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."

Buy CTXE now, it's hot!

I've been inundated with junk email in addition to the junk email that is my work email. Somehow my company is unable to siphon through the hot stock tips on penis enlargement and give me the genuine work emails that I detest. And we're not just talking about a few, it's as if the National Association of Spammers emerged fully energized from a Tony Robbins seminar. A blitzkrieg of impressively misspelled emails with subject lines such as "Lower Home Payment bye 30 purcent", "HiRollerKasino", "Fawlen low on dough?" and of course, "That report was due yesterday, come see me in my office".

All these emails give me an Arsenio Hall "hmmm" moment, does Spam actually work? Internet service providers hate it, it costs businesses time, and rips grown men away from their porn. Despite these negative impacts it keeps coming like another season of Friends. The fact is it's a numbers game. The hit rate might be 1% but if you email 100,000 people that's like, you know...alot of people.

What is the collective IQ of people responding to Spam? These people must be in the same demographics as those dialing up at 2am to talk to a psychic, sex phone line, or to buy something on QVC. Maybe not the sex phone line people, I'm told they're misunderstood and really nice people if you don't judge and give them a chance.

As for the latest stock Spam, Cantex EnergyCorp (CTXE), it had a volatile day today. Opened at .45 and closed at .44, cue "Rollercoaster" by the Ohio Players. That's shortsighted of me, let's look at its 52 week range. Oh wait, it doesn't have one. According to their website, "natural gas show well within the 2D swath imaging area to image, drill and discover trillion cubic foot (TCF)-potential natural gas". Talk about a slam dunk explanation to buy buy buy. You're going to argue with that?

I'm actually glad the six-figure salary system geeks in our company don't have time to filter Spam from my email. I'm going make my company pay dearly for their mistake by buying an obscene amount of CTXE shares, watching the stock price skyrocket, then dumping my shares at just the right time when it peaks. And dumping my current job with it. That's right, who's going to take the time to change the copier toner now? Don't f*ck with me, fools.

CONFERENCE CALL!

Using the phone seems pretty easy. An enduser picks it up if it is ringing, says hello and converses with person(s) on the other end of the line, then hangs up. Or pulls up their pants and then hangs up, whichever they prefer. Unfortunately, there is a minority of workers in my office building (who tend to be at a higher pay grade) that use speakerphone for all circumstances. These are the same individuals idiotic enough to associate it with a sense of power.

I understand there is a certain time and place for a speakerphone (e.g., multi-tasking while listening, being an actual presenter on the call, posting a resume on Monster.com). However, there are more common and less legitimate reasons that I witness when a speakerphone is in use (e.g., kicking feet up onto a desk and clasping both hands behind head, flicking pencils into a cup, masturbating).

I'm not sure I understand the difficulty in putting the phone to your ear and keeping the business conversation private. I certainly don't need to learn someone else's acronyms, deadlines, and priorities. And why do people feel it's necessary to speak at a volume used only in mosh pits. Nothing captures this scenario better than what I actually experienced today. A fellow co-worker with an office decided to leave the door open for the beginning of the conference call. Multiple beeps in quick succession, each beep representing a person joining the conference call.

"Is everybody on? (beep) Sounds like someone else joined. (beep) That everyone?(pause) (beep) Anyone else? (pause) (beep, beep). OK, my office door is still open (beep). Sounds like we got one more."

The door shuts but somehow the volume level increases to compensate for the closure.

"OK, LET'S GET STARTED!"

Now there's an echo because the person in the office next door has logged into the same conference call and also has decided to use a speakerphone. I can understand the reluctance to sit together on the same call. The office is an excruciating two yards away and there's also that cumbersome HP LaserJet 8100 to walk around, that adds about another yard to the excursion.

"THAT'S A GOOD POINT point point."

Oh goodness, now the person's voice is echoing through both doors and reverberating in my cubicle. Acoustically, I feel like Moses listening to God on Mt. Sinai except this God says "robust" alot and uses more acronyms than a Pentagon employee.

"ANY QUESTIONS questions questions?"

Mental note to self, find out their conference call number, dial-in, and wreak havoc on their next meeting. Ideas such as:

• Call from an animal shelter.

"RUFF RUFF, meow, RUFF!"

"Can you please mute your phone."

"RUFF meow RUFF!"

"Please, will everyone mute their phones."

"RUFF meow RUFF RUFF HEE-HAWW!"

• Consistently dial in and hang-up so listeners are bombarded with beeping noises

"Did someone just log on?"

"Did someone just log off?"

"Did someone just log on?"

• Have a choking episode

"Who is that?"

"Oh dear God!"

"Could you please mute your phone."

• Implement a laugh track every time the word "robust" is used.

I wouldn't resort to such impish measures if co-workers had the common courtesy to use their receiver the way it was engineered. Now if you'll excuse me, my phone is ringing, and I need to physically pick it up and place it against my ear.

When I win the lottery

Once Powerball starts flirting with 100+ million, workers in Virginia make a lunchtime exodus to Washington, D.C. to buy their tickets. Because anything less than three digits before the word "million" just isn't worth the effort. When nobody wins and the jackpot increases in astronomical increments then the main topic at the water cooler becomes, "If I won the lottery". The subject matter makes for good conversation because it allows us to dream beyond our balsa wood office walls and also learn how others less deserving than ourselves would spend it. Some would strive to make the world a better place, others would make life easier for their families, and others would pay disgusting amounts of money for really high class whores.

