I've got you now, Foster.
I have tried, in my own subtle way, to make my disdain for you known, in the hopes that you might seek greener pastures at some other place of employment, most likely a Jamba Juice of some kind. But, alas, you keep showing up for work. Mr. Schwapp has informed me that as long as you keep "saddlin' up," I'm supposed to let you "rope 'n ride."But what if you were to come to work one day, only to find the hitching post were no longer there? What then, I wonder?
Muhahahahahahahahhahahahahahahahahahah!
No, Carli, you're not supposed to type my laugh. Wait - you're not supposed to type that either. Argh! It's as if you're trying to infuriate me. I'm sure you're doing the best of which you're capable. Don't give me that look - and whatever you do, don't tell Foster about this! As a matter of fact, if you promise not to tell him, there could be a little something in it for you. A woman of your age and social station would be enamored of shoes, yes? Well, I happen to know the owner of a military surplus store, and - stop typing!
I'll be in my office.
Sunday, June 26, 2011
Monday, April 11, 2011
Time to Brush Off the Old Dictaphone!
Since I’m still getting used to the whole idea of a “blog” being something more substantial than the sound my toilet makes when it’s backed up, you will have to bear with me as I find my voice. And since I don’t know who I’m even speaking to, or why I am reading this aloud from a previously typed memo just so that Carli can type it for me again, I fear that there already far too many layers of postmodern nonsense for this to be penetrable. But still, we must press on.
Today we will be going over a few items that I consider to be Gifts to All:
1. Phones capable of conference calls. Because when Mr. Schwapp is vacationing in Hawaii, I still need him to know that I’m doing a good job.
2. Proper hygiene. It’s not hard, Foster. You take the soap, you rub it over your body, and wash off your inch-thick layer of grease and grime—preferably with water instead of Schlitz.
3. I Love Lucy. It’s a visionary story of one man’s dauntless and sagacious entrepreneurial feats.
4. My owl-stick, Archimedes. Because he’s great for morale.
Likewise, I feel it is my wish—nay, my duty—to discuss some criteria that I can only describe as Plagues Causing Society’s Ruin:
1. The lottery. I just think it’s a bad idea to randomly reward people for burning money.
2. Anti-Socialist and anti-Communist rhetoric. Say what you want about Stalin, the man knew how to run a factory.
3. Bagel World. You cannot actually be out of cream cheese, Bagel World! How come that guy has cream cheese, Bagel World? Why is that? Do you expect me to eat my bagel dry, you utter loss to humanity? Because I can’t do that, Bagel World. You ask the impossible.
I could go on, but I am fully aware of the fact that for every minute I am away from my desk, one more bottle of Gorilla Glue has been emptied onto my seat. I really have to ask Foster if he deducts his prank expenses from his tax return every year.
Today we will be going over a few items that I consider to be Gifts to All:
1. Phones capable of conference calls. Because when Mr. Schwapp is vacationing in Hawaii, I still need him to know that I’m doing a good job.
2. Proper hygiene. It’s not hard, Foster. You take the soap, you rub it over your body, and wash off your inch-thick layer of grease and grime—preferably with water instead of Schlitz.
3. I Love Lucy. It’s a visionary story of one man’s dauntless and sagacious entrepreneurial feats.
4. My owl-stick, Archimedes. Because he’s great for morale.
Likewise, I feel it is my wish—nay, my duty—to discuss some criteria that I can only describe as Plagues Causing Society’s Ruin:
1. The lottery. I just think it’s a bad idea to randomly reward people for burning money.
2. Anti-Socialist and anti-Communist rhetoric. Say what you want about Stalin, the man knew how to run a factory.
3. Bagel World. You cannot actually be out of cream cheese, Bagel World! How come that guy has cream cheese, Bagel World? Why is that? Do you expect me to eat my bagel dry, you utter loss to humanity? Because I can’t do that, Bagel World. You ask the impossible.
I could go on, but I am fully aware of the fact that for every minute I am away from my desk, one more bottle of Gorilla Glue has been emptied onto my seat. I really have to ask Foster if he deducts his prank expenses from his tax return every year.
 |
| I am ever vigilant. |
Saturday, March 26, 2011
A Conspiracy to Rob Me of My Weekend!
Who DOESN'T love the office on a Saturday? Most of the time, the week is so full of vigilance, vigilance, vigilance over the shirk-a-days I call employees that I barely have time to get any real work done.
Unfortunately, our office is in the same space as a bank, so if you aren't firmly ensconced at your desk by 2:00 p.m., there's no getting in on a weekend. There is a security guard who can see me through the glass door, but he "has his orders," which I take to mean he has some sort of alliance with our Masonic janitor to keep me out of the building while they use it for God-knows-what. I found a POKER CHIP in the reception area one Monday morning.
Today, as I opened my lunch for a mid-day nosh, I was dismayed to discover I had left my yellow onion in the car. I love yellow onions, the way the aroma just lingers. I wasn't prepared to enjoy my lunch without it - I had planned this meal over a month ago.
