Tuesday, September 28, 2004

The South is Bitches.

Southerners like to flatter themselves that they are friendlier and more polite than northerners. This is clearly due to insecurity and lameness, because it has nothing to do with facts. I've just gotten back from some podunk town below the mason dixon line where waiters are constantly commenting on how much and how fast "y'all" are eating. THAT'S BECAUSE YOU TOOK SIXTY-EIGHT MINUTES TO SERVE MY DINNER, WANKER.
And holy shit, what is with kids in the back of pickups? Do they not have cops down there, or even some quaint substitute such as "sheriff"? The entire teenage population of Appalachia was in the back of a pickup truck, threatening to fly out at every corner and land on the hood of the rental car, thereby costing me a deposit.

Friday, September 10, 2004

Dear trash emptier,

I realize there are 10 snickers wrappers in my desk trash can, but they didn't come from me. Honest.


Tuesday, September 07, 2004

If the office were a person, I'd kick it in the nuts

Last week another department moved their offices down toward our end of the hall, into formerly deserted cube real estate. These new people are just as content to ignore me as everyone else so, fine. Except for one thing.
This new department is the field guide department. They produce the field guides 86 year old birdwatchers favor. So they are apparently really into birds. This actually surprised me. If it were my job, I bet birds would be right at the top of my enemies list.
Because they like birds so much, they have chosen bird calls for their computer noises. So all day long, they're getting email, their damn computers go "chir-ee! chir-eee! I'm a fucking bird!" AND THEN I KILL THEM.

Wednesday, September 01, 2004

the only exercise I get

In this office, my cubicle, my box of horror, is the one closest to the door. That's where they put you when they hate you. Because, you see, the door is always locked, supposedly for security. You have to have a pass to get through the door. A special pass, too. You can't just use your fourth floor pass way up here, no sir. You need an eighth floor pass to open the gates to THIS hell.
So bitches be losin' their passes all the time. Also, temps and interns are not allowed to have passes. But they are expected to be at work daily, so they have to come up and knock on the door by my cage, and I have to open it.
Besides driving me EVEN CRAZIER, this defeats all building security procedures. If you felt like sneaking into a building full of misery--perhaps your own supplies of wretchedness are running low, and you want to steal a sackful?--you could easily do so. First, you just waltz by the sleepy sentry by the elevator. A short elevator ride later, you smash your face against the glass and bang away on the door. Sooner or later a pissed-off looking, broken-spirited woman will come and smack it open with an open palm, turn on her heel, and stalk back to her cell of torment.
Pretending not to hear the tap-tap-tapping doesn't work. I've tried. Eventually someone else will hear and come stomping by my chair, see me, and realize what a bitch I am. So that's out. So ten times a day I sigh, roll my eyes, and shove back my chair to open the door for some idiot who can't keep a pass pinned to their shirt. Next time I'm asking three riddles, dammit.