuing adventures of SquareFeet finds our slouch-postured hero having a near-death Friday moment. Chaos and destruction special-delivered as Mr. UPS Man drops off a rather large box from the land of ZOOKA.COM.

Tame cardboard thought to contain new golf clubs for Boss Gloom, but little does StareFeet know that the contents of said box are none other than the makings of a ZOOKA model #ZS740 BASEBALL PITCHING MACHINE with some assembly required. Retail price $699.00 plus applicable state sales tax.

BossGloom has SquareFeet’s not so super duper alter ego, StareFeet, move box into office. StareFeet reads prominent orange label:

“ZOOKA not rated for indoor office use”.

Warning ignored by boss, who grabs nearest sharp object. Letter opener violently thrust into cardboard and tape, peanuts, and plastic gouged. Up from the depths of box comes a machine the likes of which struck instant fear into poor StareFeet’s very soul. Image of a giant plastic blue SuperSoaker™ with a barrel like a tank pops into SquareFeet’s mind.

Instruction book tossed to StareFeet, orders barked, pieces assembled, head scratched, confusion accepted, A/C adapter plugged in, access code 1 9 acknowledged, and whirring of air compressor begins.

Poor SquareFeet watches as pitch speed upped to 40MPH on bazooka-like device.

“Get the bean bag!” BossGloom yells over titanium laptop’s blaring of new “The Cult” album. Reluctantly, StareFeet complies, rolling into barrel said bean bag with “world” colored on it. Flinching. Lots and lots of flinching. Whirring from machine. Whining from StareFeet. Beeping. More whirring and whining.

“Hold up the box!”

Box that formerly contained ZOOKA machine held up to block projectile from impacting on various items in room. Bean bag loaded ineffectively – machine jammed. StareFeet’s hand in barrel, cringing, trying to free bean bag from machine. Adjustments made. Bag freed. Whirling noises and beeping. Whining.

“World is too lopsided! Get the REAL baseball from desk!” BossGloom cries.

StareFeet begins to perspire. Real baseball rolled into barrel. More whirring. 40MPH speed locked in. Box held up again to block second death projectile. Trajectory wildly incorrect.

Baseball ricochets off end of box, careens off ceiling to back of room, impacts on poor porcelain figurine, picture of BossGloom with Shaq, company mug from 1997, and X-Men action figure. Loud bangs muffled by louder “The Cult.” More cringing.

“AGAIN!!!!” BossGloom giggles.

StareFeet meekly proclaims a reminder regarding said 1:30pm lunch with VP Guy at restaurant down street. Time now 1:38pm. Proclamation ignored. StareFeet goes to retrieve baseball from corner of room. Meanwhile BossGloom loads ZOOKA with beanbag world and FIRES AT hunched-in-corner SquareFeet. World impacts SquareFeet’s ankle.

Squawk heard.

SquareFeet cornered. Second bean bag world loaded and fired, glancing off drum set, thwap-rattling Venetian blinds. Third bean bag fired, missing by inches. SquareFeet gives up search for real baseball, commanding StareFeet to retreat back to messy florescent office cave that he has spent most of his life over the past year and a half.

“Whiffle Balls! Without the holes!” BossGloom peels off three $20 bills. “Big 5 Sporting Goods! Victory Ave.”

Denominations presented to StareFeet who bumbles away in search of Whiffle Balls without the holes, one Fungo Brand Bat, and two canisters of Pinnacle Pro tennis balls.

Harrowing drive to Big 5 Sporting Goods. StareFeet takes a hard look at full-on decked-out catchers gear outfit and helmet while wandering aisles. Shiny black-red shin guards…

Alas! No whiffle balls without the holes! No Fungo Brand bats! Sports Chalet suggested by pizza-face cashier type. Harrowing drive to Mall. Still no whiffle balls without the holes! Do such items even exist?!

Will SquareFeet fulfill his mission?? Will the emotional scars heal? Will SquareFeet ever get a lunch break during which he can actually have lunch???? What will become of StareFeet!!!??? Dun-dunn-dunnnnn!

CHAPTER 3: “ODE TO CUISINART ART”

Zing! The continuing adventures of SquareFeet finds our slow as erosion hero again delivered chaos and destruction by Mr. UPS man.

Ready this time, alter ego StareFeet quickly rips into basketball sized cardboard before BossGloom even arrives. Cuisinart DGB-300 series “Automatic Grind & Brew” brand coffee maker with built in grinder revealed, sleek, black, and trendy. Retail price $159.99 with carafe, two starter filters, and bean mini scooper included.

