Tiki Me Outta Here

I am working on this thing right now that requires my FULL attention (which is why I am procrastinating) and there is a woman who sits near me who plays a constant—CONSTANT—low-level South American jungle beat that sounds cannibalistic, ritualistic, pagan, sacrificial and deeply primal, in a ripping of flesh gnawing of bones kind of way, not in a liberating Mardi Gras voodoo kind of way.

It is replete with these unending, pervasive, frenetic CHANTS that all seem to be leading somewhere Not Very Good. Heart of Darkness sort of thing. And I cannot, FOR THE LIFE OF ME, understand how anyone would choose to listen to something like that AT THE OFFICE because I assure you, there is nothing soothing or relaxing about it. I feel my teeth gnashing in a feral salivating crouch for blood as we speak.

It's not that I am culturally insensitive either. I am practically the United Nations Goodwill Ambassador to every cultural phenomenon that ever existed. But I am drawing the line here.

I mean, I expect to turn a corner and see a patch of bloodied white feathers and a makeshift bamboo altar or something.

And honestly? I am about to go out of my mind. You know, and I don’t really need any HELP with that right now.

But I can’t say anything because, I have had Kennel Cough all week, which has not added favorably to the dulcet tones of the office environ, and I don’t want to be carted off by a coterie of masked men bearing shrunken heads (Think: menacing extras from Gilligan's Island). In addition, it is just "low volume" enough to be determined “considerate,” but annoying enough to be like aural slow water torture.

Maybe I should just don a grass skirt, shake some rhythmic bones and sashay over to a tiki bar for a comforting and obliterating potion to forever erase this AGONIZING perma-primate beat that is starting to reconfigure my central nervous system.

Ya think?