Jerking From Home

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Go Ahead and Ribbit In

Two years ago our holiday party occupied an entire hotel with fully stocked bars and numerous feeding stations with sushi, prime rib, and crab cakes.

Holiday Party 2004

This year's party was a little different...

Holiday Party 2006

The layout of the 2006 holiday party captured the essence of how far our company image had fallen within a two-year timeframe. The sushi and prime rib were replaced with spinach dip and cupcakes. No tuxedos, no dresses, no late night Karaoke. I was jammed in a conference room with other co-workers on a Thursday at 3:00PM. The DJ was replaced with a radio that was broadcasting holiday tunes from the moon through a bullhorn.

Upon seeing the potluck desserts before me I realized the power of denial. I have been able to convince myself that despite all of the company's negative publicity, poor bonus structure, and lack of identity, that things were still the same. Why did I not see the warning signs? How could this have happened? Why does this cupcake icing taste like paste?

Fact: If a frog is placed into boiling water, it will jump out. But if a frog is placed in warm water, and the temperature is slowly raised, it will become acclimated, until it becomes cooked.

I'm not going down alone, bee-atches.

While removing a Little Debbie oatmeal cookie from its wrapper, I casually scanned the smiling faces of those who were still here. At that point I knew my name was Kermit and I was officially cooked.

Basura Blanco

A message from Dominga in Janitorial Services.

Corporate Joe was kind enough to let me borrow his audience. So all three of you pay attention. I'm patronized every day by you suits while trying to get through my job to pay the bills. Here are some pointers next time we bump into each other:

• I'm fluent in English. Quit practicing your eighth grade Spanish on me. The extent of your language is "Dos cervesas porfavor" which you learned from your $600 honeymoon package in Cancun. Cheapass.
• Quit huffing and puffing when I need to get to your trash. Maybe we can switch next time. I'll surf the internet for soft porn while you empty every trashcan in all 500 cubicles of the building.
• Through my extensive janitorial training I can successfully identify trash. You don't have to explicity label "Basura" for every item. Since I'm from Mexico does not mean I'm retarded you retard.
• My co-worker speaks Portugese. So unless you're imitating Gwyneth Paltrow, stop trying to impress her with your Tarzan Spanish.
• Don't start conversations with me (regardless of Spanish or English) about the pictures of your wife/wives and kid(s). If you loved them so much you'd be home by now.
• Yes, I saw "Spanglish". Yes, I liked it. Although I thought some of the plot points suffered due to the intense focus on the character arc of the white mother. Duh.

"Tea Leoni ain't got shit on me."

So next time you see me, step aside bitch. Have the decency to let me vacuum in peace because this job is putting me through business school.

The Rules of Engorgement

It is important to maximize a lunch hour by saving precious minutes out of the day. However, I draw the line at having my lunch cross the plane of the bathroom door.

Believe it or not, I understand this logic. It is done in the spirit of efficiency for the world of male consultants. Grab your lunch in the pantry, go to the bathroom, take a squirt, then head to your cubicle and cozy up to the latest edition of Highlights.

I know what the women are thinking. Why not go to the bathroom first then head to the pantry? Legitimate question, let me explain. There is an innate synapse in men that dates back to cavemen. The only time we realize we have to drain it is at meal time. So Zog eating a saber-tooth tiger had the same problems as Zack eating a PB&J. The trigger of needing relief is not realized until we're ready to take a bite.

"Why Zog have pee-pee come out of wee-wee when eaty?"

Most men recognize this need and do one of two things:

• Head to their desk, drop off their lunch, then go take a zee, or
• Head to the bathroom with their lunch, cross the plane of the bathroom door, place their lunch on the counter of the bathroom sink, take a squirt, wash their hands (optional for some), then take their lunch back to their desk.

Based on my years of observation, a large majority fall into the former of these two scenarios. However, for those disturbing amount of individuals who can be categorized in the latter, listen up, I've got something to say.

If you break the plane of the bathroom door with food you plan on putting in your mouth then you might as well eat it on the toilet. Crossing through that invisible border just landed your brownbag in a different zipcode of etiquette. It's like bringing your two-month old son to Studio 54 in a BabyBjorn. Flatulence and bowel movements have no place for the nourishment you thoughfully packed the night before.

"Ahhhh, now I can eat my lunch in peace."

So please, enjoy your lunch break and also give your lunch a break at the same time. Zog would be proud of you. Or maybe he would bludgeon you to death. Cavemen are unpredictable.

Movin' On Up?

My old cubicle was the envy of co-workers. It was my personal compound tucked neatly away from the beaten path of regular office traffic. I could safely surf pornography without having to constantly look over my shoulder like Wild Bill in his final hand at poker. Except Wild Bill probably left his pants on.

"I thought I was the fastest draw."

This past week I was slapped in the face with an eviction notice from the Super. I was being shipped to the sixth floor. My old cubicle was ripped away from me faster than the virginity of a Laguna Beach cast member. I was disgusted at the thought of moving and disgusted that I actually got caught with my pants down by the Super....again.

To add insult to injury, my company has no internal support for moving. I was given a pushcart to help me with the move which oddly resembled my chair. Glances were followed with whispers as I wheeled my belongings down the hallway. I had to go through the humiliation of being fired without actually losing my job. Time to venture to the sixth floor and get a glimpse of my future home.

Let's put it this way, I went to bed at The Wynn in Las Vegas and woke up in a Super-8 off the Jersey Turnpike. My new location was jammed in a cluster of bush-league cubicles that might be comfortable for employees dedicated to the art of contortion. Each of my movements involves bumping into a calculator, cabinet, or bong. And I sit right next to the printer which sounds like a 747 when it prints. Instinctively, I securely fasten my overhead cabinets when I hear it start to warm up.

"Welcome to the sixth floor! Some of this will have to go offsite."

Things got better though. I was fortunate enough to inherit a papermill from the previous occupant. Every available inch of cabinet space was taken by reports, binders, and boxes that had nothing to do with my workload. These papers were coupled with a sea of misfit office supplies ironically designed for saving space. It looks like Office Depot took a dump on my desk.

Gotta go now, the printer is warming up. I have to put on my seatbelt.

Dispensing Advice

I visit a nearby deli every day that makes the best chicken salad. However, I never take napkins from their dispenser because it is eerily similar to what one would find in a bathroom stall. As a matter of fact, I do my best not to look at it because the implications could be socially catastrophic.

There is a slight possibility through visual recognition that the mapping in my brain would trigger unacceptable muscle memory. Before you know it, I'm wiping my ass in the middle of the deli. I'm not sure where that kind of behavior is categorized on a performance improvement plan. And I don't want to find out.

"I'll take two. In case I'm barking out of both ends."

My House, My Car, My God Please Shutup

The superiors in my office enjoy discussing their latest financial adventures amongst themselves but within earshot of subordinates. Gentleman, your salaries and stock options are listed in the annual report. Don't rub salt in the wound, especially during cutbacks on styrofoam cups and plastic forks in order to "Go Green!".

A jury of your lower-income peers would conclude Justifiable Homicide if our overweight secretary (who has not received a raise in three years) stabbed all of you with her scissors. Actually, there have also been cutbacks on office supplies. She'd probably have to stab all of you with a fork she brought from home. As long as it's not during her lunch hour, that girl can flat-out chow.

"We're going to knock it down and build our dream home."

The discussion among the high-level execs always begins with harmless mention of either 1) their home, 2) addition to their home or 3) addition to the addition of their home. The conversation slowly begins to ante up and a verbal poker game ensues to ensure that everyone is keeping up the Jones's.

