The Sweet Release of Death

Cubicle: The Musical

I Fear For The Life of Betty White

02/15/2011 11:28 AM

I don’t know when it began, but I do remember the day I was to awaken to its evil presence. Unfortunately by the time of my awakening, 3 of 4 cherished American icons were already dead and buried. The question that stood before me like Mt. Everest was whether I would be able to save the remaining 4th icon: Betty White. You see, the day after Rue McClanahan had passed, I noticed something in one of my co-workers that chilled me to the core; it was a number of things actually and when added up, equaled the fright that must have run through the veins of Milli Vanilli when that shitty MTV tape player locked up on “girl you know it…girl you know it… girl you know it.” Fucking MTV. Anyway, I had heard of dear old Rue passing away the night before and thought “and yet another Golden Girl has passed.” The following morning as I was parking in the far end of the Corporate Land lot, I noticed my co-worker Samantha walking towards the front entrance. What really struck me was how she was walking: rather slowly and each step filled with caution and anxiety as if a broken hip were to result in the slightest of missteps. This would not be such a revelation if I were to be cruising through the parking lot of Shady Pines Retirement Home and Bingo Academy. But as it were, this was Corporate Land and Samantha is only 24.

It was at that precise moment of witnessing her slow, lumbering pace coupled with the morning newscaster waxing poetic on Rue’s life that I wondered aloud to myself “Samantha is moving like a Golden Girl…” It’s funny how we get so wrapped up in the everyday minutiae that we miss little things that slip by … until they snowball into a giant iron fist and bitch slap us like Charlie Sheen in a coke-fueled rage. So as I watched Samantha’s painfully slow entrance into the Corporate Land foyer, It gave me pause and I reflected back on what in the past, I thought were Samantha’s little quirks in appearance and action: the rather elderly looking cardigan sweaters, the button up shirts with rather large lapels and equally large floral prints, the constant complaining of a mysterious cold draft that was “chilling me to the bone.” But of all the premature elderly kit that Samantha carried about herself, two things now stuck out in my reflection about Samantha that just didn’t seem right; kind of like the idea of finding talent on American Idol and, Lindsay Lohan actually giving a shit.

The two things that now appeared odd, upon my reflection as I locked up the TSROD Mobile, was the framed, autographed 8x10 glossy group shot of The Golden Girls that hung on Samantha’s cubicle wall and, the overly secured dorm fridge that was nestled under Samantha’s desk; complete with two padlocks, a “property of Samantha DO NOT OPEN!” warning sticker along with a “Honk if you love Matlock!” magnet slightly askew on the front door of the fridge. I murmured under my breath “what the heel is that all about?” as I made my way to the foyer. Samantha was still not completely inside the foyer, as she had paused to catch her breath and was leaning on the front door as if contemplating her next move. “Good morning Sam!” I said as I approached her. “Need any help?” I offered as the look she was sending was of complete helplessness. “Oh yes indeed! Thank you! What a nice young man!” I was taken aback by her response, as I am nearly twice Samantha’s age.

As I helped Samantha inside, she palmed a dollar bill into my hand and creaked out “Thank you. Now go get yourself something special from the vending machine!” My dearly departed grandmother has been for a decade now yet, there before me, she stood albeit encased in the body of a twenty-four-year old. Before I made my way to my Cubicle of Artistic Despair, I hung around the front desk area and chatted up The Fist and That Girl all the while sneaking a glimpse here and there over at Samantha. The Fist made some low murmured comments to me under her breath about the rather peculiar actions of Samantha growing more and more peculiar as time went on. I shook my head in agreement, all the while keeping an eye on Samantha to see that she did not overhear our note comparisons of her escalating strange behavior.

