I hope they have stepladders over at Azteca America.

I work down the hall from the Azteca America television studios. In general they are decent neighbors. Except for one employee. I will call him Rico Suave. He wears a very tight doo rag, exceptionally baggy pants, constantly walks around holding a Swisha Sweet in one hand and is paid to troll the halls. See, I use the word "troll" because he is approximately 5 foot 5 inches tall. Which is fine except that he seems to think he is actually a menacing gangster type. In his mind, he cuts an intimidating figure. Which is simply not true. He makes me laugh when he does things like block the elevator door while talking loudly into his cell phone about how he is "livin' like Scarface" in the "214" etc.

But today he really made me laugh. As I was leaving the dark and drafty snack machine area, he requested that I (or as he refers to me: "little mama") "holla" at my "boy" before then becoming enraged at my ambivalence towards the notion of holla-ing. And by enraged, I mean that he informed me that "that's aight, you missing out and you know it". Here's the problem with that entire line of logic. I stand approximately 5 foot 7 in bare feet and flirt with 5 foot 9 in heels. I decided to turn around and walk towards him to ask him if I really was missing out. By the time I was close enough for him to realize that I could use his head as a convenient place to set my Diet Coke I had just purchased, he excused himself with a surprisingly meek:

"Nahhhh, I'm just playing. We cool"

We cool indeed.