Machine diligently set up in designated spot on top of mini fridge behind door, replacing burnt out old Cuisinart brand after over a years worth of abuse. At the hands of StareFeet, old machine cleaned 906 times in breakroom kitchen sink, churning out 2 pots of coffee twice a day for 453 days, and dropped on floor only twice before giving up the ghost to retire in Quitsville, USA.

SquareFeet promises quietly to be nicer to new Cuisinart brand, vowing that in his care he’ll keep it clean and in good repair.

Coffee for bosses offers immediate protection from crankiness and grouchiness in morning and rant sessions in evening. Special half-pounds of Kona, Kenya-Guatemala, and Costa-Rican blend whole beans promptly ordered from cross-town beanery. Extra filters procured, and special Land-O-Lakes brand low fat half-n-half purchased out-of-pocket from local Vons establishment. Twenty-nine cents off with Vons Card.

Eyeing the completed plugged in set-up, SquareFeet sighs, both happy with his work and slightly bitter about the prospect of endlessly cleaning the machine for the rest of his waking life. Caught in a moment, StareFeet unable to slow whirlwind entrance of tardy BossGloom.

Following StareFeet’s eye-line, BossGloom swivels to see ready for operation Cuisinart:

“Java Joe! Did you make some?”
“No, not yet…”

Flush of red as StareFeet physically prepares for mental newspaper swatting. BossGloom opts to burn once-a-year mercy reaction, choosing to avoid scolding in favor of something entirely much worse.

“Oh, I’ll just make some myself,” BossGloom proclaims.

SquareFeet’s internal horror build-up rudely interrupted by ringing call on BossDoom’s line. It’s stupid address verification call, preventing StareFeet from walking BossGloom through necessary coffee making steps.

“Is call for me?” BossGloom demands, absently dumping Kenya-Guatemala blend into grinder section of machine while simultaneously spilling Sparkletts brand water bottles into water catchment section. StareFeet cringes, waving the “no” signal to BossGloom to stop the Cuisinart violence.

BossGloom mistakes signal, assuming ‘no’ in regards to phone call, rather than ‘no’ in regards to coffee antics.

“No? Call isn’t for me?”

BossGloom mashes ‘GRIND’ button, whirring the blades, drowning out all means of verbal communication. Zinggg. Water from catchment unit fed through timed percolation system, bubbling and gurgling, heating to 124 degrees. Grinding subsides, allowing StareFeet to finally put call on hold and exclaim:

“Did you put in a filter!?”

Confusion ambush as new furrows somehow appear in already furrow-packed brow of BossGloom’s face. Blank stare sends StareFeet huddling slowly deeper into his chair. Brand new gurgles from Cuisinart brand. Wet grinds clogging spigot, each granule preventing hot coffee-water from properly exiting to carafe. Swirling, bubbling, gurgling, percolating to higher and higher water levels.

“Filter? What filter? Why isn’t the coffee coming out?” BossGloom growls, summoning up instant agitation mode, continuing with his thought train –

“Fix it!”

Instantly on feet, StareFeet trades places with BossGloom, gingerly examining the in-progress meltdown. Lightly tapping the lid open, StareFeet greeted with error beeping and miniature explosion of Kenya-Guatemala grinder grit.

More protest beeping from violated Cuisinart unit. Frowns and winces as now uncontained coffee-water commences spillage over trendy shiny black sides onto warming plate and steaming the fridge-top.

Eyeing the mess, BossGloom plays the ‘late’ card.

“I gotta get to this meeting. Just make some more and bring it down.”

And with that, StareFeet left holding the hot tomato, so to speak. Many drips on shirt and many trips to kitchen to drain paper towel reserves, but unit miraculously restored to semi-working order. Chalk up 907th and 908th cleaning.

Burnt coffee smell for rest of day, and stale coffee smell for rest of SquareFeet’s florescent windowless existence, but valuable lesson learned that assistants make coffee for a reason.

CHAPTER 4: “POPCORN SHRIMP”

Ding! The continuing adventures of SquareFeet finds our nearsighted hero having an aromatic Thursday. Long day of back to back to back meetings has BossDoom and BossGloom anxious and fidgety.

SquareFeet shuttles plenty of Costa Rican blend coffee and Diet PepsiCokes to bosses to ward off ranting afternoon mood-swings as best he can. Yet efforts always end up insufficient in end.