The lottery teaches us very important lessons about winning, excess, and mortgaging your house on Powerball tickets in hopes of living the American Dream. If you think your life wouldn't change because of winning then you are either; filthy rich already, just heard from your doctor that you have 12 hours to live, or believe O.J. Simpson is innocent. Millions of dollars will change you, trust me, I want to know. I overheard a lottery discussion the other day while sleeping at my desk and I thought this would be a fun exercise to really delve into the details. I've always talked about it on the surface but never obsessed about it. I think obsession for this topic is important, especially since I plan on winning the lottery. A man has to have goals in life.

So let's say I won. First things first, how would I quit my job? For the overwhelming majority of Americans who work there's always that sense of worry upon quitting; bridging the financial gap between jobs, getting vacation paid out, or double checking the corporate 401k for a vested status. Imagine no financial burden upon resignation, how would you quit? So many options and so little time. There's the option of making a huge scene during peak work hours. Get everyone's attention with a bullhorn, air your grievances, then politely drop your pants and urinate on your laptop while it's plugged in so everyone can see it short circuit. O.K., that's a little too aggressive and involves an inevitable lawsuit. The last person you want to give your money to is the company you work for. Plus people might be laughing for unintended reasons when you drop your pants.

There is a super stealth mode that yields greater satisfaction. The object is to treat the day you are quitting no different than any other day except for the fact that you now have an offensive amount of money in your bank account. Come into work, turn on the office lights, fire up the laptop, and grab your coffee. Be sure to answer emails and drop a few phone calls to let everyone know you are around. When the clock strikes noon, tell all your co-workers that you have to "run an errand". Promptly throw on your jacket, walk out the door, change your home number, change your cell number, and never talk to another co-worker again for the rest of your life. Leave them all guessing. I take so much pleasure in the thought of doing this. I know, I'm sick. It's hard to type in a straight-jacket using only your nose to hit the keypad.

Shewww...quitting was fun, now I have the rest of my life. Based on projections from life-insurance actuaries I have approximately 45 years left in me. Here's my list in no particular order:

• Learn Italian
• Learn Spanish
• Learn Japanese
• Hit all 50 states in a cross-country trip with my golf clubs
• Join a country club
• Take piano lessons
• Take saxophone lessons
• Take golf lessons
• Take boxing lessons
• Become a black belt in Jeet Kune Do
• Attend the Superbowl every year
• Attend the Final 4 every year
• Attend the Masters every other year
• Go camping in Alaska
• Get into insane shape, run a sub 5 minute mile
• Write a book
• Write a screenplay
• Go to film school
• Make a documentary
• Make a short-film
• Try a stint as a late night D.J.
• Create my own cable access show
• Buy a lake house, give all immediate family members a key
• Buy a beach house, give all immediate family members a key
• Start a foundation to help consumers battle debt
• Give an obscene amount of money to my high school
• Give a little bit of money to my college
• Become a venture capitalist for my friends and family

I came up with that list in ten minutes. I realize several things bullet pointed above cost little to no money. But unfortunately time is money and that's what having alot of money can give you, the luxury of doing the things you want without worrying about the time it takes to do them. I have been babbling so long I almost forgot to go buy my ticket. See you later, keep your fingers crossed.

User ID and Password Please

Passwords place quite a demand on our memorization skills, especially if you are a member of Corporate America. The first thing I have to do in the morning when I arrive to my gorgeous government grey non-descript cubicle is log in. First the computer; user id and password. Now it's my phone powered by Cisco Networks; user id and password. Oh wait, I have voicemail, let me check my messages; user id and password. Before I've even had time to sneak in a sip of vodka from my bottom cabinet, I have three user id's and three passwords plugged in. And that's just the beginning.

The number of PINs, passwords, and user id's increase exponentially if you have access to the internet. Yahoo email, Google email, Shutterfly, Clark Photo, Snapfish, online banking, and checking up on the underperforming 401K plan. To add insult to injury, our company has PeopleSoft which has even more "access rights" for end-users; want to forecast vacation...type in your password, want to find out about your W-2's...type in your password, want to use the restroom...type in your password. Not to mention memorizing the non-internet associated ATM PIN and accessing voicemail through home and cell. Hell, I even have a user id and password for creating this blog. Fortunately for me, any hacker would fall asleep at the keyboard while reading my blog before gaining access to it.

I have approximately twenty user id's and passwords on a daily basis. Twenty variations of case-sensitive characters and stand alone numbers just to technologically function throughout the working day. And to make matters worse, the latest craze in keeping websites, cell phones, and computers "hacker safe" is to force the end-user to change passwords after a certain amount of time has transpired from the creation of the previous password. Once the muscle memory in your fingertips becomes accustomed to "Boraxo69GO", it's time to switch it up all over again.

The final kicker is HAL 9000 telling us not to write down passwords. Please memorize them. Domo arigato but no domo arigato Mr. Roboto, I have enough problems trying to remember where I put my keys and wallet, I'm writing my passwords down.