Exec 1

I'm thinking about buying a new car.

Exec 2

You're thinking about buying a new car? I just bought a Rolls Royce.

Exec 3

You just bought a Rolls Royce? I just bought a Bugatti Veyron.

Exec 4

You just bought a Veyron? I just bought the world. Rock beats scissors, paper covers rock, and owning the world beats a Bugatti Veyron.

Exec 1

SSSSSSS, you just got burned!

The executives disperse and go to a meeting they scheduled at The Palms but can't remember why.

"Enough about my car. What do you think of my car?"

So to all the C-level executives reading my blog (what's zero times zero?) Please keep in mind that conversation about your excesses cuts to the bone of underpaid and overperforming employees. And if you find a fat woman clenching her own fork while running towards you yelling "Mutha' F*cka!", you've shot your mouth off a little too much.

Crimes of Fashion

Top 10 fashion crimes in the office and their punishment:

10. Men in Pink Shirts
Yes, you're completely comfortable in your own sexuality. You're also still waiting to pick up your dry cleaning. It's fine if you're a cabana boy in South Beach or a banker in Bermuda.

-Punishment-
Wear a pink tu-tu sprinkled with strawberry hearts and parade around new employee orientation waving a wand. You are required to greet each new employee with an eskimo kiss. But hey, you're comfortable, right?
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9. Men in Diagonal Striped Shirts
Let me guess, you're from Jersey City, are on your second cycle of HGH, and were nominated as fitness member of the month at Gold's Gym. Treat yourself to a sideways striped shirt.

-Punishment-
You will continue to live in Jersey City.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
8. Too much cologne
You're still from Jersey City.

-Punishment-
You will still continue to live in Jersey City.
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7. Glitter (eyes and/or hair)
Glitter is great, if you're a whore.

-Punishment-
You like glitter? Good, now you can bunk with Gary Glitter while watching Mariah Carey in the movie Glitter.

Hey, roomie!

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6. Glasses from the 80's
That's really cool how your prescription glasses cover 90% of your face. Last time I saw a pair of glasses that big I was doing a bunny-hop on my Mongoose.

-Punishment-
Have to watch a 24 hour John Hughes film festival with special focus on plot points in Uncle Buck. In Chinese with English subtext.

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5. Winter, Spring, Summer, or the other one
It's February, it's 40 degrees outside, and you're dressed for a bonfire on the beach. Get your seasons straight.

-Punishment-
Tropical climate, we've got the ticket. A one way ticket to Sudan where highs will be in the 90's with a 50% chance of death from stray bullets. But hey, warm weather.
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4. Men in Tight Pants
"Well, you can tell by the way I use my walk,
I'm a woman's man, no time to talk.
Music loud and women warm,
I've been kicked around
since I was born. "

-Punishment-
Severe fist blows to the crotch. But that's probably a fetish for you, Mr. Pervert in Tight Pants.

Who's making fun? Scoundrels!

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3. Women with Big Hair
I love the way your hair looks like a blonde batch of cotton candy. You're living proof that AquaNet comes in 2-liter bottles. And you're a cosmetologist? You don't say.

-Punishment-
Culprits will have to part their hair on the opposite side and will be stripped of all hair products for one month.
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2. Goth Interns
You're such a rebel. Sticking it to the man while working for the man. The all-black attire and body piercings are dead-on. Of course you dress like that because you don't care. Now continue to listen to your i-Pod clogged with Siouxsie and the Banshees.

-Punishment-
New i-Pod playlist with Bread in endless rotation while dressed in white and strapped to a chair. Not much different than how you'd be in 10 years anyways. Except I don't think they lend out i-Pods to people in psych units.
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1. Flip-flops
You're "pushing summer", I love that term, it's straight out of the fridge. Now shutup and listen. The painful onomatopoeia of "flip-flop" is equivalent to rolling around in broken glass.

-Punishment-
Nothing too severe. Feet will be removed with a hacksaw.

V for Vendetta on Vending

Upon exiting the office elevators, I saw shadows dance across the wall coupled with flickers of lights. I entered the hallway to see what was causing this display and unknowingly walked into the line of fire. A mob with pitchforks and torches was descending on the vending machine operator. My Spiderman senses tingled and I quickly assessed the situation. Another price hike on the vending machines.

The vending machine guy a.k.a. "Asswipe" was trying to dispense change out of the machines faster than Pee-Wee Herman pulling his root at a peepshow. The witch hunt quickly surrounded him. The mob's intensity matched the fire in their torches, they were out for blood. Unfortunately, I was caught in the middle and did my best to diffuse the situation.

Pay up bee-otch.

With my quick wit and reflexes I stepped aside, directed my gaze towards the vending machine operator, and said, "Good luck Asswipe." I could tell he appreciated my efforts, but they were to no avail. The corporate mob engulfed him like Katrina hitting the coast. Asswipe walked away with his life but left behind his pride and a pair of dirty underwear.

At first I thought the mob overreacted. After twenty-six kicks to the groin, I think he got the point. However, upon reviewing the new totals on the vending machine, I understood everyone's frustration.

The pricing structure skyrocketed into another economy. A minimum 25% hike across the board. I became angry and continued kicking Asswipe in the groin. Imagine my surprise when I realized it was our janitor. Wrong place, wrong time. What can you do but apologize and hope no one saw.

I wasn't about to pump my hard earned quarters into any of the machines. Plus there was nothing left to buy from the looting. That's when my consulting experience gave me an epiphany. I needed to create a cost-friendly concession stand for our office that still maintained respectable profit margins.

My new cubicle

Using the corporate Costco Gold card, I bought cases of sodas along with boxes of candy bars and chips. My cubicle now has an adequate display of assortments that are reasonably priced. Plus it's a great way to meet people. My cubemate keeps bitching about having to leave the cash register on her lap but I constantly remind her, "Think of all the money you're saving on snacks!"

Here comes someone now, time for another sale. It's the janitor and he's still crouched over. Maybe I'll extend the olive branch and give him some free M&Ms.

Happy Hour Premiere

I'm not invited to happy hours in my office because I'm two standard deviations higher than the median age. Things change quickly though. I accidentally pulled a co-worker's email off the printer with the subject line, "Don't invite Corporate Shmo to the happy hour". Denial is such an ugly thing. I thought everyone in the group deserved a morale boost so I decided to come along.

After driving through the unusually crowded streets of Washington DC, I realized my happy hour directions were useless. I decided to trust my instincts and follow the spotlights that were shining into the sky a few blocks away. That's gotta' be the place. Upon finding the source of the light I realized this happy hour was da' bomb.

Limos everywhere, quarantined paparazzi, and screaming teenagers in bleacher seats. Why had I missed so many of these before? Valet parking was the only option so I pulled my Hyundai Santa Fe right in front of the bar. Someone quickly opened my door and the first thing my feet hit were a red carpet. Flashes of light bathed me while I headed to the entrance labeled "The Guardian". The lights stopped as quickly as they started with mutterings of "It's not him". All the photographers behind the velvet rope stopped to change the batteries in their camera.

What the hell kinda' bar is this?

That's when things started to get a little weird. I walked into the bar and it strangely resembled a theater. Movie posters, popcorn stands, ticket attendants, the works. On top of that, Kevin Costner and that kid who dates that girl from St. Elmo's Fire were standing next to a movie poster. Here's the crazy part, their own photos were in the movie poster labeled The Guardian which is the same name as the bar. What are the chances?