Fielding call, StareFeet distracted and unable to ascertain BossGloom’s antics, watching helplessly as he jets out of office and return shortly from whereabouts unknown. Soon thereafter, the accosting smell of superheated frozen seafood waifs in, assaulting the nose and throat.

BossGloom, tipped off by the smell, zooms away again, returning with the source of the stench. Steam wafts off the top of black plastic Trader Joe’s Brand Shrimp Veggie Rice Bowl. $2.99 plus tax or three for $7.19.

Quickly, fellow employees protest and a splattering chorus of voices rings out from the hallways and cube farms surrounding microwave enabled break area.

First, “Eugh! What reeks?”
Another, “Stinks like baked rotten cat food in here.”
Yet another, “Foul!”
A fourth, “It’s BossGloom, he cooked one of his nastybowls!”

With that, four Manager-And-Below heads poke into office, showering StareFeet with stiff accusatory fingers, growling in unison.

“BossGloom stunk up the whole place!”

StareFeet cowers, unable to fend off unwarranted blame. Meanwhile, BossDoom resents being left out of impromptu snack break. Fluttering crumpled dollar bills in hand, he too zooms away in break room direction, escaping before StareFeet can inquire into the activity because of unusually busy phone activity.

Quickly, sporadic odd DING noises emanate from hallway break area. BossDoom gone quite long, prompting BossGloom to poke out with mouthful of shrimpy rice.

“Where’d BossDoom go?”
“He’s gone to get a soda, I think.” StareFeet riffs.
“Where? Cancun?”

BossGloom disappears back into his office. More dinging. Then booming frustrated far off grunt. Slight pause. Then dinging again. Then the mandatory yell.

“What the hell!?”

SquareFeet makes every effort to will invisibility, but suddenly altruistic OfficeManagerFellow in hallway heeds call, striking up conversation with BossDoom in break room before StareFeet’s services are required.

Out of visual range but within hearing distance, SquareFeet strains to diagnose cause of earlier exclamation.

“Which way does the knob go? I turn it, press start, and it dings off.”

SquareFeet visualizes BossDoom standing paralyzed in front of Sanyo Brand MicroWave.

“I turn it, press start, and it turns off right away. I turn it the other way, it dings.” BossDoom exclaims, perplexed.

OfficeManagerFellow volunteers reply: “First of all, you have to close the door all the way. Second, it’s an old one, so you have to turn the dial past one minute, turn it on, then turn it back again.”

BossGloom pokes out of office again, interrupting StareFeet’s eavesdropping.

“Seriously, where’d BossDoom go?”
“He’s battling the microwave to get it to make popcorn.”

Off and away there’s a longer beep and a whirr, and BossDoom returns promptly to the office, slightly red-faced and winded.

“It reeked in there. I had to go in and make some popcorn to cancel out the smell.” BossDoom proclaims with a hint of pride in voice.

Into his office he goes, but not before opting to spar with co-boss.

“Your fish bowl stunk up the whole breakroom.” BossDoom barks out. “It’s one little bowl. What’s the big deal?” BossGloom fires back.

“Peee-yuu!” BossDoom volleys, adding a melodramatic, over-the-top, high-elbowed self-inflicted nose pinch.

“StareFeet bought the damn bowl in the first place! I wanted the Veggie rice kind.” BossGloom counters.

“Hey! They were all out! I had to get something!” StareFeet blurts out, taken aback and miffed.

Bosses take their corners, returning some modicum of peace and quiet to the fluorescent cave. Minutes pass, and yet another smell mingles, tingles the nose.

A violent burnt odor.

Cue once again, but this time boss calls out to StareFeet.

“Can you get the popcorn for me?”

StareFeet instantly vaults onto flat feet, shuffling towards breakroom area…

Will StareFeet make it safely to the breakroom without tripping in the hallway?

Fwaff! When last we left our not so duper hero, SquareFeet was working with alter-ego StareFeet to retrieve BossDoom’s buttered popcorn from breakroom Sanyo Brand microwave. We join him in progress…

StareFeet stumbles over the threshold into the breakroom area only to find whisps of smoke emanating from oversized faux brown Sanyo Brand “Super Show-Wave” Microwave Model #EM62052 with recessed glass turntable.

Almost overwhelmed by burntness smell, StareFeet forces himself to move in, covering his nose with his shirt, pressing the large OpenDoor button, releasing a larger plume of burnt gas into the enclosed space.

Protest beeping from Sanyo Brand as cloud disperses, revealing a melt down in progress.

Popz Brand Popcorn with “Extra Butter” melted through, bubbling, fusing to glass twirl plate. StareFeet pulls socket plug, waits a minute, then makes every effort to fish out the bag and salvage the disaster.

