Talk is cheap and so is the phone

My company is switching from a traditional telephone service to a Unified Communication (UC) solution. For internal communications, the UC solution is all the rage. Easier accessibility and dual connection avenues (i.e., IM and VoIP) can curb or eliminate the need for traditional phone services, email traffic and even travel. The introduction of a UC approach is to reduce the cost of doing business. The idea sounds great. It’s the sound itself that is the problem.

           You know you make me                   I'm sorry,

               want to SHOUT!                     can you repeat that?

 

The transition to the UC has been piecemeal. First: a suggestion. Second: a toothless policy. Third: an administrative rule. Our traditional telephone charges started with scrutiny and have ended with declined expenses. I accept this; change is the constant. But it has been challenging to adopt this latest technical push for integrated voice. I would be an early adopter if the transition was seamless and the product superior. However, this arrangement makes me feel like a beta tester. Our UC solution has a variety of options for connecting with co-workers and I have experienced hiccups with most of them.

Okay! Okay! We'll remove you from the test team.

There are complications before even joining a call. The conference IDs are ten digits long, the same length as a phone number. That is a problem. To avoid confusion between the dial-in number and the conference ID, the UC solution removed the dashes from the conference ID. Still a problem. It may look different but it is harder to memorize.

Dashes displayed within the phone number layout make them easier to read and recall. Human vision can process three and four number groupings more easily and put them to memory. A ten digit number is challenging. Instead of referencing the conference ID to access the call, I find myself looking back and forth, repeating the numbers out loud and then cursing when my access is denied. That denial is a blessing in disguise. A less appealing circumstance is actually entering the call and hearing the Theremin effect.

These vibrations don't feel so good.

You have made it to the call! Time to enter another dimension of auditory distortion created by The Art of Noise - - while on acid. What Ed Wood did for movies, the UC does for sound: voice echoes, bouncing reverb and high-pitched feedback. The conversation ends up being a discord of bings, bongs, beeps and boops that could make Lil Wayne’s grill dance. It doesn’t sound like cost savings to me. It sounds like a vacuum of money flying out the door. The idea of the technology has outpaced its reality. And both are in a forced marriage despite the absence of synchronicity.

This even sounds weird to me

I want to pick up the phone, dial and talk. Does each advance in technology mean we have to adopt it? Philip K. Dick could have easily made the UC solution into a novella. In the interest of cost-cutting and adopting all forms of technologies we sometimes lose sight of the original business purpose. The bigger promise of technology lends it an unwarranted long leash which is rarely reined in. All this progress makes me want to go back to a simpler time, a time when I could dream of my virtual vacation memories on Mars.

Get me off of this call and back on vacation!

Power Pointless

Every presentation behooves a dry run. In theory, dry runs have a legitimate purpose. They are an opportunity to identify glitches, dead air, lack of clarity, or a need to forfeit a message that does not serve the overall theme. In reality, they serve a different purpose. Dry runs are an event for leadership to frustrate and belittle subordinates. No matter the herculean efforts to date, the presentation will be ripped apart before the title page even opens. A presenter must sit and suffer through the corporate hazing. The good news is that the presenter can also have the last laugh.

This presentation is so ugly it could be a modern art masterpiece.

Corporate Joe, you are the lowest form of life on earth!

The opening question: "Okay, what are we talking about again?"
That question is the expected ice breaker from leadership. A euphemism for, “why did you drag me into this shit?” Never mind they asked for the meeting. Getting leadership to enter the atmosphere is a challenge in and of itself. There is thought residue from previous business affairs. Their heads are in a collective fog. Physically, they are present. Mentally, they are trying to calculate a profit margin, latest expense, or number of days until retirement.

Leadership’s attention is also in competition with their mobile devices. The inescapable excuse of “multi-tasking.” The word itself qualifies as an oxymoron. The most common phrase associated with it is in the form of an apology, “Sorry, I was multi-tasking.” If you were successfully multi-tasking, there would be no need for an apology.

This partial absorption of material exacerbates the presentation. It is fuel for the fire of criticism. Leadership is halfway in the conversation and cannot follow the story. This leads to spasmodic starts and stops due to constant interruptions. For the presenter, what felt like jazz while working in a vacuum now feels like a hokey pokey grand-mal seizure in front of leadership. Go back one. Go forward one. Back again. Forward. Back. Forward. That’s what it’s all about.