I wasn't about to miss rubbing elbows with a celebrity. I approached that girl from St. Elmo's Fire and grabbed her hand to press the flesh. In a move straight out of G.I. Jane she used my own motion against me and twisted my wrist. I immediately dropped to my knees and was given the wood shampoo by two of her actual guardians. Needless to say, it was pretty cool.

Watch it handsy!

Looking like a tomato with an eyeball, I was aggressively escorted out the same way I came in. I think Mr. Costner felt bad because he paid for my ambulance to the hospital. Some celebs are all talk and others step up to the plate. I salute you Kevin, you totally didn't have to pay for my ride.

While receiving stitches in my head I reviewed the tattered, bloodied happy hour email and realized I read the address wrong. All is not lost, I found a new celebrity bar for our next happy hour. My co-workers are going to love me.

Mufasa, King of the Bagels

Mufasa is the alpha male marked with gorgeous colors in his Brooks Brothers tie. With quiet confidence, he adjourns the meeting in Conference Room A as lower ranking members of the pride throw furtive glances towards the bagels. They think wiser and slowly back away from the untouched tray. The room is now empty with dimmed lights. The bagels and an eery sound of the struggling A.C. unit are all that remain.

Lurking in the Accounting Department, Shenzi catches the scent of the assorted bagels and cream cheese. This could be a good kill for her. A potential free breakfast, and with proper stealth, a free lunch as well. Under the cover of her wool pickstitch pinstripe jacket she is able to blend in the shadows with her clan following closely. She hisses at them to move away, she will handle this on her own. Her clan reluctantly retreats back to their cubicles barking at each other in disgust.

I love me some garlic bagels.

Shenzi's eyes lock on the the bagels as they remain motionless, unable to fight off their impending doom. The corporate environment has not been rich with food due to recent cutbacks so Shenzi knows she must strike quickly. This opportunity may not present itself again, especially due to third quarter earnings. She reaches for the garlic bagel and begins smothering it with sun-dried tomato cream cheese. "This is too easy", she whispers aloud as her crushing bite pierces the bread.

Who's grabbing my grub!

The lights come alive in perfect synchronicity with Shenzi's first bite. Mufasa stands at the lightswitch with a dissapproving growl. He puffs out his chest to challenge her. The eternal enemies stare at each other. Shenzi knows the matchup is not in her favor. With haste, she grabs another bagel, lunges towards the exit, and immediately bumps into members of Mufasa's pride. In defeat, she drops the bagel on the conference room table and exits. She regrets having left her clan behind and will have much explaining to do at lunch (which she now has to pay for). Next time this confrontation happens, she'll be prepared.

Mufasa switches the lights off again and motions the pride away. He is the only one remaining. Another victory. He meticulously prepares three bagels while awaiting his next meeting. He knows the only way to get rid of Shenzi is to kill her. And there is more room for cutbacks in accounting. He peruses his BlackBerry and realizes his next meeting is with the head of accounting. The clan will be rudderless without their leader. He roars with laughter at this thought while gulping his bagels down whole.

Konfuzo Powers Activate!

Form of a question!
Shape of a Visio diagram!

When a straighforward business process is transformed into a labyrinth of Rube Goldberg contraptions, Konfuzo is at work. When all you have to do is write an email and a superior morphs it into War and Peace, Konfuzo is responsible. When an HR form for claims reimbursement is lost in the abyss of your insurance company, Konfuzo is the guilty suspect.

Think "Superman and Kryptonite", "Spiderman and the Green Goblin". Now think "common sense and unnecessary bureaucracy" and you will understand the powers of Konfuzo. It is a malleable force which can take a variety of shapes and move from person to person in the business world. Sometimes it might be an incompetent manager and other times it might even be you.

If you find yourself creating unnecessary steps to a simple solution or comparing your job to splitting atoms, take a step back and acknowledge Konfuzo's presence. Some of the following mantras can be helpful in exorcising Konfuzo from your body:

• I am not a doctor, no one is going to die. *
• In five years, no one is going to give a #$@&.
• God I could use a drink, I could really use a drink.

I'm hoping this little piece of advice will prevent Konfuzo from entering your business world. Squash its presence as soon as you recognize it. Now if you'll excuse me, I have some atoms that need splitting.

* If you are a doctor, stop reading my blog. Somebody might be dying on your watch.

Dunkin' Donuts, it really is worth the trip

I have the privilege of passing by Dunkin' Donuts on my way to work every day. I stopped there last Friday and bought a dozen for the office. With my personal donut artist behind the counter I was able to assemble an impressive assortment of debfibrillator inducing breakfast treats. After ringing up the total, the donut artist glanced at the chosen 12 and whispered to me "I am in the presence of greatness, Godspeed".

Upon arrival in the office, I casually placed the donuts in our pantry and was promptly assaulted by co-workers. "What kind you get?", "Can I have one?", "Hey everybody, Corporate Joe bought donuts!" I was greeted with hearty handshakes and high fives. Janitorial Services hoisted me on their shoulders and I was paraded down the halls and showered with confetti.

Is there anything they can't do?

Despite the blare of trumpets and sea of streamers I was able to distinguish an angelic figure down the hall. The bleached daylight pouring in the window that backs up to our dumpsters made her a vision. I had seen her a million times before and a million times she had looked the other way. Things were different now, I was somebody, I was Mr. Donut Guy.

The astute janitors saw the electricity between me and hotty cherub and they instinctually released me from my perch. I approached and firmly kissed her with both confidence and lust in equal measure. After our mouth music she gently pushed me away and asked, "Where is orientation? Today is my first day." I wittily responded, "Down the hall, two doors to the left." Needless to say, the place went wild. Even more confetti poured from the vents followed by cannon blasts in the background. The marching band was in full swing seamlessly intertwining John Phillip Sousa with Jay-Z. It was turning out to be a pretty good day.

News spread and it wasn't too long before I was rubbing elbows with the corporate brass. Once the CEO took a bite out of my Cinnamon Cake Stick I knew things were going to be different for the both of us. You change inside when something like that happens.

Hey, it's the guy who bought donuts!

Things moved quickly from there. My regular duties of changing toner and tipping the soda machine were distributed among my former peers. I managed a few goodbyes and a 1/2 dozen thumbs up. It was all a blur as corporate security forcefully led me to the elevators for my own safety. I was scheduled to break ground with the governor that afternoon on a new wing named after me.

As I blog from the corporate chopper, last week seems like years ago. Some people might say I got lucky. Others only sit back with envy and wonder. But to tell you the truth, I'm not surprised. Never underestimate the caloric intake of a donut or its power to blind a businessman's common sense.

Editing the Edited Edits

The following is a true story:

Over the past two weeks, there has been a deliverable exchanging hands among me, my client, and my subcontractor. Unfortunately, my client has felt the need to make this document adhere to the editorial standards of Simon and Schuster even though the intended audience will most likely hit "delete" upon receipt. Below are the series of events that led to my hospitalization:

• Thu, Aug 10 - I was personally admonished by the client for lack of sentence structure in the first draft. It was then my pleasure to let her know that I used the same content and format signed off by them from the previous year. Silence on the other end of the line.
• Fri, Aug 11 - Upon instruction from the client, edits were to be applied by different sources at the same time to make the process go "smoother".
• Mon, Aug 14 - Spent five hours consolidating edits from three different sources. Client insisted on faxing me her edits since she does not know how to use "track changes" in Word (see The Fax of Life for more details). Process went as smoothly as sipping crushed glass through a straw. Devoured two Excedrin.
• Tue, Aug 15 - Submitted latest version of document to the client. Upon receipt, client notified me that more edits would be applied since her manager did not initially review. Took a swig of DayQuil.