To break ourselves out of the not-so-secret chitchat, I offered up to The Fist the morning news headline: “Did you hear? Rue McClanahan passed away last night.” The Fist, not one for knowing of television comedians before 1995, gave a rather robust “who” in reply. “Rue McClanahan” I retorted. “Golden Girls? Maude? She was a real firecracker.” I mused. “ Ah…Yeah, the group of old ladies living together. Yeah…” The Fist replied. Then something really strange caught my eye. Samantha, sitting at her cubicle, raised her shoulders up from her self-imposed osteoporosis hunch, and said in a low whisper to no one in particular “ Rue McClanahan…truly magic.” It was then that I noticed that Samantha had a rather large thermos in her lap that was adorned with a small sticker of Rue herself, stuck to the side. My Creep Meter started to go off like a slot machine jackpot at the Bellagio. Now I was truly curious as to what the hell was going on with the world’s oldest twenty-four -year-old.

I rolled my eyes to The Fist in a “ That was really creepy!” fashion and decided I needed a better vantage point to see what was really going on in Samantha’s cubicle. I circled around the backside of the cubicle cluster and slid into the alcove where all the Post-It Notes and pads of paper are stored, giving me a direct line-of-site into Sam’s Cubicle of Mystery. The timing in my position shift paid off in spades as at that precise moment, Samantha had ever so carefully rolled her chair to the other side of her desk to the dorm fridge that sat right at her knees. From my new position, Samantha’s back was to me and she did not see that I was hunkered down in the supply nook in mock search for fresh desk supplies. Samantha, lost in thought now, reached out over her desk and slowly dragged her index finger down the 8 x 10 glossy hanging on her cubicle wall, right over Rue’s image and what I could gather from my earshot, Samantha murmured “ I become one with you now.” She then set about looking over her shoulder to see if anyone was watching before she commenced her next move. I quickly ducked down below the counter as to not get caught and ever so quietly, peeped around the corner to catch her next move: Unlocking that mysterious fridge of hers.

One by one, she removed the locks swung open its door and before any contents of the fridge came into view, a vast amount of deep freeze fog from the dry ice had to disperse before revealing its secret booty. Once the ice veil had cleared, I caught a glimpse of Samantha’s secret: two other thermos like containers lay within, one marked “Estelle” and another marked “Bea” Samantha now was sliding Rue right in next to them… and really creeping me the fuck out now for sure. I waited for her to lock down her Fridge of Elderly Souls before I could make my escape unnoticed, fully realizing that I was going to have to commando-crawl out of the supply nook or risk being caught by a soul stealing customer service rep. “Fucking hell!” I thought as I silently crawled from the supply nook. “She’s killing off the Golden Girls one by one and stealing their souls!”

To be continued…

Tags: Betty white, The Golden Girls, Milli Vanilli,

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Maiden Babe Vs. The Rocker & Mamma's Boy: Death by Mechanical Pencil Pt. 2

01/27/2011 11:27 AM

The Maiden expelled a sigh of relief upon seeing The Rocker vanish in a huff from the Purchasing Department; her thumb clicking the end of her mechanical pencil in rapid-fire succession coupled with the seductive thought of plunging it deep into The Rocker’s jugular. “Lucky fucker.” The Maiden murmured through clenched teeth. Now that The Rocker had left, she can focus on the remaining hour-and-half left in the workday and get the fuck out. As The Maiden quietly returned to her tasks at hand, The Rocker had just arrived to the Art Department rather breathless and agitated; his panting and wheezing breaking our happy silence. “May I have everyone’s attention!” The Rocker hacked up in a phlegm-coated rasp. (This was pronounced as if he owned the joint and carried with it a disapproving tone as if we had just done a group piss in his Cherrio’s.)

Myself and the other 5 artists barely gave The Rocker any inclination of attention to his dramatic entrance. We were about as attentive as Lindsay Lohan in rehab; we were there, but we just weren’t taking the message to heart. As The Rocker saw that he had a somewhat sliver of our attention, he began to blabber to us the new law From Up High about how we are to order things from vendors and, what we are supposed to do to double-check the order to avoid costly errors of the Purchasing Department.

