Today, the dudes down the hallway from me were talking baseball, which was fine. I mean, I’m not a fan, but it’s okay. But for some reason, they chose to focus on discussing Orel Hershiser.
Let me be more specific: Orel Hershiser was all they talked about. For nearly an hour, in raised, passionate voices.
It got worse.
They kept referring to him by his first and last name, repeatedly, like it was a mantra, or as if one of them might have mistakenly thought the other was referring to some other guy named “Orel,” or even less likely, another dude called “Hershiser.” Was someone in another room playing an Orel Hershiser drinking game? How many times do you have to utter Orel Hershiser’s name before he appears, Beetlejuice-like, summoned from wherever he happens to be hanging at the moment?
More importantly, where had I left my headphones?
It occurred to me that I was being unreasonable. That thought came and went rather quickly.
Before long, I’d been Orel Hershised to the point where I was not only unable to get any work done, but I was beginning to fantasize that Samuel L. Jackson, as the character Jules Winnfield from Pulp Fiction, was going to pop by and make these gentlemen aware that they should change the topic.
You know, in that certain way Jules had of doing things like that.