The Accent Was Like A Bucket Of Guilty Water

Many of my days are spent attempting to avoid disappointing groups of cryptic Russians. I have the utmost esteem for the archetypal Russian character, particularly the wry outlook it provides on circumstances of crushing failure and despair; however, it is often difficult to tell whether a particular Russian is regarding you in this sort of weary way because of anything you've done, or just on general principle. In such situations, work-related paranoia can strike deep and creep into your life, even the situations normally thought of as sacred.

For instance, when the part of the day is reached when I can simply no longer be bothered with the things I am supposed to be doing, I slink off to the bar and moodily sip a seven-and-seven through a neon bendy straw. There are many things that can be accomplished at the bar, none of which involve proper work: arguing about things, gambling, watching sporting events, trying to look tormented and artistic while inscribing napkins with poetry that subsequent analysis reveals to be not only unrhyming but in fact illegible. While I am doing these things, the sound of a Russian accent hits me like a bucket of ice water would, if the ice water had somehow been imbued with guilt by some sort of alchemical process. I am reminded that I should be back in this festering basement in case the latest weary look was actually a sign of some character failing on my part. I leap up and run frantically from the bar, scattering tables and staff in my wake, diving from balconies if necessary. It is very bad to sneak up behind me and say something in a loud Russian accent when I am skiving off work.

So thanks, SuomiChris. Thanks a lot. You have taken years off my life with your whimsical Russo-Finnish schizophrenia.