Manager-And-Below peanut gallery reliably chime in regarding new aromatic sensations.

“What’s that stench?”
“Smells like burnt wet dog hair.”
“Foul!”
“It’s StareFeet, his popcorn nuked the microwave!”

Bombarded by another round of finger pointing, StareFeet braves the hallway blamestorm gauntlet, returning to office to present the semblance of popcorn kernels to BossDoom.

“What happened? What took so long?”
“How many minutes did you set the timer?”
“I dunno. OfficeManagerFellow said turn the knob to the right, so I did that.”
“It says here two to four minutes.” StareFeet points to singed bag’s relevant instruction line.

“Aren’t those blasted machines supposed to realize what they’re cooking?” BossDoom asks, eyeing the directions closely. Then, “Look, it says right there ‘times may vary.” BossDoom reads, vindicated.

Flabbergasted by the logic, StareFeet unable to form a reply to BossDoom. BossGloom takes advantage of the opportune blame reversal, launching a salvo, renewing the sparring.

“You stunk up the whole place with your popcorn!” BossGloom calls out. BossDoom lashes back.
“I wouldn’t have had to make popcorn if you hadn’t cooked up that shrimp stink!”
“Not my fault I’m hungry. StareFeet bought it. I wanted veggie.” BossGloom responds coolly.
“They were out!!!” StareFeet protests.
“Can ya make some Kenya?” BossGloom commands, giggling at his own inadvertent pun.

And with that, StareFeet chalks up the production of day’s third batch of coffee, tallying the 999th, 1000th, and 10001st pots made and cleaned, rocketing him up over the millennium mark barrier and surpassing the equivalent Barry Bonds streak.

Kudos for him!

While old filter and grinds plop into breakroom trash, SquareFeet vows to initiate conversations with TraderJoeGirl to avoid stocking Shrimp Bowls and VendingMan to avoid stocking Popz Brand PopCorn bags in future.

What new smells will accost StareFeet’s sensitive palate? What new flavors of popcorn and rice bowls will be nuked beyond recognition?

CHAPTER 5: “CANON BRAND”

Beep! BossDoom stands perplexed in front of the small CANON Brand CFX-L3500 COPY/FAX MACHINE. After some number mashing, he miraculously manages to persuade the small plastic machine to click into copy mode.

Trusty Canon brand BEEPS long and soft, happily reporting it has finished the copy and presents it for BossDoom to take from the second top output tray. Still, BossDoom hovers, getting antsy, unable to somehow comprehend what the beeping noise signifies.

“This is the slowest machine ever!” BossDoom cries out. “What? Does it have to think about it first, before giving me the copy?”

Blankly staring at computer monitor, our sniffly her StareFeet suddenly FLUSHES RED with tension. The nagging tingling sensation that accompanies the feeling that he’s ‘dropped the ball again’ suddenly overtakes that space between his shoulder blades, pulling his upper body inward like he was a puppy about to be swatted with a rolled up newspaper.

“What the hell?” Boss exhorts broadly in SquareFeet’s direction, being sure to include said Canon Copy/Fax machine as if yelling at machine would somehow make Canon brand work faster.

SquareFeet’s alter ego, StareFeet, musters courage enough to turn head in direction of copy machine, sees that second upper output tray still contains quickly cooling copy. StareFeet tries his best to enunciate, forming the words carefully, concentrating on getting his lips and cheeks wholeheartedly around the syllables.

“It’s right there!” StareFeet throws up a stiff pointer finger at Canon brand.

Boss, taken aback, stares at second upper output tray. “Why does the copy come out there? It’s upside down! Where’s the original??”

StareFeet, flinching, points to lower output tray. Riddled with confusion, BossDoom’s motor functions somehow kick in enough for limb extremity to retrieve copy. Suspicious, BossDoom holds copy and original up to the light, finds the copy is really a copy.

Grunting, BossDoom retreats back into climate controlled office.

SquareFeet, sighing heavily, wonders silently whether there’s a standardized test top executives get to take.

CHAPTER 6: “TOUR DAY”

Brrring! SquareFeet roused from his daze by call from front desk receptionist type. Name butchered. SquareFeet struggles with translation, managing to decipher that BossGloom’s friend of a friend’s daughter is waiting in lobby.

SquareFeet checks calendar, sees UCLA Comm Studies Major is scheduled to observe for day, frowns at email from BossGloom proclaiming convenient sick day. Dismayed, alter ego StareFeet dons tour-guide cap and shuffles to lobby.