The mid-point question: "Aren't we running out of time?"
To answer that question, yes, particularly when there are a dozen interruptions by slide 2. Each piece of the presentation has a narrative feeding into the overall story. When properly constructed, the delivery identifies a theme that is satiated throughout. An assault of questions will always kill the theme. We are almost at the 30 minute mark and only on slide 4 of 24. Then leadership wonders why it’s taking so long. Hmm, great question! Maybe our allotted time is slipping due to leadership injecting:

• A six minute impromptu Q&A on the title page’s font size/style.
• A seven minute discussion regarding the agenda.
• An eight minute tirade on the miniscule resemblance of a competitor’s color scheme embedded within a stacked bar chart.
• A two minute meltdown about a buried hyperlink to the Lemon Party.

Okay, so that last bullet point should have been caught. As for the first three, it cost 21 minutes.
 

21 minutes is an eternity. Careers have crumbled in less time.

The closeout question: "When can we see this again?"
The great thing about running out of time is that leadership will always request another meeting. A second version will incorporate their highly suggested modifications. In return, may I highly suggest an effective trick of the trade. This is where subordinates must adopt the peer invite technique. Invite rival peers of the leadership team to the next meeting.

Leaders will always make time to critique others, no matter how tangential the business need. Sit back. The edits of leaders being sent to the slaughter at the hands of other leaders is always fun to watch. At this point, it doesn’t matter what the presentation is about. In fact, you don’t even have to watch. The presentation has elevated to communal criticism amongst superiors. Your participation is no longer needed. Leadership is too busy arguing over the material to pay any attention to you. There is a matinee across the street. It starts in one hour. Slip out the back, Jack. Make a new plan, Stan. You don’t need to be coy, Roy. Just get yourself free.

Just go, Joe.

Zero Net Worth When Networking

My professional network on LinkedIn has a decent amount of contacts but in Tipping Point terms, I would not label myself as a connector. LinkedIn is a world of career contacts, industries, and skill sets. It opens a gateway to people in the know and trending companies. My reluctance to use LinkedIn is a head scratcher. Not only due to lice but also because my own behavior baffles me. Job advancement is available. The power of networking is present. Despite all this, I shy away from being an active player in carving out my own career.

Maybe I am reluctant to use LinkedIn due to profile fear. The application itself is essentially a career dating service. It gives companies and recruiters a marketplace to review and connect with viable candidates for possible employment. It is highly similar to the Tinder app minus the random, drunk sex. There is always concern on how employers will perceive my profile. Some of my connections read as a “Who’s Who.” Whereas mine resembles, “Who the Hell is That?” I am weary of my own pint-sized job title and lack of career progression. On the flip side, I am also skeptical on the amount of success achieved by others. I question the motives of many LinkedIn invites. Do you really want to connect with me or is this a way to rub your job title in my face? In a few cases, the former, in the majority of cases, the latter.

I am on this business card. Otherwise, I am simply not there.

LinkedIn provides an outlet to professionally humblebrag. The true intent of the LinkedIn application is admirable and useful: connect with others in an environment that can showcase your talent and expertise. However, most invitations transpose the primary purpose with the humblebrag. A bait and switch technique to boast career achievements without any concern for new employment. It sends a message to the world that this individual has arrived to the big time…in the form of a paper tiger.

CEO? According to the D&B, the company has 3 employees. When shareholder meetings can be held in a pantry it is at best, “Small Business Owner.” Titles should be in sync with activity. If a candidate has been out of college for less than two years, it’s okay to be an “Analyst”. When I graduated, my title was not “Petroleum Transfer Specialist.” Instead, I was assigned “Pump my gas, dirt bag.” Not ideal, but honest. LinkedIn is a place where you are supposed to show off your skills. But the ante often increases to a level that would make Baron Munchausen blush. Contrived resumes can only live in the fabricated world of LinkedIn. Users unwittingly create a career dead end. Their own job inventions are so grand that it establishes an illusion of them never needing another job in the first place.

I must say, even by my own standards, that story sounds fishy.

I do not mean to insinuate that everyone on LinkedIn is lying. There are some people who are knocking it out of the park. The former teen nerds who are making bank have every right to gloat. More power to them. To the pimpled girl turned Account Executive, you go. To the bookworm boy that made partner, high-five. To the starting QB who banged the Homecoming Queen and threw the game winning touchdown, fuck off, you’re a dick.

