Tickled Pink

CANDY HEARTS

You crack open a fortune cookie and find: “Help me, I’m stuck in a fortune cookie factory!” Everybody laughs… but do you see people up in arms about it, anyone picketing for the ethical treatment of fortune-cookie workers? Some poor guy makes his one break for it, sends up a desperate flare, casts his little message in a bottle, and we all laugh.

But I tell ya, I know how he feels. I’ve been pouring pink syrup into a machine for six months now, day after day, and I can’t take it anymore. I can sympathize with the guy. There’s nothing more monotonous than working in a food factory. Nothing interesting ever happens. Well, at least most of the time. I have no doubt the people who made the fortune cookies were driving the people who wrote the fortunes just batshit, and the guy cracked and went all Norma Rae on them. (No bad fortune cookie pun intended, I swear it.)

I ask you, what is so entertaining about some poor man’s mental anguish?

That dumb-ass “Unwrapped” show on the Food Network came out to film here around Halloween. They’ve been airing that episode all week, so lucky me, I get to pick up take-out Chinese food on the way home from work and settle in for a little vegging action in front of the TV, and what do I see? My ass bent over tipping syrup into the hopper. Deja-fucking-vu.

If they weren’t so small, I’d figure out a way to print a whole truckload of them that read:

Help Me, I’m Stuck in a Candy Heart Making Factory!

So all week long, no one can shut up about it, because I’m the only guy you can see in this little two-minute segment on their nauseating Valentine’s Day show-aside from our manager, Sid Vicious. (Ok, so that’s just my little pet name for him-but the punk rocker and our fat-ass manager with his big purple Barney ties and pink shirts, I kid you not, have not just a first name in common but a temperament, too. Except I think Vicious was more polite.)

All I hear all week is: “Ooooo Gus is famous now!” and “Hey, candy man, come give me some sugar!” (I admit it, that last line might have been hot, if it were coming from Maureen, Sid’s brand new little secretarial acquisition, instead a seven-foot, three-hundred-pound man with a tattoo of a barcode on his forearm who wears Ozzfest t-shirts to work. What can I say? Mr. Big just isn’t my type!) Woo-hoo, I’m a freakin’ celebrity, now, right?

So, Valentine’s Day comes around, and I can’t wait for the fucker to be over with.

That’s all I’m thinking as I’m standing there at the hopper, pouring the fourth batch of the day, when she comes up behind me and says there’s a problem with the machine down in Text. That’s what we call the part of the factory where they have the stampers that put all the messages on the little hearts. Shit like: Kiss Me. Be Mine. They’re updating them for the millennium now, Sid announced it this season. We’ve added Hot Stuf and Cool to the “conversation hearts” shtick.

Now, how is it my business what happens down in Text? I show up and pour syrup. That’s my job. That’s what I do. But she’s standing there in this pink skirt barely covering her ass and a white blouse tied up at her waist, and I can see this girl’s got a navel ring, for God’s sake, how is anyone supposed to get candy made around here?

So, before I know it, I’m off like some cotton-candy covered knight in a white apron to see if I can fix her problem.

The problem is clear as soon as I get down there. No one’s on the floor in Text!

Two people stand on the line and are supposed to go through the candy hearts as they come out the end. Quality control they call ’em. Well, I don’t know about that, considering so damned many are stamped cockeyed or with the words half cut off, but I guess it makes sense, in the scheme of things, now that I know what “quality control” was doing.

As we’re standing there, the machine is going bonkers, spewing out candy hearts with no messages or bizarre letter combinations: MsC Me and KsOl LF. The hearts are shooting out of the machine and bouncing off the belt into the floor. One of them hits poor Maureen in the face. Lucky thing she was wearing her little rimless glasses!

So I’m off to figure this one out. Something is clearly jammed somewhere. I pop the emergency “off” switch. That’s for when someone gets their hand caught in the machine or something. It alerts the boss in his office, so I’m expecting him to waddle in at any moment as I’m looking over the machine.

Maureen taps my shoulder, and I glance in the direction she’s pointing with her little chewed-up pen tip. There, I kid you not, are our two quality control agents behind one of the ovens, working up a sweat. I don’t remember her name, although I’m not likely to forget what she looked like bent over with her red skirt up and Mr. Big’s cock ramming into her like a piston!

