July 16, 2008
As one of the largest employers in the Richmond metro area, Capital One has a well thought-out emergency plan. Should there ever be a fire, general disaster or, say, someone has a heart attack in the office, all of the 6,500 emplo
yees have proper training and will know what to do in such a crisis. I just hope I’d be the one to be nearby should my female supervisor need some mouth-to-mouth resuscitation.
If the situation ever came up.
Often times, I find myself a bit bored in my cubicle, staring out onto our lush 13-acre corporate campus, and I start to wonder what I’d do if there was ever an emergency in the office. Say my supervisor choked on one of those Iced Oatmeal Raisin-flavored Luna bars she eats every day, and I was the only person close by who heard her gasping for air. Or for me.
I would definitely jump on top of her and wrap my lips around hers, breathing slowly but calmly into her warm mouth to revive her.
It could happen at any point, really.
For instance, I could be walking to the breakroom, and I’d hear people shouting, “Does anyone know CPR?” I’m not sure what that acronym stands for, but there would be my supervisor, passed out on the floor and dressed in one of those tight, black miniskirts she always wears, in need of some hot mouth-to-mouth action. I’d be more than willing to do it, even if it somehow meant I’d have to take off my shirt and go skin-to-skin to emanate my body heat onto hers, because I’m sure that helps in some small way.
Out of the worst possible scenario, that would be the best outcome for all.
Or let’s say my supe was the one to have that heart attack, even though women are far less likely to have such a thing. Plus I know she never eats red meat, and works out at the Gold’s Gym at Willow Lawn four days a week, typically in those cute red shorts. Make that red really shorts.
But let’s just say it happened. It would not be above me to place my hands onto her rather voluptuous chest, then push down with vigorous thrusts onto her bosom to get her heart beating again.
If that’s what it took, I’d do it.
The final scenario I play through is, let’s pretend I get into work early one day. But then my supervisor hasn’t shown up by her normal time of 9:32 to 9:34. Say her brand new 2008 Jeep Compass – with what I noticed to include the dual-climate control feature and, in her visor, a collection of mix CDs – has been in a major car wreck, and she’s trapped in her vehicle hanging over the bridge on Route 288. Say I somehow got wind of it, dashed out of our front doors, see her asshole manager who’s always stopping by her desk driving up in his stupid Porsche, and I push him over and tell him I’m confiscating the vehicle, and I rush to the scene. I’d be just slightly too late. And there we’d be, just her and I, as I tell her I love her, and she tells me – as she hangs on to that last breath – that she wonders how on Earth I just-so-happened to be passing by the scene of the accident, and says I better start focusing on my job of identifying and remediating our many database compliance issues.
And then she’d show me her boobs. What a way to go.
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