Eventually a resume has to back up the job title. This is where the power of LinkedIn does not serve the career con artists well. The resume gains the interview, the interview wins the job. For those who are all sizzle and no steak, that fake job is going to last a long time. Trust me, my alter-ego is CEO of Galaxy Global Industries Corporation, he knows these kind of things.

Fat Ass on Fitbit

The latest emphasis at our company has been individual health and its contribution to corporate wellness. The underlying belief of this approach is that happy and healthy employees contribute to the bottom line. As with anything corporate, there must be metrics on success and failure. In terms of health, it can be measured by a wrist band that counts your steps. The Fitbit craze has kicked it with the crossover to Corporate America. In our company, personal health has translated into competition. What started as personal improvement has mutated into how an employee can beat their fellow colleague.

The idea itself is great. Monitor your own activity and shoot for personal records. An individual can actively audit their exercise levels and determine whether it is increasing, decreasing or maintaining at their own status quo. There are numerous metrics: steps, distance, floors climbed and calories burned. It even monitors your sleep patterns (or lack thereof.) The metrics are gentle reminders to get off the couch. The “Friends” option on the Fitbit setup is what introduces the rub. Tracking one’s own activity is fine. The problem is being coerced into supposed friendly corporate competition. Now my activity is viewable by others. Everyone into the pool, except this pool has sharks and I’m wearing a chum jacket.

Expected appearance based on steps.

All bets are off once overachieving, Type-A executives are introduced. They must excel at everything, and at any cost, including cheating. Fitbit is the perfect storm for them to succeed. It is an electronic dashboard that vindicates their level of exercise without having to directly account for it. When you are an overachieving sycophant executive, fitness is a luxury that few can afford. Exercise requires time and for the exec working 15 hours a day, time is scarce. What to do? There is no room for average. They have to game the system to be on top. This is evident when the total steps of top performers are disproportionate to their physical appearance.

Actual appearance based on Fitbit outsourcing.

Numbers may not lie but body mass definitely tells the truth. The top performers are often in shape…of a pear. Maybe they handed the Fitbit to their spouse and added it to the Honey Do list. Or they placed it under the sweatband of their overachieving child on the travel soccer team. Whatever the modus operandi, it is an obvious lie when comparing measured steps to body type.

Run, Levi, Run! Good dog.

It is hard to grin and bear it. Watching the highest echelon of the company smile at their empty victory while the expanding notches on their belt tell the real story of what transpired. Rather than sit on the sidelines I do my best to actively participate. Not in exercising but in cheating. I outsourced my Fitbit. It is on the collar of an Australian Shepherd named Levi. She works on a farm. Busy girl. Loves to run. She’s pushed me all the way to third place. Good dog.

The War On Talent

The unemployment rate coupled with the overeducated graduates of the world has started an interesting battle. The War on Talent is waged with finding the cream of the crop candidates. It is followed by promising them the moon. The final step is working their exempt ass so much that their hourly rate translates into minimum wage.

The War on Talent is born in the boardroom. Each silver spooned executive pushing their own alma mater. This usually consists of Ivy League and other regionally convenient top tier schools. They delegate the initiative to Talent Managers within the company who schedule the lifecycle of recruiting. It originates with a phone call, escalates to a campus interview, and culminates to an onsite in the lion’s den.

Mortimer, time to find some new candidates.

Soon to be graduates are weeded out in a pre-screening phone interview. This involves some background on the company, providing info on the position itself along with softball questions like, “Can you spell the name of our company” and “Tell me about your experience in retail?” The first question alone weeds out about 90% of the candidates. Think I’m kidding? You try spelling, “Takanami Hashimoto Consulting.”
 
The pruning continues in the form of face to face campus interviews. Personnel already head to their respective campuses and wear the recruiter hat for the trip. It gives them a reason to leave behind their spouses in exchange for young, spry co-eds. It is also a power trip. These same recruiters who were the victims of fraternity pranks now walk the campus in a power suit. And those same fraternities will be groveling at their feet for a job. The candidates need approval from the recruiters in order to proceed to the promise land.
 