Pleasant UCLA type brought back to office. Awkward intro to other BossDoom, who calls a ‘bathroom break’ and escapes away into back room.

UCLA sits politely while StareFeet fields phone call. It’s sick boss, calling from cell phone. Absurdly loud. SquareFeet has to hold phone slightly away from ear. Orders barked, messages delivered, and UCLA type mentioned. BossGloom tells SquareFeet to tell UCLA he’s sorry for not being there. UCLA smirks and nods, making it clear that she can hear everything boss is saying to SquareFeet.

Slightly panicked, StareFeet tries to maintain cool. Oblivious, BossGloom proceeds loudly, “You think she’s attractive?”

StareFeet fumbles for phone volume control, pushes slider wrong way. Voice of sick BossGloom fills room, echoing “…mildly attractive enough to look at?”

UCLA winces.

StareFeet goes beet red. Instant rouge. Rouge all around.

Inside SquareFeet’s head, cerebellum fuses. Synapses all over the brain jump ship, pulling on ripcords, screaming in unison “Bail Out! Bail Out!”.

Basic logic functioning critically garbled, prompting StareFeet to giggle nervously, averting eyes to convenient ceiling fluorescent lights. UCLA squirms slightly. Pretty fluorescent lights.

Sick boss plows ahead. “Does she look good to you? We’ve got a lot of attractive people here, and it’s important that she fits in, if you know what I mean. Find out if she’s got a brain too. I value your judgement on this one.”

Spouting more vague giggles, StareFeet hiccup-blabbers “Yeah. Okay. Right.” And is gripped by widespread panic about whether heat off his face will activate emergency sprinklers.

Finally, BossGloom proclaims he’s “gotta go,” leaving SquareFeet to resume his now hopelessly, completely, unavoidably, traumatically awkward uncomfortable tour day.

SquareFeet wonders if there’s some other deity he can pray to that might actually follow through with a bolt of lightning to the head.

CHAPTER 7: “THE MAGIC CD”

Smash! In the midst of flailing around for a stray paperclip, SquareFeet’s alter-ego StareFeet slam-bangs his head on underside of desk, startled by a bark from Archenemy President of Presidents. Reeling, but protected from permanent bonk damage by his spongy super coif, StareFeet stands, coming face to face with his dastardly foe.

“Where’s BossGloom?” President of Presidents challenges.

“Uh…”

Residual vibrations from earlier head bang make their way towards SquareFeet’s nose, gripping him with urgent need to sneeze. Desperately trying to stifle urge, SquareFeet’s eyes water over as he struggles to form a coherent reply.

“Not here.”

“Well, give this to BossGloom when he does get here. Very important that he gets this.” Pres of Pres commands, presenting StareFeet a mysterious CD encased inside a rubber-banded piece of paper.

As StareFeet extends a hand to receive item, he loses control, expelling a thunderous ABORT-SNEEZE. The kind rumored to blow out anterior brain cells responsible for long division and first name recall. SquareFeet missed that “don’t hold it in” day.

“Eew.”

Perturbed immensely, Archenemy President of Presidents storms away, leaving SquareFeet to wallow in his red-faced embarrassment alone. Wishing he wasn’t cursed in Pres of Pres’s presence, SquareFeet takes a deep breath, leans forward, and sneaks a peak at mystery CD. Squinting at label partially obscured by tape, SquareFeet only able to make out the word “Pull” followed by the letter “M”.

SquareFeet sits, pondering “Pull M…” as he kicks up his feet under desk.

BWOEEP!!!

A startling shrieking noise emanates from under desk just as President of Presidents happens to storm back in.

“What the…?” Pres of Pres quizzes, instantly confused.

“Uh…”

Pres of Pres shakes it off, remembering his purpose, “I need that CD back when BossGloom is done.”

Cast in Pres of Pres’s proximity curse, StareFeet nods stupidly, debating whether earlier abortsneeze effected his brain’s vocal processing center as well. Again, SquareFeet is left alone. Tilting his head under desk, he pulls forth a red and white cone-shaped device with a handle, strap, and plastic trigger area. A bullhorn! With multiple volume levels! Currently set to max!

StareFeet looks at his scuffed shoe toe, then the bullhorn, then the shoe toe again, putting it all together, mumbling to himself:

“Don’t kick the bullhorn.”

Ever so lightly, StareFeet presses trigger button again, and out from device comes a massive BWEEOPPP!!! Startled, flinching violently, cringing form the ringing in his ears, and crippled by Zooka flashbacks, StareFeet sets bullhorn down on floor at side of desk.