Just a little taste to ease the pain.

• Wed, Aug 16 - I received the edited document via fax and email from my client. She indicated some edits were applied through "track changes" and others were applied to a hard copy. Drove home and found an expired prescription for Vicatin in my medicine cabinet.
• Thu, Aug 17 - Applied all edits and submitted latest version of the document. Notified by the client that the document would not be approved because her manager was out of town. Stole two percocet from my co-worker recovering from a broken leg.
• Mon, Aug 21 - Manager of my client approved the document and also added another page which I was asked to proofread. I proofread the document and submitted it back to the client. They made another change and asked me to proofread again. I proofread the document again and submitted it back to the client. Held up a pharmacy at gunpoint for their stash of Oxycotin.
• Tue, Aug 22 - Document is approved and emailed to correct recipients. I tally up the damage; 58 emails, 17 phone calls, 12 hours of my time, 10 hours of the subcontractor's time. Did I mention the document was only eight pages? Went to the Methadone clinic for my fix and chased it with a shot of Wild Turkey.
• Wed, Aug 23 - I am hospitalized for depression and addiction to painkillers.

I did learn something from all of this. Drugs aren't so bad after all. I just wish the nurse would speed up my morphine drip.

Stop, Drop, and Run Like Hell

Recent terrorist threats have reopened the wounds of 9/11, caused everyone to dump their travel kits, and created lines at the airport that move slower than a sloth with diarrhea. This prompted me to re-evaluate the emergency response system my company has implemented for our building. After review, it has created a fear equal to what the terrorists are trying to inflict.

The cover page of the emergency brochure has several pictures to remind employees of what a disaster is. There is a trailer park devastated by a tornado, the swelling banks of a river, and Michael Jordan in a baseball uniform. The second page is an Emergency Team phone list without any specifics as to why the individuals listed should be called or what constitutes an emergency. The titles range from "Colonel" and "Guard" to "Ozone" and "Turbo". Several of the numbers listed went straight to voicemail. It's good to know I can sleep safe at night knowing that I'm not sleeping at work.

Ain't no stoppin' us now, we're on the move.

Then the document gets serious and begins to address specific situations and how we should act.

Bomb Threat
There is a checklist employees should use when receiving a bomb threat. Questions such as 1) When will the bomb explode? 2) What kind of bomb is it? 3) Can I get your name, number, and social? Also have to be in tune with the caller's gender, speech patterns, accent, and manners.

Let's face it, bombers are a nuisance and there is alot of information to absorb in a tight timeframe. In case this situation does occur, there is a tested Transfer Method that can prevent detonation. Below is an example of how the Transfer Method would be implemented.

INT: OFFICE BUILDING, CORPORATE JOE'S DESK - DAY
A telephone rings, CORPORATE JOE wakes from his nap and answers.

CORPORATE JOE
Hello?

BOMBER
Listen carefully, there's a
bomb set to explode...

CORPORATE JOE
Hold on, I'll transfer you.

BOMBER
Excuse me?

Corporate Joe hits "Transfer".

INT: OFFICE BUILDING, CINDY'S DESK - DAY
Cindy's phone begins to ring. CINDY picks up her line.

CINDY
Hello?

CORPORATE JOE
Hello, Cindy.

CINDY
Look creep, I said
stop calling me.

CORPORATE JOE
No, it's not about our date.
This call's a transfer.

CINDY
Oh, who is it?

CORPORATE JOE
Someone who's planted a
bomb in the building

CINDY
Transfer him through.

BOMBER
Hello?

CINDY
Yes?

BOMBER
Listen carefully, there's
a bomb set to explode...

CINDY
Can you hold please, I'll transfer you.

BOMBER
What the %&*@!

While on hold, "Islands in the Stream" plays Muzak style.

FADE TO BLACK:

The reality is that bombers want credit for their actions. If they get tied up in a phone system, they cannot receive acknowledgement for their madness. The bomb will never detonate. The Transfer Method is a bombproof procedure to keep you safe.

Extreme Weather
Many parts of the United States are prone to extreme weather. The midwest has its tornadoes, the west coast has earthquakes, and Virginia has volcanoes. Wherever you are, it's important to note that FEMA is right around the corner for help. That's all you need to know for extreme weather.

Chemical Attack
Chemical attacks can consist of agents such as mustard gas, cyanide, and the microwaved fish that our intern from Ghana eats. No need to panic. Duct tape your eyes to protect them from burning, then duct tape your nose and mouth so you cannot inhale any toxic fumes. Wait for approximately 15 to 20 minutes then remove the duct tape from your nose only to take a sniff and see if the coast is clear. If not, cover your nose, wait for another 15 to 20 minutes, and repeat until fumes have dispersed.

Please keep this list handy in case you experience any of the situations listed above. If you would like to take a more pro-active stance on terrorism, then attack anyone who appears to be of Middle Eastern descent. Chances are less than .0001% that you'll get your man. Hey, with odds like that, you gotta' get in the game.

Print and the Revolution

There are unwritten laws of printer courtesy adhered to by the majority of my co-workers. However, there are a few fascists who play 52 card pickup with other people's print jobs without any remorse while yelling "O'Doyle rules!". For those of us who are tired of having sand kicked in our face, the reckoning is here.

Most of us understand that the printer is an informal waiting area. The print job occupying the HP LaserJet dictates who should be in pole position. Standard operating procedure is to approach the printer, take a glance at the current print job, and act appropriately. Figure 1 accurately captures this protocol.

Figure 1. Obtaining your print job (click to enlarge)

Unfortunately, there are employees who hijack the printer with a document that would choke a fully-staffed Kinko's store. They goose step to the printer and elbow onlookers in the sternum to momentarily stun them. This quick blow allows them to cut in front of the line. The coup de grace is how they caress their work with meticulous care and turn other papers into a ticker tape parade.

My print job is next, do you have a problem with that?

These printer bullies are often the work horses ascending the corporate ladder. Be sure to earmark them for future aggravation. From personal experience, confusion is the best method. Approach the printer at the same time as them and fire rhetorical Gatling gun questions in their presence while fumbling through papers, "Did I really print 110 pages?", "I loaded pink paper again?", "How many trees am I killing?".

Another method of confusion involves four steps 1) steal their print job, 2) scan it as a pdf, 3) print the pdf file off of your computer, 4) then complain about how someone is hogging the printer everytime you see the original offender. They'll recognize the document as their own but will be dumbfounded as to how it keeps printing out.

The examples above are effective techniques but one piece of advice; don't fly solo in your efforts. Printer bullies can only be eliminated in a unified front. During recess, alert other members on the same printer network that a revolution is coming. Together, you can take back what is rightfully yours and also have the pleasure of tasting the sweet nectar of vigilante justice. Repeatedly oppress the bullies with the confusion techniques listed above and they will reluctantly migrate to another network printer.

Someone just goose stepped by me at a blistering pace. I think they're heading for the printer. Time to print out all 40 spreadsheets of my Fantasy Football picks.

The revolution is now.

Strangers In the Cube, Exchanging Glances

I spend approximately 40 to 50 hours a week in my cubicle. This time is filled with meetings, emails, conference calls, and massaging my bare feet. All these hours in the same confines with fellow cubers would logically tell someone that we know each other very well. Wrong.