The recruiters go through a marathon of interviews with all available candidates. They gather their notes and then decide who makes the first cut. For those candidates who showed up late, were chewing gum, or smelled like the inside of a bong: bye-bye. Easy decisions for the recruiters and also a way for them to score weed.  The next tier is filled with candidates that everyone liked or had strong references but whose accomplishments were related to how long they were able to stay away from home without crying. Good, not good enough: bye-bye. And then there are the A-listers: candidates who happen to be doing real work in college, have a solid internal recommendation, and shine in the interview. Polished and seasoned like a second chair in the National Symphony. The promise land, almost there.
 
The respective company pulls out all the stops for the on-site. The candidates are possibly entering their new home. They are being taken off their campus and placed in the lion’s den. No expense spared: boardroom is reserved, catering is provided, and the bathrooms are finally cleaned. Each candidate enters with wide eyes channeling the same uncertainty as a newborn trying to walk. It’s really happening. The last set of interviews is the final cut. The pruning hedges have turned into a machete. A one shot tryout where the slightest gesture, mannerism or word could put you in the outbox.

 

Yes, I'm here for the interview.

It’s a grind: detailed questions requiring detailed answers. Questions that prod at different angles involving behavior based traits, analytical capabilities, creative outlets and your favorite white-collar criminal. No one cares what the candidate has done at this point. It’s what can they do and how they will do it.

And if the candidate makes it through that final hoop, they are hired. Congratulations, you can now change the world. But first, let’s change the toner.

Jerk It Out

In 2007, McKinsey & Company released an article about jerks in the office *. If you don’t have Jerkdar and end up working with one, you have a problem. For those of us fortunate to have solid bosses we owe it to our colleagues to get rid of the jerks.

The best jerks in the business have a cancerous effect. The correlation of their venomous traits is a direct causation to the dysfunction of a team, department, or entire company. People focus less on the work and more on covering their own ass.

So, how do you get rid of a jerk once they have been hired? This is where the McKinsey article falls short. It offers Pollyanna explanations. The reality is firing anyone is difficult, no matter how egregious their behavior. Due diligence, a strong case, and a blessing from General Counsel are needed to proceed with an exit plan. A complicated and often expensive task. Cheap and quick is the better way to go.

I'm an idea man, Chuck.

• Take the Jerk to happy hour. Get 'em drunk. Super glue a gun to their hand and then push them into a police station. “Drop the gun, drop the gun!” The Jerk uselessly tries to shake the gun out of their hand. The police misinterpret the histrionics as aggressive behavior. Gunfire. The Jerk will be eating more lead than a junkyard compactor.

• Contact a casting agent in your area. Scour through all of the actor profiles and find one who is similar or identical in appearance to the jerk at your office. Bring the actor/impostor to the next big work function of 70+ people. Have the actor drop key lines and questions to high-level individuals, “What is the age for statutory rape?”, "It's nice to see you weren't discriminated against because of obesity.”, “Where’s the shitter?”

• A strike to the knee with a crowbar.

(murmuring through breath) You're going down, bitch.

O.K., so that last one isn’t very creative, but it works. And trust me, you will gain immediate clout with your colleagues by implementing any of the effective methods above. Once you get rid of the jerk, you can get to the actual work that needs to be completed.

* The article was adapted from a book by Robert Sutton, professor of management science and engineering at Stanford University. The book is titled, “The No Asshole Rule: Building a Civilized Workplace and Surviving One That Isn’t”. Link is below.

http://www.washburn.edu/faculty/rweigand/McKinsey/McKinsey-Building-The-Civilized-Workplace.pdf

Call Waiting, and waiting, and waiting....

Our client is habitually 15 minutes late to conference calls. (Numerous conference calls) x (numerous people) x (high hourly rates) = a dizzying amount of waste.

C'mon, I really have to pee.

This week we had a 2:00PM call scheduled for one hour to talk about a training presentation:

2:00 – All contractors dial in. An orchestra of "BEEP-BOOP"s. Approximately 12 people on the line. We are not allowed to speak with each other as directed by the client. Silence for 15 minutes.

2:15 – Client logs in to indicate that another meeting is in progress. “Please hold”. Silence for 15 minutes. "Hello darkness my old friend, I've come to talk with you again..."

2:30 – The half-hour tipping point. Contractors start dropping faster than Kate Gosselin’s bank account. A cacophony of “BEEP-BOOP”s. The mono sound should be identical as joining the call but instead it expresses a hint of frustration. Yes, I’m dumb enough to stay on. 15 minutes of self-inflicted silence. "In restless dreams I walked alone, narrow streets of cobblestone..."