Returning his focus on the puzzling mystery CD, StareFeet’s concentration broken when BossGloom suddenly whirls in with an especially abundant array of furrows wedged into his brow. Beelining straight for SquareFeet’s desk, BossGloom blathers:

“Saw President of Presidents in hall. He said there’s a CD here for me? What’s on it? Huh? What the hell is it? What?”

StareFeet musters a fearful shrug as he bumbles, fumbles, mumbles, struggling to fight the enormous gravity suddenly surrounding the CD. Miracle of miracles, he gets a hold of the rubber band and swings CD in BossGloom’s direction.

“What is it? What’s this? What? What is this? Whu?”

BossGloom eyes it devilishly, ripping the paper apart, snowing SquareFeet’s desk with shreds. Through the rain of fragments, SquareFeet glimpses the label. The fluorescent light dances, flickering against the plastic, glimmering the words…

What dreaded label does the mystery CD have? What new theme music will SquareFeet be subjected to in his fluorescent prison? What other toes will SquareFeet clumsily stub? What if BossGloom sees the bullhorn? What then?????

Rip! When last we left hapless hero SquareFeet, he was in the midst of viewing the unveiling of the mystery CD. We join him above his desk…

The whirlwind of fluttering paper shards continue to cloud the desk, falling from the merciless hands of BossGloom. His face brightens devilishly as “Pull My Finger” CD revealed. Said CD a massive all-encompasing compilation of farting sound effects. Fifty-eight tracks of fabulous flatulence.

CD in hand, BossGloom bounds away into office, instantly returning with titanium laptop and “Pull My Finger” already loaded and executing. Volume slider dialed to max. Track “3” selected with a click.

StareFeet flinches as startling wet buttocks-flapping, gas-releasing noises emanate into room, immediately followed by bizarre squeal of glee emanating from BossGloom’s face.

Track “14” selected.

“Silent but violent.” Giggling BossGloom announces clip, clicking the play button. Action instantly followed by fluttering dry wheeze springing forth from laptop sending BossGloom into crackling wide ear to ear grin. Shifting to put titanium on office couch, BossGloom clicks “Play All” option, stepping back to enjoy full length series.

Over the din the phone rings.

“BossGloom’s office…” StareFeet battles the wet thubs, flubs, and flutters.

“Excuse ME?” Caller exclaims, offended, clearly able to hear the flatulence.

“What? No, it’s… It’s just a CD. It’s not me. Seriously, it’s a sound eff…” StareFeet cut off by dial tone, adding additional rouge layers to select areas of his face.

Meanwhile, smirking BossGloom backs up a few steps to enjoy the surround sound. Another step back, and his boot heel clinks against plastic sending him stumbling. Reaching back to see what almost tripped him, he pulls bullhorn into the air.

“Eeeep!”

StareFeet lets out an audible cringe as BossGloom swings bullhorn directly at him, pushing the trigger button. Out comes another BWEEP, intermingling with the wind breaking ‘fast but vast’ CD track, combining with the giggling, swirling new combinations of sounds into StareFeet’s ears.

BossGloom furrows brow, gripped by an epic thought. Motor functions swivel arm holding bullhorn into position in front of rear titanium speaker. Switch dial on bullhorn shifted over to “Voice” setting. Volume clicked up two notches.

Trigger.

Miracle of amplification and flubbering air explodes out of bullhorn, deafening, shuddering a futfutfutfutfutfut-plllllubbbbfffttttt fart, resounding like an aftershock through the walls of the room, racing out down the halls, washing over the cube farms, jettisoning wave after wave through the entire building, parking lot, and beyond.

Shrieking with delight, BossGloom runs off down the hall with the bullhorn, leaving the laptop to continue playing its repertoire. Thirty-six more tracks while StareFeet fields phone calls and hosts various curious and offended peanut gallery. Steady parade of Manager-And-Below faces poke their heads in, pulling out all the nose crinkling, frowning, pointing stops.

“It’s not me!” StareFeet protests, vowing to return CD as soon as possible to diabolical archenemy and President of Presidents.

What other dire digital details will the cursed titanium laptop subject SquareFeet to? What other uncomfortable noises will accost StareFeet’s sensitive acoustic register?

PROLOGUE: “ORIGINS OF SQUAREFEET”

Flashback! The continuing adventures of SquareFeet finds our sneezy hero blasted into a time warp back to the moments leading up to the fateful day of his very own creation.