There are numerous employees who work in close proximity to me that I know nothing about. We have been randomly assigned to the same arena of 8x8 cubicles but we might as well be in different galaxies. No icebreakers or how-do-you-do's. Just the hum of flourescent lights, ringing of the phones, and Steve's* uncontrollable flatulence. The only acknowledgement of each other's presence is a nod of the head.

This is partly my fault. Some psychologists might diagnose my anti-social attitude as a repression of anger. And to them I say, "I'll land severe blows to your crotch with my steel-toed boots you lousy..." Where was I? I blacked out. Oh yes, my anti-social attitude. Despite the proximity and duration of being in each other's presence, I don't know anything about my cellmates. And the sad fact is that my time at the office almost exceeds my life at home.

My introverted approach and belief is that we openly curse the idle chit-chat at the watercooler but clandestinely know it's a more attractive alternative than having someone spill their guts. We have the option of not letting anyone know our secrets. Plus our reticent behavior allows us to stay out of the office gossip. Jessica is having an affair, glad I don't know. Harold's** a crossdresser, ignorance is bliss. The hot new secretary thinks I'm cute! Crap, so it works most of the time.

Steve's letting them rip this morning.

So if we don't interact with individuals, then we can only observe. Is it fair to size people up by their behavior? That's so narrow-minded. And the answer is "yes", of course we can. I have drawn many conclusions about employees juxtaposed in the same tight area of office space as me. Selective observation is a powerful tool. A few noteworthy items:

Krissy enjoys talking about her husband as if he were the second coming of Christ.
Translation: she is trying to convince herself that she didn't marry a loser.

Jay speed dials numerous women every Friday at 4 to unsuccessfully make weekend plans.
Translation: he is trying to convince himself that he is not a loser.

Travis accuses me of stealing his lunch.
Translation: I did steal his lunch but he doesn't have to get all accusatory about it.

We are so tightly crammed together and yet worlds apart. I believe Jars of Clay sang something about that. Or maybe it was Korn. Either way, the only words that are exchanged are hello's in the morning and goodbye's in the evening. Sometimes Sarah will say to me with her timid voice, "let go of my arm, you're hurting me". She's so funny.

The reality is that I'm afraid to open up. Afraid that people won't like or accept me. Afraid that in the end I'll just get hurt. And the loss is mine, I'm probably missing out on some great friendships. But once I start telling people that I was sent from the future to help the rise of the machines, they're never going to look at me the same way again. Especially Sarah.

* All names are fictitious to protect the guilty.
** Except for Harold, that dude is a cross-dressing fool.

Arrive Late, Leave Early

I've noticed a sickening trend in the office that is a disservice to the workers disciplined enough to beat the morning commute. The employees arriving in the office before 7:30am are getting no props and the snooze button bandits aka "lazy asses" are stealing their thunder by staying late.

To add insult to injury, the late arrivals inconspicuously check their watches, raise their eyebrows, and shrug their shoulders for anybody packing it in before 5:30pm. The late arrivals were the same individuals bullied during their childhood and unknowingly suffer from mild retardation. Sad, but true. Wikipedia doesn't lie.

Arriving early is effective. You can steal loose change from co-workers drawers along with their office supplies. More importantly, you can put a dent in the day's workload without immediate reverberations. There is a communications serve-and-volley that's to the advantage of employees waking up the rooster.

• Answering emails without a knee-jerk response from the recipient. Plus you have a date and time stamp to shove in their face. Yeah, that's right, I sent this at 7:15am while your lazy ass was still in bed.
• Calling fellow co-workers on business related matters knowing that you'll be in voicemail land. Yeah, that's right, I called you at 7:17am while your lazy ass was still in bed.
• Finally, leaving post-it notes on the boss's door. Yeah, that's right, I left this post-it at 7:20am while your lazy ass was still in bed (be sure to only think that in your head and not actually write it on the post-it note).
  

COCK-A-DOODLE...you know the rest.

My ass is going back to bed.

Early birds are a lonesome breed who rifle through their work in pre-dawn hours with little fanfare. Their efforts slowly depreciate as the hours progress. And by lunchtime, their morning deliverable is a Brontosaurus in the Fed-Ex mentality of Corporate America. There are no kudos from a perception advantage. The late arrivals have that honor. They end up working the same amount of hours but seem to manage a pat on the back for it from superiors with various one-liners:

What are YOU still doing here!

Burning the midnight oil, huh?

So you can't get laid either.

Most of the "late workers" I've seen are playing solitaire or surfing the internet waiting for the gridlock from the evening commute to dissolve. I understand this approach, it's more comfortable to be at your desk than pounding the steering wheel and cursing (before you even started your car). But they should not get extra recognition for it.

There are the rare few who combine hard work and late hours. These are the same individuals that either 1) own the company or 2) would like to think they own the company and don't have a life outside of work. They are the engine of Corporate America and I salute them. I am a piston of Corporate America. A rusted piston. A rusted piston that has been removed from the engine and sold to a scrapyard for pennies. It's nice not to struggle through life knowing where you belong. This scrapyard feels like home.

Living in the scrapyard, my whereabouts are of little concern to the greased up gears of the company. This leaves me in an envious position. I can combine the best of both worlds and arrive late and leave early.

Time flies when you work 5 hours a day, it's 4pm...quitting time.

My Paternity Leave is Petarded

I called my HR representative to inquire about our paternity leave policy since my wife is expecting in late September. Fortunately, my current employer does have a paternity leave policy which is spelled V.A.C.A.T.I.O.N.

When my first child was born I was with a different employer and they granted me two weeks of paternity leave. I was able to successfully fulfill my rookie fatherly duties which consisted of cleaning up puke, changing diapers at the pace of a Flint Michigan auto worker, and walking around like an extra in Dawn of the Dead.

In a minute honey, just resting my eyes.

Little did I know I was actually spoiled by my previous employer. The use of my current vacation is important to note since its accrual has the shelf life of Kajagoogoo. Once I have a full eight hours saved, the muscle memory in my hand grabs my mouse and begins searching three-day weekend destinations on Orbitz.

Of course I was upset at the response from the HR rep. It's hard to live without something once you've had it, kinda' like heroin. My initial reaction was to reprimand her for the poor policy. I'm supposed to use my vacation to take care of my newborn. Then I thought to myself, that actually sounds reasonable. So instead I yelled at her for not properly addressing me as "Magnum", then I hung up. That's right, trump card.

So my curiousity actually served as a catalyst to do research. I originally thought the Family Medical Leave Act involved taking the whole clan to the hospital and pretending to be ill. Turns out I was close, it was a high profile bill signed by President Clinton in 1993. Based on Wikipedia's description:

The law recognizes the growing needs of balancing family and work obligations and promises numerous protections to workers. The leave guaranteed by the act is unpaid....blahbitty blah blah blah.

Ugh, the word "unpaid" in the first paragraph like a slap in the face. So this leaves me with three options 1) Use up every ounce of my vacation for paternity leave or 2) leave without pay or 3) quit my job, get paid out for my remaining vacation and head to Vegas for all or nothing on 13 black.

I'll need to sleep on this one.

Hating Our Rating

Every summer each employee in the company has to complete a Mid-Year Performance Review. This document compiles work related year-to-date accomplishments. After putting time and effort into the review, it is skimmed over by a respective manager, signed off on, and filed away with zero correlation to a raise or bonus.

Mid-year raises do happen but they are rare. If you are able to perform DNA sequencing while splitting atoms and solve the crisis in the Middle East (within the same six months) then you are eligible. At this point, your accomplishments are reviewed by the upper-echelon of the company and then filed away with zero correlation to a raise or bonus.