2:45 – The client logs in asking where everyone is. Really? A five-minute discussion to explain that nothing happened on the conference call and no one talked to each other.

2:50 – The client explains how they want to save money on training. In order to alleviate costs, they do not want to implement an operator-assisted call. Projected savings, $500. Great idea. But you probably could save money by....nevermind.

2:55 – Schedule a time for the following week. Top agenda item is to further discuss penny-wise pound-foolish cost savings for training.

Hello? Was that a BEEP or a BOOP. Hello!

Oh well. Hang up and get ready for the 3:00PM call.

Jock-Blocking My Fantasy

The Internet destination you have requested, Yahoo Fantasy Football, has been blocked in conformance with company policy. A record has been made of this particular event. Specifically, your attempted trade transaction. Aaron Rodgers for Andre Johnson? Yes, Johnson is a beast but your backup quarterback is Jason Campbell. C.J., if your commissioner, “Fat Jesus” didn’t bitch slap you yet, we’ll send someone from IT to do it.

Even I wouldn't make that trade.

The Company reserves the right to monitor your activities. Especially after trying to re-enact the Jonestown massacre on your roster. Are you trying to dump your team and pump up someone else’s? I know, “Say You, Say Me, Seau” needs help but you don’t have to hand him the keys to the castle. Wheel and deal! Thank goodness we blocked the site. With that short bus move I’m surprised you even know how to operate a mouse. You should rename your team, “Enron”.

A violation of this policy may be reported to government authorities if necessary. But after reviewing how many points you left on the bench this week the Company will pass. You sat Rashard Mendenhall against San Diego’s porous run defense? Attention dumb ass, Willie Parker has turf toe. In order to protect the Company, your activity won’t be reported to the government. We don’t want them to know your I.Q. is equal to Paris Hilton’s Chihuahua.

You left Rashard on the bench, C.J.?

Violation could result in termination but IT is taking over your team instead. This is for your own good. Do you want to be a cellar dweller? We are going to leverage your stable of running backs to command a high caliber receiver. “Tequilaman Chokehold” is desperate for a running game. That’s the first door we’re knocking on. Next, dropping the Tennesse D. Time to let it go

Now get back to your regular work. Something tells me you’ll be fired for that anyways

Thanks for Nothing

I think it is important to acknowledge every day accomplishments of those we work with. Whether it be your boss, colleague, or nearby cube mate, recognition is essential to self esteem, regardless of pay grade. Keeping this in mind, make it a point today to tip your hat to those who impact your 9 to 5 life. I know I am going to have my hands full. So many things to be thankful for…..time to spread the joy.

In the hallway. "Thanks for canceling our meeting last minute and ruining my lunch plans."

On the elevator. "Congrats on the presentation. The amount of inefficiency was impressive. So many words, so little to say."

During the meeting. "Thanks for forgetting my name, again. It’s nice to see you’re not bogged down with those kinda’ details."

After hanging up the phone. "I love your personal stories, can you speak up next time?"

In the strip club. "Nice dress. You know Halloween isn’t until the end of the month, right?"

My hair style looks good? Thanks!

You won’t walk away empty-handed. The compliments will come back faster than a gas-powered boomerang. It’s a win-win. Every thank you sent out as a penny will come back dressed up as a quarter.

In the cafeteria. "Thanks for sending me those charge codes. They were for the wrong project, now I have to resubmit my timesheet for the last two weeks."

Before the presentation. "Good job on the conference call today. Next time, use the mute button."

On my way out. "Thanks for coming in late and leaving early."

During my performance evaluation. "Douchebag."

Now go out there and start changing the world. One thank you at a time.

Please Stop the "Click" Clock

Most people measure their job tenure in pre-defined increments of time: years, months, days. And for the new hire who accidentally dropped the f-bomb in a meeting….minutes. For me, I have an unorthodox measurement that visits each time I reload my Swingline with a new sleeve of staples.

F*&%! Did I just say f*&%ing?

One box of Swingline standard staples holds 24 sleeves, each sleeve has 210 staples, totaling 5,040 staples per box. My supply is dwindling. The rattle of the box is less jovial. Reload with the few remaining sleeves that are the drunks of last call. Party over. The “click” is an auditory hourglass of how many staples have passed.

As long as I have my staples, they can't touch me.

