There is no message to this story. My writing has been rather depressing lately and this is simply an attempt to be funny. It is a bit on the vulgar side, so be warned if you can’t stomach that sort of thing.

When I was in my late-twenties, I was a managing the food and beverage operations for a hotel in downtown St. Louis. The hotel had about four-hundred rooms, two restaurants, and an expansive banquet center. The building was a converted apartment tower across from the Gateway Arch, and although old, it had a homey charm.

I shared responsibility for the facilities with guy named Thomas. We were the same age, but that was about all we had in common. My education in restaurants had begun when I was a teenager working in fast-food and the closest thing I had to a graduation was losing millions on a fine-dining restaurant of my own design. Thomas had started in construction, but switched direction early and had recently received a degree from one of the most prestigious hospitality schools in the country. We had very different ideas on how to manage, but we got along well and made for a good balance.

What created this balance was how different our personalities were. Thomas was the quintessential example of a good and decent person, and although I was a mostly decent person as well, my self-education and juvenile sense of humor would cause him to shake his head often. I probably expended more effort than I should have trying to corrupt Thomas, and on occasion, I managed to succeed. This was one of those times.

You see, I am one of the most immature adults you will ever meet that doesn’t have brain damage. I actually do possess a damaged brain, but these are two different things (I think). I blame my immaturity on the fact that I was legally emancipated when I turned sixteen. I was keenly aware that I knew everything at age sixteen, and since the judge made it legal, I saw no reason to mature any further.

I mention this immaturity because it will help you understand why Thomas and I got along so well, while being so different; I was his immaturity release. I have served in this role many times – this very serious world seems to need idiots like me, from time to time, if for no other reason than to help others feel confident about their life choices. I have referred to this phenomenon in the past; I call it the Jerry Springer Effect.

One afternoon, while Thomas and I were in our office debating the next week’s schedule, there was a knock at our door. It was Kate; the hotel’s human resource director.

“Hi guys”, she said cheerfully, “do you have a second?”

Kate was absolutely beautiful in that wear-no-makeup-girl-next-door sort of way. There wasn’t a man in that hotel that didn’t harbor a secret crush on her, and I dare say several of the women did as well. It wasn’t just her natural beauty; Kate also possessed the infallible sweetness and naivety of an Ann Martin character.

My crush was stronger than most and I am more than a little embarrassed to admit that I would often fail to catch key points in staff meetings, because I was busy imagining Kate pulling out the pony tail in her long, brown hair, ripping off her glasses, and brushing away desktop items as she crawled atop it in a single, wanton swoop.

“We always have time for you.” I replied, with the cheesy, cocky grin that you can really only achieve when you are in your twenties and have already known everything worth knowing for some time.

Kate went on to inform us that the St. Louis group that promoted downtown conventions was holding a Hospitality Olympics for the local hotels. The events would be things like-races with trays full of drinks, speed bed-making, and pancake flipping. She asked if we wanted to put together team, and as any distraction was good, we quickly decided it would be fun and agreed to put together a squad to represent the hotel.

“What do you want to call your team?” Kate asked.

My adolescent mind waits for moments like this, so I sprang into action.

“Big Cocks!” I screamed.

“Man Whores!” Thomas added, before Kate could even address my first request.

The conversation immediately deteriorated into a back and forth melee, with the sole purpose of upsetting Kate’s sensibilities. Her face became redder and redder, as Thomas and I fed on one another, firing one disgusting possibility after another in quick succession.

“The Hole Fillers!”

“The Glory Holers!”

Kate turned on her heal to storm out, as I fired my final and nastiest submission yet… ”My Finger Smells Like Your Girlfriend’s Pussy!”

Kate was almost out the door when I stopped her.

“Wait,” I yelled, getting up from my chair. “Come back… We’ll be serious… I promise.”

I had no intention of doing so- I wasn’t done. As you may have already guessed, I have a wonderfully terrible habit of taking things too far. Looking back on this story, I wonder how on earth I felt screaming sexual profanity at the sweet, beautiful, happily-married HR director for my employer was an “OK” thing to do. Kate returned hesitantly to the office as I mustered up my most serious face.

“How about… (dramatic pause)… The Shockers!” I finally said. As I said it, I raised both hands, with my index fingers and pinkies extended in classic devil-horns.

Just in case you don’t know, The Shocker is one of many sexual acts discussed by grown men (boys) over beers. These typically disgusting deeds are given clever names like Dirty Sanchez, Hot Carl, Cleveland Steamer and Rodeo Sex. Actually, Rodeo isn’t an act, it’s just whispering “This is how your sister likes it” when doing it from behind, and then trying to stay on for at least eight more seconds. Most men have never actually performed any of these nasty endeavors, but that never stops us from imagining scenarios where they might be implemented. I won’t even get started on The Flying Camel, Pirate Sex or Watertight.

The Shocker goes like this: when you are faced with business end of your girl, and with your fingers perched in a devil horn (more advanced versions use both the index and middle fingers), you thrust the larger finger(s) in the larger hole, and the pinky in the smaller; simultaneously. It is also called “Two in the pink and one in the stink”, but for my story, let’s stick with The Shocker.

Note: There is also a variety of this act using four fingers in a double peace sign called, The Spocker, in honor of the Vulcan farewell, but it has since been retired due to the passing of the great Leonard Nimoy.

Kate stood there for the longest time, just staring at me with a blank face that gave no indication as to what she was thinking. I started to wonder if I was about to be fired, when she finally spoke.

“Ohhhh… The Shockers… Like we will Shock them with how good we are… I love it!” Kate exclaimed excitedly, as she visibly rolled the idea around her pretty head. “The Shockers it is.”

After Kate was safely gone from our office, Thomas and I roared in laughter for at least fifteen minutes. We imagined that she would announce the name of our team at the next staff meeting and the joke would reach its embarrassing climax. Heads would shake, faces would redden and I would rightfully be blamed for the entire fiasco.

Much to our chagrin, Kate did not bring up the name in the next morning’s meeting. In fact, she failed to divulge the disgusting designation in any staff meetings over the next few weeks. During this time, on every occasion I was in Kate’s office or passed her in the hall, I would throw up the devil horns and quietly say “Go Shockers.” She smiled, and I could tell that she liked how excited I was about the upcoming event. It seemed to give her that special sense of satisfaction reserved for HR directors when they make an employee happy. It didn’t even occur to me at the time that I was subliminally tying the devil horns to the team name every time I threw them up.

The day of the competition eventually arrived, and our team-The Shockers, all showed up at the downtown park to participate. We were a bit let down that we had never gotten the staff meeting moment we were hoping for, but still got a good laugh every time our team name was announced over the loudspeaker. Everybody was well aware of the joke by now; even the Latino maids, who only knew about four words of English (or at least pretended to), understood what our name meant.

In the middle of the day, at one of the events, just after our name had been announced again, I heard a woman yelling from the sidelines where people had gathered to watch. I turned my head, and there stood the sweetest, prettiest, clean-minded HR director you have ever seen, with her arms raised high in the air and her hands held in full devil horns, proudly screaming:

“GO SHOCKERS!”