The real purpose of the review process is to ensure that your manager knows your still alive. Also, it helps you remember your accomplishments for the yearly review which has the same raise and bonus structure as the mid-year review. Not only is the mid-year process unnecessary, it's also ambiguous. Advice from superiors on writing the review ranges from, "Don't spend too much time on it" to "It's your accomplishments, make sure you spend some time on it". Clear as mud, wrapped in mud, deep-fried in mud. Surprisingly, I have little to write about for the past six months due to the fact that my job can be completed by a monkey in diapers.

I've had it with these performance reviews,
and my non-absorbent diapers.

Now it's time for self-reflection at the past six months. Pretty impressive stuff, I have managed to stay awake for almost every working day, shown up to work sober on Mondays and Tuesdays, and not scratch my car in the parking garage. Time to pat myself on the back. Here are some other expectations that I was able to meet and often exceed:

• Process improvement through technology. Through the use of data filters and several macros in Microsoft Excel, I was able to create a menu of area restaurants. Now with the click of a button I can search by price, cuisine, and mileage from the office. This has drastically reduced the amount of time my co-workers and I discuss where to eat for lunch.
• Ramp-up coding skills. Through the use of coding I created a random number generator. This random number generator is restricted to a range that is equal to the number of co-workers I go out to lunch with. Each number within the range corresponds to a specific co-worker. The number that is randomly chosen by my code decides which co-worker will drive to lunch.
• Enhance communication skills with the client. The client has relied less on my manager and more on me over the past six months. Due to this level of trust I have been able to communicate my priorities to them. Through effective communication, they understand that I am not to be disturbed from 11:45 to approximately 2:00pm. This time has been set aside to run my macro to decide where I am going to eat lunch, the random number generator to determine who will drive, and my actual lunch hour.

Wow, what a difference six months make. That's one of the wonderful components of my job. No matter how well you perform, you can always do better and strive for the next level. And my superiors have always been kind enough to remind me of this even when I perform outside the scope of my regular responsibilities. Here are some of the expected levels that I must perform at to reach the next stage of my career

• Synthesize findings. Sounds great if I knew what it was. Last time I synthesized anything was on my circa 1984 Casio keyboard trying to learn the Axel Foley theme from Beverly Hills Cop.
• Contribution alignment with client. A euphemism for "shutup and do what the client says".
• Actions with purpose. Prior to learning this, I was running around the office with just my boxers screaming, "the hurricane is near, everyone duck". A co-worker was kind enough to tell me that my actions had no purpose. With her advice, I've drastically reduced this action to only one time per week.

Job well done!

Do I get a raise?

No, but I'll continue shaking
your hand with a blank stare.

Enough of my complaining. It's time to get to the next level and be the difference! But first, I need to tell everyone that a hurricane is coming. Off with the pants and shirt. Maybe I'll even try commando this time.

Need the Microwave? Take a Number.

The perfect storm for bringing in a frozen dinner for lunch occurs about once every three weeks for me. The storm involves two key elements 1) I'm low on time in the morning and 2) payday is too far away for another unnecessary ATM fee. This combination forces me to dislocate my shoulder and reach into another dimension of my freezer to pull out a frozen dinner that is from circa 1997. Cool, this one has Andre Agassi on the back showing off his long hair, wonder what ever happened to him? Oh well, here today, gone tomorrow.

I'm dreading my frozen meal not only because of the lack of taste and third world serving size but also because I'll have to fight the inevitable microwave line at high noon. The microwave per employee ratio on our floor is approximately 1:758 which leads to a packed pantry that is the square footage of a kitchen island. Just thinking about avoiding this scenario accelerates my hunger pangs so I head to the pantry. I know there's a five-minute window before the line of hyenas start forming to microwave their zebra meat.

Today I'm prepared. My body and my frozen dinner are promptly facing the microwave at 11:50. I position myself in front of the microwave in a manner that resembles Shaq fending off Duncan for a rebound. I get a concerned glance from the first hyena entering the kitchen. She tries to feign lack of comprehension but she knows she'd be doing the same thing if the roles were reversed. That's right, I'm boxing you out bitch along with the rest of your carnivorous clan.

My lunch has successfully completed the unfreezing process and I can't help but smile at the mad rush I have so calculatingly avoided. The next time this place will be empty is 2pm. The line quickly forms and the late-comers are forced to either completely ignore each other or engage in painfully polite conversation. The ones who choose to ignore, tap their toes and stare at the T-minus countdown on the microwave timer. Others ask, "what do you have?" followed by a dissertation on the recipe, its ingredients, and how it has been passed down from generation to generation. Really? You are doing it such an honor by placing it in the microwave.

The next hyena in line has to microwave...a sandwich. No, it's not a homemade sandwich. It's a pre-made sandwich specifically designed for microwave use. I can understand not having time to make a sandwich in the morning but at least go to the deli during lunch instead of showing up with that. Those lunches should be renamed to "I F*cking Give Up." The dark stripes on the bread did not come from a Wolfgang Puck panini sandwich press, they're more likely to be pumpernickel flavored magic marker.

And then there is the motherlode, the employee who pops in a frozen pot-pie that takes 10 full minutes to microwave. Anything that needs to stay in the microwave longer than it takes most humans to run a mile is not a food product, it is a chemical reaction. Something heating up this long leads to the "ooh, that's hot" comment.

When you have something cooking in a conventional oven at 450 degrees for 15 minutes, common sense tells you that it’s hot. You put on oven-mitts and remove the meal. Somewhere along the heating evolution chain, people have forgotten this when it comes to the microwave. We pull items out and drop them on the counter with the comment "ooh, that’s hot!". Really, it is? I wonder if it has anything to do with the ionizing radiation that’s heating your food at a frequency of 2450 MHz inside of one minute. Cavemen didn’t put their hands on a burning log, they knew better. We can’t seem to grasp this concept.

Does microwave radiation make my food hot?

The lengthy cooking process of the plutonium pot pie inevitably produces a line cutter who, growing impatient, waltzes past everyone and tries to fire up the microwave. At this point, all of the hyenas have to grit their teeth and politely tell the alpha female that not only is she out of turn but they will resort to cannibalism if her index finger advances one inch closer to the "Start" button. The alpha female meets their eyes, respects their malignant threat, and slowly backpedals out of the pantry in her Luciano Padovan pumps.

While all these dramatic events occurred, I was able to scarf down my Weight Watchers spaghetti dish that consisted of approximately eight noodles. I'm still starving. Good thing I brought two frozen dinners for lunch. The microwave will be all mine at 2pm.

The Benefits of Smoking

The smokers in the 9 to 5 world are a dying breed, literally. They used to be in full force during the 70's when they openly smoked in the office during the day and wife-swapped at night. The 80's and a litany of data against the tobacco companies forced them outside the office building to get their fix while debating the importance of “St. Elmo’s Fire”. The 90's brought the next round of analysis against tobacco use and finally reduced smokers to areas the size of hamster cages in the bowels of underground parking where they discussed the demise of pets.com.

The facts against smoking are astounding. It is an originating point of numerous health problems; lung disease, emphysema, chronic obstructive pulmonary disease, and gonorrhea to name a few. Without any research on my behalf I have been able to estimate that smokers are unhealthy and cost employers billions of dollars a year in health benefits. But those are just minor details. The yellow-toothed truth is that smokers have a secret they don't want to share with us second-handers. And I think I figured it out.