I remember picking up the box after orientation. That was almost 4,626 staples ago, but who’s counting. At the time, each staple had yet to be randomly united with various deliverables not even conceived. I have moved within my own building three times, burned through three laptops, and have seen co-workers leave for PhDs and MBAs. My hair is thinner, my eyes dimmer, and my six-pack replaced by an impostor oddly resembling a gut. Through it all, my staples have been my touchstone. The one constant in my cabinet drawer, always within arm’s reach.

I can’t say I have come as far as I’d like. I’m not sure if I’m heading where I want to go. Only two sleeves left. I am 400+ “clicks” away from a possibly unwanted watershed moment. Maybe I’ll start using paper clips.

My fountain of youth

Scheduling Time On

My vacation is planned as far in advance as a junkie’s next hit. Even when I know weeks in advance, there is still a tendency for me to hedge. Maybe it all relates to that white-water rafting vacation I took with my friends in the Georgia wilderness. Nahhh, that couldn’t be it.

Man, this vacation sucks.

Anyways, I have found a solution to leverage my lack of prior proper planning against Management’s top priorities. Schedule excessive vacation, notify management, then cancel vacation at a later date. There will be a mental harrumph upon the initial request. Management will reluctantly accept the eye raising scheduled absence from the office. Not because they agree, but because they have to choose their fights carefully. Discussing vacation policy with a subordinate just isn’t in the cards. Especially since there are clients to please, proposals to complete, and C-level execs to discuss pipeline. All is well that end’s well. With the imminent arrival of the scheduled vacation, I cancel some of the dates.

"Did you hear what C.J. did?....."

"He canceled some of his vacation because of deliverables."

"He was here until 10:00PM last night."

"He was planning to scale Eiger but said it would be there next year."

Thanks, C.J. Last time I plan a vacation with you.

An overnight rock star in the 9 to 5 world. All due to some advanced planning on scheduling vacation I was never going to take. I know, genius. Now if you’ll excuse me, today is another vacation day for me and I have to head into the office.

Landline Ambush

Ready to break for lunch. Grab my wallet, keys, and badge. Push in my chair, turn to leave, and the phone rings. Caller ID, it’s the client, answer the phone. No time for “hello’s”. I’m immediately hit with a barrage of questions spewing from the other end of the line like Hurricane Camille hitting the coast. It’s official, I’ve been ambushed.

He's about to head to lunch. We have to call, NOW!

CLIENT

Do you have a minute? I have the project lead, seven subcontractors, the contracting officer, Roger Goodell, and President Obama on the line.

C.J.

Sure, I guess?

CLIENT

Great! I was wondering about the report that I’m emailing you as we speak. Have you had time to read it?

C.J.

I haven’t received it yet.

CLIENT

Great! The GAO, NFL, NASA and some White House staff members are trying to gather preliminary numbers for a press release. Don’t worry, nothing overly complex. High level stuff.

C.J.

O.K.

CLIENT

Great! Don’t worry about running any quality assurance checks on it. Have you received my email yet?

C.J.

Yes.

CLIENT

Great! Basically, we need the 14 data sets compiled into one database and de-duped. Next, create some standard deviations on the confidence intervals regarding the median scores for each of the approximately 2.5 million observations.

C.J.

That doesn’t sound high level?

CLIENT

Great! We won’t hold you to anything unless it is incorrect. Then we’ll ask why you decided to skip some quality assurance checks. How long do you think it will take?

C.J.

At least two weeks?

CLIENT

Great! Tomorrow works perfect. I’m going on vacation for three weeks. It will be nice to review before heading out of the office when everything comes to a screeching halt since no one makes a decision without me due to fear of unemployment.

C.J.

O.K.

CLIENT

Great! Any questions from anyone else on the phone? (a harmonious chorus of no’s). Great! Any questions Corporate Joe?

C.J.

No.

CLIENT

Great!

Corporate Joe hangs up the phone with a thousand yard stare.

Shoulda' gone to lunch.

CO-WORKERS

You coming to Blimpies?

C.J.

No.

CO-WORKERS

What happened?

C.J.

I don’t know.

CO-WORKERS

Great! We’re going to lunch.

Share the Road, Share the Rage

I have noticed a larger number of people commuting to works on their bicycles. I like the idea of this. A solid cardio workout before work. I don’t like when it’s put into practice.