It was at this precise moment that my Mega Douche Alarm went off and began my internal systems override shut down procedure: 1. Hearing briefly shut down 2. Motor skills engaged and chair spinning back to computer screen initiated. 3. Motor skills again called upon to initiate iPod ignition, selection and, volume control. 4. Motor skills tapped yet again for Ear bud insertion and play button activation. 5. Hearing is fully restored; the raucous explosion that is Pantera blissfully drowns The Rocker’s rant out. Being that I was in Systems Override Mode, I was fortunate enough not to hear The Rocker’s weeping Jan Brady performance. The others were not so lucky. From what I could gather (once my Systems Override was switched back to “normal” upon The Rocker’s exit) was that The Rocker, on the brink of tears and lips in full quiver, began to inform the Art Department crew that when ordering a material to be cut from a vendor, that all measurements must be noted as precise. As if his lips a quiver weren’t enough, The Rocker’s emotional plea for correct deciphering of his convoluted work orders was bringing about little pearly beads of sweat upon his upper lip.

Of course this had no fucking impact upon his now highly annoyed audience. The Rocker seeing the indifference to his plea, began waving Jazz hands about to really drive his point home. This last act only set into motion a group reaction of smirks and tongue biting to keep from laughing hysterically at The Rocker’s flailing appeals. Whilst the Art Department was thoroughly entranced by the comedic tour de force that stood before them, The Maiden, counting down the remaining hour left in the workday, was dealt another indignant blow. King of the Fucktards; the ineptness that is the Momma’s boy, sauntered into The Maiden’s space to push her to the brink.

You see, along with the inability to correctly read a tape measure, The Momma’s Boy also has the fucked up ability to request materials for order that simply do not exist. Further exacerbating the situation was that the Momma’s Boy was not only standing before The Maiden asking for this mystery request, he had also sent an e-mail that acted as a compendium to the oral diarrhea that as currently spewing forth before The Maiden.
Momma’s Boy, not exactly one of the strongest links in the Corporate Land chain, began getting flustered like Paris Hilton with the thought of wearing underwear. The Maiden began feverishly clicking her mechanical pencil as her mind raced with thoughts of dispatching Momma’s Boy with a few rapid plunges to his jugular and dispensing his lifeless body in the nearby storage room.

As The Momma’s Boy saw the half disdain, half confusion on The Maiden’s face, he began speaking faster in what doctors from Stanford Medical School call a “spastic fluster stutter.” The Maiden simply stated, “I don’t know what you want.” This only set about more convulsions of verbal hopscotch from the Momma’s Boy: “bbbbbb…but its in my e-mail … I don’t understand!” The Maiden, pen now clicking away at a seriously fast clip, countered Momma’s Boy with “You have requested something that does not exist. They don’t manufacture it. It. Does. Not. Exist. Whether you come down here and tell me in person or whether you send it in e-mail, it makes no difference. Got it?” Momma’s Boy, on the verge of tears spun quickly and briskly headed back to his department in an “I’m telling dad!” manner.

The Maiden, now fully perturbed by the tsunami of idiots, began croaking, “RedRum! RedRum! REDRUM!” all the while her mechanical pencil clicking away like Rambo’s machine gun. It was only when the pen’s spring heart gave out and its silence broke The Maiden from her murderous chanting. As The Maiden regained her composure, she pulled focus onto a photo upon her desk; an inviting shot of a sunny beach with aqua blue waters kissing its sandy edge. “Yes…Yes indeed.” murmured The Maiden Babe. She then rose from her desk and quietly walked to the HR office, a smile on her face getting bigger and bigger with each step. As she crossed into the HR office and closed the door behind her, she gleefully pronounced, “I quit! I’m done. I’ll give ya 2 weeks and then I’m heading to Jamaica!”

Corporate Land, being the heartless non-caring entity we’ve all grown to loathe, found it in its cold, black empty chest cavity to accept The Maiden’s notice and to pay her for the remaining two weeks and have her leave that day. A nice little paid “ Well fuck you too!”
It’s only fitting that The Maiden Babe chose Jamaica. That’s the perfect type of place for a sexy Bond Girl to hole up after a long stretch of bloodletting: a sexy fine thing lying ever so seductively on the white sand beach. You can buy her a drink, just don’t ask her about that pencil strapped to her thigh.