I glanced at my watch - 1:57 p.m.. Knowing there wasn't much time, I grabbed Archimedes, my owl-topped walking stick, to prop open the side door so I could dash to the parking pavilion and retrieve my pungent bulb. I don't park far from the door on most days, as I have a reserved space (a perk I negotiated nimbly for with a disinterested Mr. Schwapp). This day, however, a pickup truck filled with CLEANING SUPPLIES was parked across no less than three spaces when I arrived, a trail of Colt 45 bottles making a telling trail of bread crumbs to the door. Because of this, I was forced to park in a handicapped space that nobody uses on the weekdays, so why it would have caused anyone a problem on the weekend is another suspicious quandry. Imagine my surprise, then, when I walked out to my automobile to discover a BOOT had been placed upon my tire.
I furiously retrieved my onion and made my way back to the door, only to discover Archimedes watching me from the elevator door at the end of the hall. Fortunately for him, the doors to the outside are soundproof, or he would have heard a volley of obscenities that would have made Slobodan Milosevic blush.
To compound my bad luck, I had left my cellular phone in my desk drawer. No matter, I thought, I'll just ask the security guard to let me in. But no! When I approached the front glass, a laconic hand merely pointed to the clock, which read 2:01 p.m.. My attempts to turn on the "Fogle Charm" were fruitless, and I resorted, I am ashamed to say, to bribery. I offered this man use of my parking space on weekends for a MONTH, blog! And this man chose to respond by walking up to the door, and saying, "Deal... if you can tell me my name."
Well, dammit it, it's his job to know my name, not the other way around! Needless to say, I erupted, and threatened to tunnel in from underneath the building, to which that walking high school equivalency exam responded by telling me where I could find a shovel (and before you ask, NO, you cannot find one there).
$330 and a haughty tow-truck driver later, I find myself sitting at home at 10:30 p.m. on a Saturday night for the first time in who knows how long, watching television. What dreck! I'm going to have to remember to xerox my West Coast rolodex so I have a copy at home from now on.
Stay safe, Archimedes.
Unfortunately, our office is in the same space as a bank, so if you aren't firmly ensconced at your desk by 2:00 p.m., there's no getting in on a weekend. There is a security guard who can see me through the glass door, but he "has his orders," which I take to mean he has some sort of alliance with our Masonic janitor to keep me out of the building while they use it for God-knows-what. I found a POKER CHIP in the reception area one Monday morning.
Today, as I opened my lunch for a mid-day nosh, I was dismayed to discover I had left my yellow onion in the car. I love yellow onions, the way the aroma just lingers. I wasn't prepared to enjoy my lunch without it - I had planned this meal over a month ago.
I glanced at my watch - 1:57 p.m.. Knowing there wasn't much time, I grabbed Archimedes, my owl-topped walking stick, to prop open the side door so I could dash to the parking pavilion and retrieve my pungent bulb. I don't park far from the door on most days, as I have a reserved space (a perk I negotiated nimbly for with a disinterested Mr. Schwapp). This day, however, a pickup truck filled with CLEANING SUPPLIES was parked across no less than three spaces when I arrived, a trail of Colt 45 bottles making a telling trail of bread crumbs to the door. Because of this, I was forced to park in a handicapped space that nobody uses on the weekdays, so why it would have caused anyone a problem on the weekend is another suspicious quandry. Imagine my surprise, then, when I walked out to my automobile to discover a BOOT had been placed upon my tire.
I furiously retrieved my onion and made my way back to the door, only to discover Archimedes watching me from the elevator door at the end of the hall. Fortunately for him, the doors to the outside are soundproof, or he would have heard a volley of obscenities that would have made Slobodan Milosevic blush.
To compound my bad luck, I had left my cellular phone in my desk drawer. No matter, I thought, I'll just ask the security guard to let me in. But no! When I approached the front glass, a laconic hand merely pointed to the clock, which read 2:01 p.m.. My attempts to turn on the "Fogle Charm" were fruitless, and I resorted, I am ashamed to say, to bribery. I offered this man use of my parking space on weekends for a MONTH, blog! And this man chose to respond by walking up to the door, and saying, "Deal... if you can tell me my name."
Well, dammit it, it's his job to know my name, not the other way around! Needless to say, I erupted, and threatened to tunnel in from underneath the building, to which that walking high school equivalency exam responded by telling me where I could find a shovel (and before you ask, NO, you cannot find one there).
$330 and a haughty tow-truck driver later, I find myself sitting at home at 10:30 p.m. on a Saturday night for the first time in who knows how long, watching television. What dreck! I'm going to have to remember to xerox my West Coast rolodex so I have a copy at home from now on.
Stay safe, Archimedes.
Thursday, March 24, 2011
A Most Unusual Happenstance
I have decided to start a blog. I am two sentences in, and it already feels like a phenomenal waste of time. From now on, I will dictate my posts to Carli - she will no doubt find joy in the work.
Hoot.
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