The larger number of people I was referring to also happen to be larger people in general. Biking to work is something these individuals should strive for, not put as the first item on their workout list.

And then there is the gear.

Only two types of athletes can wear tight clothing: boxers training for a fight and outside linebackers working on free weights in the gym. The bikers in the Tour De France can’t even pull off the cycling look, and they are supposed to be wearing it.

The commuter cyclists (CC’s) that I encounter further bastardize this unsporty fashion statement. The weakly styled spandex gear is degraded to a new low by being stretched to a new high. Maximum capacity. Every flaw revealed. Cookie dough shoved in a tube sock.

Perfect, I'll take it! Does it come in XXX small?

Is that a logo on the spandex? I am a runner. That doesn’t give me the right to wear a USA Track and Field tank top and spikes while running a victory lap with an American flag. The only thing these CC’s should be sponsored by is Smuckers Jelly and Pepperidge Farm Snickerdoodles.

And then there is the pace.

I’m all for sharing the road as a commuter. It is unfortunate the CC’s don’t share the same view. Scoot over a little. Don’t pedal harder and then look back at me. You are not keeping pace. You are just in my way and I can’t pass you. The posture is not helping. Head down, back arched, conforming to an aerodynamic frame. Well great, now you’re flying….at the blistering pace of 21 miles per hour.

Cycling to work is fine as long as you don’t have me spinning my own wheels. So move over Chubb Rock and hit the gym before you hit the road.

Hummingturd

For lunch, I’ll frequently patronize Blimpie’s for a Buffalo Chicken sandwich. Inevitably, I’ll whistle “Buffalo Soldier”. Then I’ll replace the profound lyrics of a legendary musician with my asinine words involving a sandwich with hot sauce.

Buffalo Chicken, hot sauce with pickles.

It is a Buffalo Chicken, with some bread but no paprika.

Purchased by MasterCard, brought to my cubicle....

And by then my sandwich is ready and the tune immediately disappears. I guess the point of the story is that Bob Marley is going to rise from the dead and kick my Caucasian ass.

You're going down Kingston style, bitch.

No Relief In Sight

Men can do peculiar things in the corporate restroom. I’m not sure if the exhibited behavior is an extension of who we are or if it’s a place to act like an idiot without any retribution. Either way, there is a wide spectrum of head scratchers. Some men bring in their coffee, set it on the counter, do their business, and then drink their java. These men are called, “disgusting”. There are also women who accidentally enter the men’s room only to realize there are urinals. These women are called, “whores”. Then there are some things, like I witnessed today, that are difficult to categorize.

"Can't wait to enjoy my coffee!"

There are several types of postures men can have while relieving themselves at a urinal. No, I’m not trying to stare at anyone’s junk. It’s my uncanny ability to deduce what is occurring by noticing the absence of items in my peripheral vision. What I cannot see from the chest up allows me to understand what’s happening south of the equator. Yes, a gift, I know. And with this gift I have categorized my subjects into three general categories:

• Two Hand Sam – this gentleman uses the traditional approach of keeping both hands on the unit. He is there for business. If this person knows you from roaming the same halls every day, they are likely to stare straight down at the Crane Plumbing symbol, make a statement that qualifies as conversation, “Redskins are going to suck this year”, then move out.

• One Hand Willy – a non-traditional approach where one hand deals with the work downtown and the other is occupied with important papers or a cell phone. He is there for business. Except this type of business should be held in his cubicle, not a urinal. I’m all for multi-tasking but I don’t need to brush my teeth while shaving. Some “to do’s” are meant to be completed separately. Might as well bring in your laptop, grab a seat in the stall and work using the D-Net wireless connection. Willy, please, both hands on the hose.

• Penis Knievel – this is the disturbing behavior I witnessed today. A gentleman with both hands on the wall. A single hand on a bathroom wall is reckless hygienic behavior. Placing both hands on the bathroom wall? They might as well juggle rusted hypodermic needles. And who’s minding the store? It’s guaranteed that a pair of pleat-front gabardines will not walk away scot-free of splash shrapnel.

A call to arms for the Two Hand Sam’s. Next time you see someone exhibit Penis Knieval behavior, tell them to have some pride. Ten and two on the wheel, buddy. And if they can’t abide by normal behavior, tell them to use a stall. People pee all over the place in there anyways.