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Maiden Babe Vs. The Rocker & Mamma's Boy: Death by Mechanical Pencil

10/15/2010 11:25 AM

With the CIA and FBI under enormous scrutiny over water boarding and other sinister ways of making Joe Taliban spill his guts, maybe all of the Senate Oversight Committees and news agencies should focus on the true terror threat to this nations security and general well being. I’m talking about Idiots here folks, the ones that roam every business across this land from 7-Elevens to Goldman Sachs. And while we’re at it, lets toss the egotistical idiot fucktards on the bonfire too. Editors Note: Now I’d like to state right from the get go here, that I’m not telling you to crack open grandpa’s war locker and go on some half-cocked shooting spree at your work place. That won’t solve anything, if you kill your annoying coworker, he’ll still be an asshole, just dead; and you’ll be an asshole for being a gun-toting zealot in yet another office rampage. Don’t be an asshole. The World is already overstocked in that category.

Why the call to be diligent and weary of The Office Idiot? Well sit back my dear readers and I will spin the latest tale of Douchebuggery to be excreted from Corporate Land’s malignant polyp-lined bowels. This tale involves two characters you are familiar with: The Rocker, and the ever so gun shy Mamma’s Boy, and two that you are new to The Sweet Release of Death stage: Tootles The Project Manager and The Maiden. It is The Maiden that provides the shining light in all of what is to follow.

The Maiden resides in a distant corner of Corporate Land; her cubicle nestled ever too closely to the dark abyss that is the Accounting Department. The Maiden is Corporate Land’s Buyer or Purchasing Agent if you will. But that does not define The Maiden. Who is The Maiden? The Maiden is The Girl Next Door. Don’t let the wholesomeness fool you though; she loves Metal and is more rocker than The Rocker could ever dream of being. Where some would look upon her and categorize her as “A babe” or even more dangerous, a “Rocker Chick”, I hold The Maiden in a higher, more fitting category: Bond Girl. That’s right I said it, Bond Girl.

Those that see “Babe” or “Rocker” are dangerously selling themselves short of The Maiden’s power. Where The Idiots may see that The Maiden is sporting a wicked Social Distortion jacket on casual Friday, what they fail to see is that The Maiden is more than likely, packing an instrument of their impending doom within said jacket: Her Beloved Mechanical Pencil. Yes in typical Bond Girl fashion, there is a deadly secret that lies behind her beauty and that secret is not revealed until a lethal amount of .117 pencil lead is jabbed into the Offending Idiot’s carotid artery. As the Offending Idiot lays motionless upon the floor fading to the blackness of death, he realizes The Maiden’s secret; her pursed lips and a wink of her eye, the clicking of her mechanical pencil filling his ears as his last breath fades into oblivion.

So many of you out there are probably saying to yourselves after this long character intro “Holy crap TSROD! What set her off?” Well my dear readers, I’ll tell you what set her off: Exact Measurements that’s what. That and a 3-pack of assholes that would make anyone pine for a deadly asteroid to strike the Earth and put an end to all this silliness we call work.

Yes, The Rocker scrambled back to the Corporate Land stage in all of his vinegar and water glory and gave such a tear-draining performance that if you closed your eyes, you would have thought Sally Field was standing before you. The Rocker’s first mistake is a common one of his and that is his inability to be specific for the common man, for it is he and only he, that can understand the work orders that he composes. I’m sure that if you put down a couple shots of Absinthe, ate a tab of purple Window Pane acid and watched an episode of The Teletubbies in reverse, it would all make sense. But most of us don’t have that kind of time, let alone the cajones to handle such a monumental chemical adventure in work order sleuthing. I try to relegate my Keith Richards moments for the weekends and not waste a good buzz on trying to figure out what the fuck some sales douche is trying to say. The Rocker, in a move so douchey that if Corporate Land handed out a “Douche of The Year “ award, this performance would seal the deal: he slithered back to The Maiden’s corner of Regret & Sorrow and laid into The Maiden about his materials order being all wrong. Wah wah wah, wank wank, wank, “MY SIZES AREN’T EXACT!” His usual monotone warble broke with emotion into a squeal that of raped sea lion. “My 34” x34” boards are 33.98” x 34” THEY NEED TO BE EXACT!” He squealed. The Maiden’s hand, resting on her knee under her desk clinched into a fist so hard that once set into motion, death would surely be eminent to it’s victim upon contact.