Not so long ago, SquareFeet and alter ego StareFeet used to be one shorter and slower being known as MumbleBoy, adequately functioning in the formative teen years. Yet, like so few superheroes, fate chose freshman year in high school to unleash its dark day on MumbleBoy.

Short! Slow! Skinny!

No sport would have MumbleBoy on the team. Too short for basketball, too slow for track, too skinny for football, yet cruel school forced afternoon activities on all pupils. Even freshman.

Theater picked as last and only resort. Ex-hippie DramaLady decides Musical would have highest embarrassment potential, opting for epic sweeping emotional saga “ThreePenny Opera” as best way to showcase stifled acting career vicariously through pizzafaced unsportsmanlike tone-deaf talentless rejects.

Play pages in hand, first meeting designated cold read casting day. Poor MumbleBoy cringes, clearing puberty-cracking throat, reading Filch as cold as he can.

“In midwinter, where am I supposed to wash my feet?”

Finger crossing commences for pleasant happiness as coat rack number two or even step stool, but alas, best efforts to avoid being noticed unsuccessful. Fate decides line-memorizing in MumbleBoy’s future.

Poor MumbleBoy designated not one, but TWO characters: Beggar Filch & Deus Ex Machina. Both roles with lines. Speaking ones. Out loud. And singing. Horrible, horrible singing in 500 seat capacity theater. MumbleBoy flinches, realizing patrons actually watch plays. Even high school ones.

Rehearsals. Breathing. Run throughs. DramaLady makes point every afternoon to indicate “ThreePenny” will be the stunning first play in brand spanking new theater building. No pressure.

Costume run through. Beggars garb for Filch, but to play Deus Ex Machina, poor MumbleBoy forced into handmade felt vest and feather pointy red and gold hat.

DramaLady decides MumbleBoy too short to play latter role. Procurement commences for aluminum bucket pails and DramaLady’s own old pair of brown leather cowboy boots. Two sizes too small. Rivets drilled from shoe soles through bucket bottom creating sporty shoe buckets. Corduroy brown horsey on stick added as prop.

DramaLady’s dramatic license revoked long ago, but operations continue illegally. Script revisions call for Filch to be in scene only one page before Deus Ex Machina appears in grand finale.

Costume change and theater circumnavigation required bringing Deus Ex into DramaLady’s creative surprising fourth wall breaking direction to walk through aisle while singing. Plenty of opportunity for aisle seated patrons to get good close up view of Deus Ex’s miracle kindergarten tailored felt vest. Naptime special made by DramaLady’s own five year old daughter.

Opening Night!

Special super power heat face turned to full blast, alarming MakeUpLady to dangers of spontaneous flash-fusing of nose powder to nose.

“Calm down.”

MumbleBoy squawks his first line as answer to MakeUpLady, having convinced himself that if first line is remembered, space-time continuum will be sufficiently disrupted enough to allow him to slip through rift into alternate dimension for duration of play.

“I’ve been down on my luck since a boy.”

DramaLady calls a huddle. “Circle up. Take hands.” Downpour from sweaty hand causes quizzical looks from unfortunate cast girls standing on either side of MumbleBoy in last prayer circle.

DramaLady eyes the round up, frowning:

“I’ve worked so very hard for this. Don’t let the brand new theater down.”

Hyperventilation.

Blur of clapping and curtain.

On stage playing Filch, MumbleBoy as good a bum as ever was, complete with hiccuping red faced slouchy shuffle. Floodlights and full house push outer limits of MumbleBoy’s brain inward. Unconscious awakeness sets in and suddenly most of play sneaks up magically without incident.

Filch time comes to an end. MumbleBoy bounds back stage as fast as slow can go, grabbing sporty shoe buckets, red felt vest, felt pointy red and gold hat, and corduroy horsey head on stick. Out rear door into sprinkling rain goes MumbleBoy. Arms full, he trudges through damp grass to front entranced in dark misty air.

Will MumbleBoy make it? Will the play go off without a hitch? Will he step in a dog turd in the rain?

Clang! When last we left our shivering hero, MumbleBoy was making his way around the exterior of theater to get into position for his grand finale as Deus Ex Machina in the play “ThreePenny Opera”. We join him at the front entrance to the lobby…

MumbleBoy tries to pull on sporty shoe bucket. Can’t get foot far enough into now wet tight cowboy boot. Clang of bucket on concrete as foot shoving continues. Grunting. Much shaking and struggling later, and MumbleBoy finally squirms into boots despite protesting crowded toes.