The trick is realizing that being 55 and retired is a dream for many workers but tobacco can make it a reality. Sure, smoking takes an estimated six years off your lifespan but who wants to live until you're being fed through a straw (unless that straw has Bombay Sapphire Gin flowing through it). With a shorter lifespan you retire earlier. It’s time we inhaled the aroma of Class A Cigarette happiness. Remember that lake house you’ve been dreaming about? Take a puff, now it’s closer. The cross-country motorcycle tour? Take a puff, you can see it now. Each cigarette will chisel away your working years and put that retirement date within reach.

Back off! I'll be on the conference call in 5 minutes.

Not only does smoking lessen your career but it shortens your day. Fact is, smokers don't work as many hours as their non-smoking counterparts. Four cigarette breaks per day reduces the eight hour workday to seven and a half hours. Toking a fleeting high off of a death stick in a concrete basement seems like a nice alternative to pretending to work. Fight back by smoking. Job's a drag? Take a drag. The hidden bonus is tapping into a new social network by bonding with other smokers who have been ostracized because of their habit. Chances are they will be suspicious of your initial visit to the smoking area but a simple icebreaker will win them over, “Hey, I have an addictive personality and I’m too weak to kick a nicotine habit, plus I wet my bed until I was 27”. Trust me, they’ll be putty in your hands.

The benefits of smoking don’t stop once your smoke break is over because the nicotine is racing like the Baja 1000 through your bloodstream. Now get back to your desk and start plowing through your “to do” list:

• Items for grocery shopping (done)
• Surf youtube.com (je suis fini)
• Assemble pens and pencils by height (check)
• Refill stapler (chickity check)

How productive was that! Thank you nicotine, you’re not so bad after all. Now if you'll excuse me, I have a pack of unfiltered Lucky Strikes with my name written all over it.

Rest Assured

The guy in the bathroom stall next to me was giving birth to a calf this morning. It smelt like burnt egg-salad deep fried in gorgonzola fondue. And it sounded as if the Iron Sheik had him in the Camel Clutch. The cold from the bathroom tile combined with the hot gas exorcising from his body created a weather pattern that caused the barometric pressure to drop. The chance of precipitation in my stall was 40% with a high in the 70's when he was finally done. If a person is capable of emitting such horrific sounds and oppressive odors then I'm not completely comforted by my "safe-t-gard" toilet seatcover. Chances are 100% that someone took the Browns to the SuperBowl on the same toilet seat I was using.

The tissue seat covers always glare back in judgment at eye-level when entering the stall, "you're not going to use me?" No, I'm not. I don't have a degree in epidemiology but a transparent piece of flimsy tissue paper is not going to prevent ringworm. It certainly is not going to protect me from what I heard in the stall next door. We have every right to be paranoid in the corporate bathroom, they are rife with disgusting cooties; lice, herpes, rashes, ringworm, and ebola to name a few. However, the elaborate olympic ceremony of unveiling and administering the seatcover only prevents us from going to the bathroom sooner.

The not so easy-to-dispense seat covers serve as an emotional security blanket for our germaphobic minds. Our conscience has gotten the better of us. We think we're scuzzy bacteria whores if we don't place the flimsy tissue on top of the toilet seat. When in reality we're just whores, forget about the scuzzy bacteria part. The false prophets of paper products speak witchcraft when it comes to seat covers because they will not protect us from the residue of a previous inhabitant's germs. It's time to stop allowing the paper companies to feed off of our fears.

Take a stand and protest. Or in this case, take a half squat. If you're too scared to slap your bare skin against the white enamel finish then hover over it like Luke Skywalker with his landspeeder in park and fill the pond with some boneless brown trout. Trust me, no one is looking and no one is judging. I'm the only one being judged at this point and I'm O.K. with that. But wash your hands with Howard Hughes-like vigor before you leave that bathroom and keep a paper towel in your hand when you use the door to exit. Those doorknobs are filthy.

Cocky in my Khakis

I'm not very passionate about my job and my wardrobe reflects this lack of career enthusiasm. Lately my apathetic sense of fashion has transformed into unintentional rebellion. I recently passed by an EVP in the hall and his gaze drifted towards my khakis. His eyes locked on the conspicuously frayed hems at the bottom of my pants which were hanging like tassles from a Bon Jovi concert t-shirt. His eyes said it all, "clean up your act son". Like a parent being dissappointed in you instead of being angry. Just the worst.

After this encounter I knew I had pushed the envelope of business casual to got no business being that casual. It was time for my five year clothing outing. Shopping for work clothes is a costly nuisance. I'm a t-shirts and jeans man but our office maintains a business casual policy. Occassionaly we're allowed to wear jeans to work but it's only if you cough up money to support an obscure cause. Last time we wore denim was to save the flying tree frogs in Bacabal. It's nice to know I had a little something to do with that.

Before my clothing expedition, I sadly departed with my previous "dress pants". The frayed ones were the first to go. Next, a pair with the faded imprint of my bulging wallet on the back pocket. Next, a pair that had a rip near my upper-hip area revealing my tighty whities. Finally, a pair that were obscenely tight with my refusal to believe my waist had expanded another inch. Farewell pants, we had some good times together sleeping in my cubicle, may The Salvation Army have the guts to throw you away.

Time to head to the store with the cheapest khakis coupled with a waspy environment, The Gap. The hardwood floors, the bleached lighting and the bleached employees always give me a leery feeling. But for $23 for a pair of khakis I'll overlook the casting call for "Boys from Brazil". Since I'm starting with a clean slate I have to buy at least one pair for each day of the work week. Three stressfree relaxed fit flat front khakis in three different colors; black, stone, and khaki. And to show that I mean business I'll throw in two dress pants. One hundred twenty nine dollars and twenty minutes later, I'm done, and completely set for half a decade from the waist down.

After placing all of my new slacks in the washer and dryer(even the dress ones), I tried everything on again. All a perfect fit, I felt like a new man. Actually I felt like the same man with a new pair of pants. Things are going to be different in the office now. Look at my trousers, listen to my words, I'm meant to be taken seriously. If you don't think I'm essential to the future of this company then may I remind you to look at my pants. That's right, they're $23 a pair, kneel before Zod.

I walked briskly down the hall with a purpose this time, the EVP once again on the opposite end of the hallway with the same gait. You and me, we're the same amigo. That's right, new pants. He sent another gaze towards my shoes and once again screamed, "clean up your act son". I stared down in horror. My black Kenneth Cole shoes that cost more than all my pants combined had a white streak on both of them from those offsite storage boxes that I keep meaning to send...offsite. Looks like I'm going shopping again. This time to purchase a black Sharpie.

Post Vacation Depression Disorder

I'm back from my 4th of July vacation and some of my predictions were correct. The Big Dog outlet store had the gravitational pull of Jupiter for white people over 300 pounds and the beaches were ridiculously crowded. One unexpected event was witnessing Guatemalapalooza when forty Latinos set up a compound next to me on the beach which included four tents, three tables, fifteen chairs, five blankets, and a partridge in a pear tree. You haven't lived until you've heard Gloria Gaynor's "I will survive" sung by a man en Espanol. And you know what, I had a great time because I wasn't at work.

Making the drive home today I began to suffer from Post Vacation Depression Disorder (PVDD). This disorder is often referred to as "F*ck, I have to go to work tomorrow" and affects a large majority of the American workforce.

Symptoms include:

• Heavy sighing
• Temptations to liquidate 401K
• Feelings of worthlessness
• Yelling "F*ck, I have to go to work tomorrow"
• Uncontrollable flatulence.