The Rocker, oblivious in seeing that Death was mere inches away from him, kicked up the douche quotient a notch and proceeded to piss and moan to The Maiden’s boss, which sat right next to her. Now if any awards are to be given, one should go to The Maiden for keeping herself in check at this particular juncture for if it were me, I would have lopped The Rocker’s head off with a dull plastic ruler. But I digress. The Maiden tossed back to The Rocker “ you wanted 34”x34”, I ordered 34”x34”. I have no control over the vendor’s saw blade, let alone the fact of whether he can or can’t read a tape measure.” Editors Note: It is at this point in the story that I’d like to say that The Maiden has rendered me into a weeping Renee Zellwegger blubbering on “you had me at no control of the vendors saw blade…” The Rocker did not see it the way I did and flustered with The Maiden’s surgical comeback, decided to take the show on the road: straight to the art room. To be continued.

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A Rose, Some Thorns And A 10 x 15 Room

08/04/2010 12:04 PM

Corporate land is like an episode of Survivor, minus the tropical setting, the crazy, hairy granola witches and the Tool Academy flunkies… Scratch that. We have Tool Academy flunkies here but I digress. On a daily basis, Corporate land presents to me and 5 of my co-workers the gift of a daily production meeting, which takes place in that on any other occasion would be considered a spacious 10 x 15 room. During meeting time though, it resembles more of the trash compactor from Star Wars than that of an everyday corporate meeting room, its walls closing in with each passing moment as the meeting drags on. Now the cast involved in these meetings myself included, are no Skywalkers let alone are any of us anywhere near the caliber of a good Han Solo. We do however have a Princess Leia and there in lay the tragedy of these daily roundtables. A stand up gal trapped in a room full of squawking Chewbacca’s. Most definitely, a rose amongst the thorns.

Bellying up to the table starting at the 12 O’clock position is The Cantankerous Curmudgeon, slipping in at 2 O’clock is Meet The New Boss, cozying up next to him is My Buddy (seriously folks, he’s my buddy) At the 6 O’clock slot is The Rose followed by yours truly sliding in at 7. And rounding out the table at the quarter-to position is the FNG call sign: LOUD TALKER. The meeting is called to order and is guided by the ever so soothing tone of the Cantankerous Curmudgeon. In his sausage fingered hands lies the daily production stack-list of items that are due that day or in the following two days. It is with the vocal run down of this list, item by tedious item, that commences the walls to begin closing in. At this very moment is when The Rose flashes a look across her face of a thousand funerals: Solemn for the forthcoming death of precious time, and frustration of having to be trapped in a glass box with 5 barely trained monkeys.

What I have not mentioned is that The Rose is with child and between the droning on of a production list, the uncomfortably inappropriate jokes made between the monkeys, the unfortunate pangs of hunger strike the Rose making this meeting about as entertaining as a Jonas Brothers concert at the Kardashians house. Sometimes if not most, I bring in a cup of coffee to escape into when the meetings conversation swings from the business at hand, to intertwining tales of bullshit that have absolutely nothing to do with anything. Call it a lengthy “… But I digress” into the void of lost moments of time. My coffee is a benchmark of just how lengthy these meetings can be at times. I enter with a full cup. If that cup reaches quarter tank, I’ve pretty much tuned out and begin staring out the window and go to my happy place.

