Jerking From Home

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

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.