The sound of the conveyer is normally so loud we’re all supposed to wear earplugs, although no one does, and now that it’s off, I can hear every word they’re saying. He’s grabbing her hips and fucking her for all he’s worth, and she’s gripping a piping pole and moaning like all get out.

“Fuck me, fuck me, yeah!” She’s practically screaming it, and my face fills with blood as I’m watching, although I think my cock’s taken most of the supply. It’s straining my zipper and I’ve never been so glad for my girlie little apron.

I’ve never seen anything like this, even in porn. They’re just going at it like two bunnies, and neither of them has noticed the machines are off, or that we’re standing there.

“Come on, take it, you dirty little whore!” he yells and, I kid you not, slaps her ass like he’s riding some wild pony.

I’m expecting her to turn around and slug him, but no, she arches her back and goes up on her tiptoes and says, “Yeah, baby, shove that big cock into your little fuckslut!”

Jesus Christ! Does this girl kiss her mother with that mouth? I notice the front of her blouse is open and her tits are swinging free with every pop from Mr. Big.

I look back at Maureen and she’s turning as pink as her skirt, looking like she wants to crawl under the belt and hide. I clear my throat, hoping to get their attention, but it’s no use.

He slaps her ass in rhythm as he fucks her, and she grinds back on him and screams, “Make me come, baby, fuck me harder!” and I’m pretty sure this whole damned thing is gonna get broken up in less than a minute by Sid Vicious.

I don’t wanna be caught standing here watching, so I turn back to the machine, looking for what might be the problem. I’m sure I won’t find anything. I mean, I don’t have a clue what I’m doing, but at least it looks like I’m doing something.

I hear Sid. He bellows at Maureen, and her cheeks have now surpassed the color of her skirt and have moved into deep shades of red. She looks over her shoulder and sees him coming, then she looks at the couple still fucking their brains out in the corner, and then she looks up at me as I’m leaning over the conveyer belt, like I’ve got some magic wand I can pull out of my ass or something.

I shrug at her, showing my hands in white flag surrender, and turn back to the machine like the coward I am. I hear Mr. Big growl, “Yeah baby, I’m gonna come in your little fuck box! Are you ready for Daddy’s hot cum!?” She’s just screaming now. I can tell you for certain there weren’t any intelligible words coming from the woman, unless she was speaking alien.

“Jesus Christ in a sidecar! What in the sam hell is going on down here?” Sid is panting and red-faced, looking like a Weeble in pants.

That’s when I find it. There’s a lacy red bra stuck in the machine.

I pull it out like King Arthur at the stone, turning around and waving it in triumph.

“Here’s our problem!”

Maureen stares at it and then looks at Sid, and then back to Mr. Big and red skirt.

Sid’s just noticed them and I think they’ve finally noticed us, at least that’s what I gather from the way they’re scrambling to untangle themselves and pull their clothes back on.

Red skirt sees me holding her bra up and she rushes forward, reaching over the belt to snatch it out of my hands. I shrug, turning toward Sid and Maureen. He’s sputtering, she’s biting her lip, and I just stand there and shove my hands in my pockets and try not to look like I’m sneaking peeks over at red skirt’s tits while she’s turning around to put her bra back on.

“You two, in my office!” Sid finally explodes, his face like a grape. For a minute, I think he means me and Maureen, but he’s waving his arms at Mr. Big and the “fuckslut,” who turn tail and skulk off in that direction.

“You, get back to the hopper!” he yells, poking his finger into my chest. “And someone turn this machine back on! It’s Valentine’s Day! We’re making candy here!”

So I get back to my post, where I’ve got to scrap the whole damned fourth batch due to my trip down to Text, and I don’t see anyone again until I’m punching out for the day. The time clock’s in the office, and I see Maureen sitting at her computer, chewing on her pen. I wave a little and she smiles and waves back, and we say goodnight, but she’s flushed and there’s no blood in my head because it’s all rushing below my belt again.

Maybe being trapped in a candy-heart making factory ain’t such a bad thing after all.

Especially on Valentine’s Day.