As the window brings a peaceful and welcomed escape, I’m snapped back to reality as LOUD TALKER pipes up his two cents to the meeting. I look over to The Rose and as we both exit our different daydreams, our eyes meet and silently tell the shared feeling of just brutally killing 40 minutes of the day: “ Holy Fucking Shit! I could have watched the Bonnie Hunt Show!” So as the Cantankerous Curmudgeon ends the meeting with his Jerry Springer inspired “ That’s all I got!” I say a silent prayer thanking the builders for putting in that window, and a big thankful prayer to Juan Valdez and his mule for picking the most aromatic coffee beans in the World that bring me my daily salvation from corporate sanctioned time killers. The Rose and I spring from the room like escaped convicts stopping short of yelling “Freedom!” The relief of the meeting is short lived as there are 6 more hours to endure, and the thought of doing this all again in Groundhog Day fashion, lingers for the remainder of the day. It would be so much better if it were on a tropical island. Hell I’d even put up with the Granola witches and the Tools. I’d put in a request for a location change but I was told there would be a meeting involved to review the plan. Forget it. Even I can’t drink that much coffee.

Tags: Star Wars, Survivor, Granola, Tool Academy,

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The Great Friday Bailout

06/11/2010 05:03 PM

Friday was gift day at Corporate Land. Yep, what greeted my fellow workers and me today was the equivalent of a shiny toy fire truck on Christmas. The Gift? Half of management gone and just about the same amount of the Sales staff was MIA also. Ah… peace in the valley. With just a fraction of the two-legged headache bots remaining, conspiring glances were passed around like finger sandwiches at a tea party. The ole “you thinkin’ what I’m thinkin’? Yeah, lets bail early!” bit was spreading from cubicle to cubicle like wildfire.

Rendezvous at the local watering holes were bumped up an hour; lunches were stretched an extra twenty minutes or more. TGIF indeed. These special Fridays are like the last day of school –the only thing missing is the signing of yearbooks and bong tokes out in the parking lot (although the Temps more than likely are truly hitting the pipe at break) Its also during these special occasions that the FacebookMySpaceGoogleYouTube Syndrome kicks into overdrive and chokes the company T1 bandwidth like an unfortunate date of Joran Van der Sloot.

So as Management is gallivanting around the woods on the outskirts of town–probably involving farm animals for immoral purposes–The workers are uniting for The Great Friday Bailout. Guinness will flow and battle stories will be swapped like old baseball cards. Its therapy for the walking wounded of Corporate Land… and tonight the therapy is gonna start an hour early.

Tags: Joran Van der Sloot, toy fire truck, yearbooks, bong tokes, TGIF,

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It's All About The He Said, She Said

03/16/2010 06:47 AM

They’re there among us. Some might be right on the other side of your cubical. Who are they? They are The Embellishers, The Gossip Hounds. They are a distinct breed of office dwellers that feed off of the office politics and the workday drama of Officeland. When that isn’t enough, they go sniffing for your personal life’s dirt and grime to feed their hunger for smut. Some are truly harmless and some, well you just want to stab them with a yellow highlighter. When not slinging dirt through the corporate e-mail pipes, you may find them lurking in the break room waiting for that poor schmuck coming in for his morning cup of Joe. Poor Schmuck just says “Hi Tracy!” and it’s off to the races for Tracy. “Did you hear? Amber is pregnant! She’s not even married! Did you know that she was dating Murray in Receiving? They broke up back in December. I bet it’s his.” Poor Schmuck just wants his coffee and yet he gets a piping hot dish of dirt. “ I didn’t know that, Tracy” Poor Schmuck drones as he fills his cup.

He’s lucky today. As Tracy babbles on about Amber’s bastard baby, Poor Schmuck sees that there is just enough coffee left in the pot to fill his cup. If there weren’t, he’d have to kill Tracy on the spot. “See you later Tracy,” he murmurs as he glides out of the break room. Just as Poor Schmuck glides out, Sorry SOB comes bustling in with his empty coffee cup. “Hey Tracy!” he chirps with fake enthusiasm. “Hi!” Tracy chirps back. “Did you hear about Amber? She’s pregnant with Murray’s baby!” Just then, Sorry SOB notices that the Mr. Coffee is empty. Nothing, ZERO. SONOFABITCH! “ What? Murray? Enquires Tracy. “No, whoever didn’t brew more coffee that’s who. Dammit!” Sorry SOB now knows he is trapped in Tracy’s web. “Oh that was that Poor Schmuck, Steve. He passed you on the way out.” Sorry SOB’s toes are starting to curl. “Did you know that Poor Schmucks wife left him? That’s why he flipped out at the Christmas party and punched that poor Santa we hired to hand out gifts.” Sorry SOB leans into the counter and refuses to make eye contact with Tracy now. His focus is on Mr. Coffee. His focus so keen, he’s practically willing the coffee to brew faster than nature intended. Anything to escape the sticky constricting gossip web of Tracy.

