Home > 2012-13 Season, Woman in a Man's Game > Woman in a Man’s Game

Woman in a Man’s Game

February 13, 2013 Leave a comment Go to comments

By Robin Brox
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A lot of people ask me, they say– Robin, how do you run your uncolored condiment factory?  I smile knowingly, this unnerves them.  Then, they say– uncolored condiment factories in the past have been exclusively the domain of men, how did you compete with them and ultimately drive their obviously inferior products off the grocery shelves?  And I tell them about “The Limelight”.  “Boys,” I say, “I could see the limelight before me.  And I grabbed it.”  It’s around this time that I run my finger seductively down the pool cue.  That really drives them wild.

The windowless billiards room at Gelsinger’s French Toast is decorated with giant, blackened pizza oven spatulas.  Their wooden handles betray the marks of many a knife fight.  “My relatives ran such restaurants for years,” notes Gelsinger himself, who occasionally wanders into the hall to change a lightbulb or urinate in the doorless latrine.  “Then, the act of preparing and cooking a pizza was not the banal act it is now,” he continues.  “My relatives had to fend off constant attacks.  Many were killed and quickly replaced.  It was the way of the hills.”  Everyone ignores him.

Inevitably, some young rube will call out, My God, Ms. Brox.  You’re so…so rich.  So…so in absolute command of Lankville’s uncolored condiment supply.  I can see that the rube has become flush, is almost shaking.  “Eat this,” I’ll say, handing him a block of pool chalk.  “You’ll then know a small portion of what I went through to get to the top.”  And the rube will naturally devour it.  “One of you corncobbers,” I’ll suddenly bark.  “Bring me a new block of chalk.  Johnny Fuckbrain here has eaten mine.”  And someone will quickly hand me the desired object.  And I’ll place the cue between my legs, chalk the tip slowly and sensuously while girlishly proclaiming, “Ooh, it’s like I’m riding a donkey, scratching the donkey’s head!  Scratching the donkey’s head.”  A murmur goes up around the room.

Minutes later, I crack the stick over my knee.  And I laugh and laugh and laugh as I leave the room.

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