If you begin to experience any of these symptoms towards the end of your vacation and/or on Sunday evenings please begin looking for a new job immediately. This will not cure PVDD but it will surpress your symptoms for approximately six months. Never underestimate the power of denial and never underestimate your weakness to use it. Once you find a new job, the symptoms will resurface with a vengeance whereby you start over. Wash, rinse, repeat. Now if you'll excuse me, I have to post my resume.

Out of the Office

I'm heading to the beach for the 4th of July holiday to get it away from it all. And by 'getting away from it all' I mean entering the seventh circle of hell. Traffic and the beach are as enjoyable as listening to Yoko Ono Unplugged.

I'm hanging with my wife, my son, and my wife's family which will be great. Seriously, I'm cool with them. But there are things completely out of their control which we'll all have to endure on an east coast beach that's the width of my driveway:

• Fighting for a spot on the beach that would barely fit Karen Carpenter only to have every toe-headed toddler run by you kicking up sand followed by a parent running by you kicking up sand yelling at their kids to stop running by you and kicking up sand.
• Dealing with more birds than Jessica Tandy did in "The Birds". The seagulls have an endless supply of feces to pummel you into submission. Only choice is to run for cover and abandon your curly fries in the sand for them to devour. Savages.
• Seeing older men and women in bathing suits that appear to have been purchased for their five year old grandchildren. Their clothes have pulled a Freaky Friday but the bodies forgot to go with them.
• Shopping at the outlet malls to fully witness the super-sizing of America and wonder if there is an actual whiskey tango weight quota to shop at "Big Dog". Big Dog, you slay me with your overdesigned fashion. Put some more paragraphs on the backs of your t-shirts in five different fonts. That's so funny.

Besides that, it should be pretty fun. Enjoy the 4th and check back into Bunkum Junction on July 6th.

The Fax of Life

I fulfilled my quarterly quota of fax machine usage today. After wiping the blood from my ears from hearing the analog transmission go through I was confused as to how fax machines still exist. They were a common office item starting in the mid-1980’s and have elevated to a spot on the corporate business card. However, the fax machine should be obsolete since email eclipses all of its purposes. Despite this incontrovertible evidence, these machines won’t die and still have a strong enough following to exist, just like Cher.

Today is a perfect example of why I had to reluctantly use the facsimile. The business mind of my client is about as dated as the fax machine itself. The client does not like to use "track changes" in Microsoft Word because they are "too unclear". However, they do like to proofread and edit Word documents using a printout and then send a fax of that edited document. Our toner has diarrhea which places vertical skidmarks down each faxed page. It's like trying to read hieroglyphics off of a tractor trailer's mudflaps. To me, this defines "too unclear".

I tried deciphering the pages character by character using my original document as the map and decoder. Unfortunately, my efforts failed and I had to inevitably call the client who instructed me to "look into" the poor resolution my fax machine emits. Sure, I'll write that down next to my other priority labeled, "drive nails in feet". At the very least, they could jump into the mid-1990's and scan the document into a pdf file then send it via email.

This brings me to my ultimatum. Next time, I'm not budging, no more faxes. I will force the client to adopt more recent technology. If they insist on sending it via fax, then the fax machine will either be broke because it works and I'm lying about it or because I accidentally spilled my Double Big Gulp on it. I refuse to use that outdated piece of plastic that takes up more real estate than Rosie O'Donnell's lunchbox only to create a barely legible image that transmits one page every five minutes. Now if you'll excuse me, I have a purchase to make at 7-11.

Elevator Etiquette

My office is 12 stories tall and has six elevators that service every floor. For a significant amount of the working day, this is a sufficient capacity to accomodate the number of people in the building. When you arrive before 8:45 in the morning, you never have to wait more than 10 seconds for a spacious elevator to welcome you. And it's great service; want me to hold the elevator, no problem, got all the time in the world, I'm early. No stopping in the lobby or hitting another level of the parking garage. A personal expressway to your cubicle. Sounds like such a trivial moment to enjoy. But I'd rather roll around in broken glass than arrive late.

Once you start hitting the peak of the rush hour bell curve, the options for parking and the borders of your personal space dwindle at an incredible rate. You plummet into the depths of the garage where the flourescent lights flicker, exposing the petri-dish puddles. I saw Gollum down there the other day. He kept asking me to help him look for his "precious". Sorry Gollum, I'm f*ckin' late.

At this point, things are more screwed up than Neverland Ranch. The elevators purposely disregard the lower-levels of the parking garage for the 9:00am-9:15am arrivals. The C-level executives collude with the building engineers to punish late arrivals even though the early risers get no props. I have the emails to prove it but I just can't risk the safety of my family. The dwindling number of available elevators is inversely proportional to the explosion of employee arrivals. This chaotic combination destroys the common decencies we enjoy in our everyday lives. The very moral fiber and structure of our society begin to crumble.

The collapse of common courtesy takes shape through body language which appears harmless on the surface but speaks volumes of its true intent. Everyone begins to position themselves for what they believe will be the next elevator. Small groups form and cluster near different doors, all of which are closed. Chips on a roullette table. Six elevators and six possibilities of which one will open next. You've been waiting five minutes, I don't care. You were the first one here, I don't care. You're our CEO, I don't care. It's survival of the luckiest to see who picks the right one. Let's spin the wheel!

"Ding", a light above one of the elevators comes to life and an organized riot ensues. Everyone starts pushing themselves into position and the scene resembles a Tokyo subway. As always, I'm caught right in the middle. If you can't beat 'em, join 'em. After pummeling an Amish guy in the face with a cane I stole from a geriatric admin assistant I am safely on board the corporate vessel. Once the dust has settled, there are two worlds staring at each other; the ones who picked the right elevator and the ones in a galaxy four footsteps away, still waiting in the elevator lobby. I'm staring back at the poor souls who fortune did not favor. I've been on both sides of the coin my friend, I feel your pain. Now get your foot out of the way before I have to use my stolen cane again. Ready to breathe a sigh of relief I realize I'm right by the panel. I'm the unofficial elevator operator. Way too much responsibility.

"Floor six please", "Seven", "Twelve", "Lobby", "Mezzanine". Everyone slow down! I'm tempted to light up all the floors just to shut everyone up. First things first, hit the "close door" button I tell myself. Too late, a silver-haired gentleman jams himself into the elevator with luggage that's older than he is. He gives a forced smile to everyone on board in a feeble attempt to relate. His smile is met with sneers of disgust. The elevator gallery gives a collective groan at my slug-like reflexes. Everyone knows this guy shouldn't have made it. I hope no one on board is a fire marshal because we're definitely at maximum density. "Packed like lemmings in shiny metal boxes, contestants in a suicidal race". Ready to hit the button for takeoff, my eyes accidentally lock with a scared girl on the other side of the elevator tracks. So young, so green.

There potentially is one spot left if you're the size of Calista Flockhart on the last season of Ally McBeal. I begin to receive mixed messages from the girl. Her head and feet twitch with indecision. My pupils scream, "Go for it". I don't want to be the one responsible for holding the "Open Door" button because some neophyte doesn't know the rules of rush hour survival. I can't shirk my duties again or I'll have a mutiny on my hands. Do I give her the school of hard knocks or a get out of jail free card? She twitches again, it's borderline OCD. School of hard knocks Ms. Greenyoung. I'm a nice guy, but at this moment I can't afford to be. The elevator door shuts and the silent approval from my fellow elevatorpool is deafening. "One of us, one of us, one of us."