Super struggle to get up. Hand on lobby glass door handle for support up from awkward half-sitting position. Clatter of bolt lock tugging back. Standing tall now, MumbleBoy tries second door, third, fourth.

Entire bank of glass lobby doors locked.

Panic.

Widespread.

MumbleBoy shake-rattles all of them, having to reach down to the handles from his elevated bucket perch. Faint clapping from within. Deus Ex Machina’s entrance not more than half a song away.

Silent fist clenching mute scream of frustration, but just then two disheveled underage co-eds emerge from interior lobby bathroom, cuddling, buttoning blouses and adjusting baseball caps to proper backwards position. Sight of MumbleBoy outside in his get-up standing on sporty shoe buckets sends them into convulsive laughter.

“Can you let me in?” MumbleBoy smirks meekly. Teens mercifully comply, opening door from inside.

Not a second too soon, MumbleBoy clomps into position in front of second auditorium door. Cue heard and into the house darkness he clumps.

“Hark! Who’s here? A royal official on horseback’s here!” The chorus on stage erupts at the sight of Deus Ex.

Flushed with adrenaline, MumbleBoy somehow maintains balance, remembers to sing his lines, and even makes sure horsey faces forward. Wobbly, awkward, off balance steps on slanted aisle walkway.

“I bring a special order from our beloved Queen!” Deus Ex Machina chants out, now commanding the gawks of every person in the entire theater. Four hundred ninety-eight heads arching back to get a look as he makes his way down aisle towards front of the stage.

A flashbulb, and MumbleBoy missteps, making felt hat go crooked, threatening to leap away from his scalp. Almost to the flat of stage pit area, MumbleBoy compensates, shifting his weight.

Furious at the sudden adjustment, left toes and socks protest angrily to left cowboy boot who relays protest to rivets in left bucket. Rivets and screws revolt, pulling forth from boot in surprise uprising. With a clang-pop, boot released in mid-step from bucket pail, instantly stealing away eleven inches of space below MumbleBoy’s left foot.

“All cheer, as it’s the coronaaaaugh!…”

Deus Ex Machina’s line interrupted by wild slow motion as room spins askew. Ground moseys up to meet MumbleBoy. Bucket pail bouncing. Felt hat springing airborne.

Face plant as MumbeBoy lands heavily, catching end of horsey stick right in the nuts. Bucket pail clangs, settling to rest on cement under front row.

Stunned silence skipped in favor of instant universal laughing and pointing. There’s chortling stepparents with stiff pointer fingers. There’s Uncle Dullivan. There’s the neighbors. There’s three cousins. There’s former best friend. There’s jock and bully. There’s entire hot girl section. All of them squawking, pointing.

Menacing stink-eye from DramaLady, as MumbleBoy single-handedly ruins opening of new theater, destroying her dramatic play, her work, her one vindicating moment lost to unintentional slapstick.

MumbleBoy tries to right himself, but finds braces hopelessly entwined in mane of stick horsey. It was at this very moment, this very instant in the middle of his drooling brace-mane-tug-of-war amidst a cacophony of maniacal laughter that StareFeet and SquareFeet were born.

Split down the alter ego middle, MumbleBoy was no more. Regressing deep into the abyss of the mind, SquareFeet would become the thinker, the logic, the analytical, the controller of StareFeet, his outer protective shell. The outside world would interact with the StareFeet shell which would bear the brunt of frontal daily embarrassments. SquareFeet would remain buried, venturing out only occasionally when no one else is around.

Witness the creation of a not-so-super-hero.

So began the Chronicles of SquareFeet and his adventures. For there were still three more “ThreePenny” shows to perform. Two shows on Saturday, and a Sunday matinee.

🔚 THE END FOR NOW 🔚

WHAT PEOPLE ARE SAYING ABOUT THE CHRONICLES

“I absolutely love the adventures of SquareFeet.” – C.H.
“Hi-larious” B.H.
“Very very funny.” – J.R.
“Totally made my day. I’m still laughing” – S.W.
“Had me laughing out loud.” – S.B.
“The funniest thing I have ever read.” M.J.
“I lost my s#!* at several points.” – A.L.
“This is so great! I laughed through the whole thing.” – J.K.
“Brilliant.” A.R.”
“Tooooooo funny!” – E.H.
“Highlight of my day so far.” – J.W.
“Heh, heh, heh, heh, heh, heh.” – K.R.
“A hearty, guttural, full-bore laugh.” – D.S.
“This is hysterical!” – B.N.
“Ha! They’ll kill you yet.” – B.D.

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