Underground Garage Banned

Dear Mr. Vandelay,

This letter is to inform you about the parking garage designed by your architectural firm. I have been using this garage on a daily basis for the last five years of my employment. By my calculations, I have parked there approximately 1,180 times. My research comes with a lot of insight into the nuances of P1, P2, and P3. I apologize if this letter is duplicative of other people’s efforts to bring certain items to your attention.

A few concerns:

• You did not use the correct instruments to calibrate the final design. It appears that the underground garage was not built to full scale. Most cars designed for the road today aren’t the size of mopeds with the turning radius of Matchbox cars.
  
  
• There are no road spikes installed for individuals who want to back their cars into a spot. Ideally, this should not be an issue since it is only one extra turn. Unfortunately, the majority of people attempting to back-in their cars suffer from mild hand-eye retardation coordination. One extra turn becomes five extra turns, six brake pumps, and a line of cars waiting to pass. Having spikes for cars backing in would be a helpful deterrent for those who failed Easy Method due to their heads being lodged up their ass.

• The arrows pointing the direction for one-way traffic in the garage are very helpful. However, these arrows might need to be changed from a simple white to a fluorescent blinking green for select individuals with either 1) a poor sense of direction, or 2) the inability to comprehend basic shapes (i.e., the shape of an arrow). Or perhaps a patrolman could monitor the parking lot to find offenders going in the wrong direction. And perhaps that patrolman could have a gun with live ammunition. And he would be fully authorized to use that weapon against violators. And we would fondly call him, “Tackleberry” as he lays waste to the directionally challenged.

"Reloading and heading to Level 2, Sir."

• The lighting lacks light. The Silence of The Lambs appears to have been the inspiration for your garage. I don’t want to have to worry about putting the lotion on my skin in order to not get the hose again. All I want to do is see my parking spot without using my high beams and fog lights in tandem.
  
  

"You were looking for a parking spot? Follow me."

• After successfully avoiding all of the pitfalls listed above, there is one minor obstacle left: avoiding death as a pedestrian. There are no sidewalks or crosswalks. No lights guiding you to the safety of the elevators. Pedestrians are viewed with as much empathy as squirrels trying to make it to the other side of the road. There have been five pedestrian deaths in our garage…this week. Hitting pedestrians is not only viewed as normal, I believe it is encouraged. All that is left for the pedestrian is instincts as they imitate an extra on the set of Death Race 2000. Just thought I’d let you know.
  

I’m sure these items are minor oversights by your firm. If you could research and provide a written report as to how these issues will be addressed, it would be greatly appreciated.

Sincerely,

Corporate Joe

Gift Getting

FADE IN:

A father and son gather around his birthday presents. The father beams with pride as his son carefully chooses the first gift. The son's eyes lock in like radar on the largest box of the bunch.

SON

Dad, can you help me open it up?

FATHER

Sure thing.

They work together in perfect synchronicity tearing the paper with purpose. They pull back in awe of what was found.

SON

Cool!

FATHER

Let me help you open the box.

SON

Oh, man, a Power Ranger. Awesome!

FATHER

Let me pull this out of the plastic.

Hold on, there are some wires to untangle.

SON

Hurry, hurry!

FATHER

I'm trying, hold on. There are some fasteners in the back.

Man, they are not playing around here.

FATHER

Voila!

FATHER

For Christ's sake, there are more fasteners!?

SON

Mommy says that's a bad word.

FATHER

You're right son, that'll be our little secret. 

Let me get these off.

FATHER

Are you shitting me? 

These are wrapped around the axle!

SON

Mommy says that's a bad word too.

FATHER

No one likes a tattle-tale. So just zip it.

Let me get this wire out of the axle.

FATHER

Rubber bands? Rubber f*cking bands!

SON

Mommy...

FATHER

I know what Mommy says. Do you see Mommy around? No.

I just see you and me. So why don't you just

sit criss-cross applesauce and shut your trap.

The Father struggles impatiently with the tangled web of rubber bands and wires. His grunts morph into a loud roar. His son scootches back on the linoleum in fear.

SON

Dad, you're turning green.

The Father's pants begin to rip at the seams as he continues to struggle with the imprisoned present.

FATHER

Let me get this out. AHHHHHHHHHH!

SON

Daddy, No!

FATHER

Run, son. Before it's too late. 

This is between me and the present. 

RUNNNNNNNNNN!

FADE TO BLACK