As Mr. Coffee drip, drip, drips, Tracy drones on about Poor Schmucks holiday divorce meltdown. As soon as the brewing light kicks off, Sorry SOB is pouring the piping hot liquid of his salvation ever so quickly. No time for cream and sugar today. Life is too precious. He’s taking it black. “Bye Tracy” Sorry SOB says as he turns away and speed walks through the doorway. “See you soon” purrs Tracy. A few minutes pass and Tracy’s web lay open and ready for its next victim. As Tracy lay in wait, snapping off another chunk of her Nature Valley Granola Bar, in skips Teddy, her office pal. Tracy’s eyes light up, but she can’t speak with her mouth full of granola. She chews faster so she can swallow and spill out her latest tid-bit of tattle. But she is too slow, as Teddy has brought his “A” game today. “ Did you hear about Amber?” Teddy squeals, “She’s pregnant with...” Just then, Tracy swallows and helps Teddy as they answer in unison: MURRAY’S BABY!! The only thing missing from their combined, excited answer, was a cascade of cash raining down on them and an over excited game-show host with really bad hair. So as Tracy and Teddy giggle and squeal on, the rest of the office folk steer clear of the break room. No one else is going in there. Not until those two get back to the HR Department. To enter in the break room with those two in there, well... that’s how rumors get started.

Tags: Mr. Coffee, Rumors, Gossip,

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Pick up the phone Lance!!!

03/10/2010 07:57 AM

Monday was bad. Abysmal more like it. Tuesday was no better. Did I tell you that I work with junkies? No? Well I’m telling you now cause maybe my story will help you in an ABC After School Special kind of way. Like most folks out there, I like a little nip off the old bottle here and there, and I ain’t one to be turning my nose up to someone who likes having a good time in large volume. But when it affects performance, you gotta get wise and mind your kit. That’s where my junkies come in. You see, my cube mates at one point were bringing home the gold in performance, which in turns keeps the heat off of our department from the Management... (I just threw up in my mouth...sorry. It happens when I say that word “Management”...pardon...) But then, one by one, The Affliction seeped into the room and now their tale is that of yet another tragedy thrown onto the scrap heap of American Excess. What’s their affliction? Social Networks.

Most cases start out with the softer time-sucks like Yahooing their friends Google, but then a smooth talking “friend” gives them a toot on MySpace and before you know it, they’re adding wireless hubs and splurging on laptops to stay connected all throughout the house. God forbid they miss a dose... I mean good lord, Franny’s kid just went poop in the bathtub! With the addition of the Social Networking paraphernalia, this is where the tale turns tragic. The Afflicted will turn down opportunities to meet and hang out with real live human beings, but will gladly rush home and drain 3-4 hours of their life with some Cyber Monkey on MySpace from Duluth. Eventually the real friends fade away and the Cyber Monkeys grow exponentially. And then it happens. A swarthy character appears and introduces the affliction of their destruction. Facebook. The Smack of Social Networking.

9 times out of 10, our vessel of swarthiness is that girl or guy you had in your sophomore biology class. The old “ Tiffany just added you as a friend, come join me at Facebook” line pulls them in like a bear to honey. Sometimes it starts as a twinge or a tingle. The rush of that first e-mail from a friend of friend that saw you puke behind Mary’s couch at that raging kegger back in ‘97. You’re like a seven year old jacked up on sugar and time just slips away... You find yourself wanting more and more, stockpiling friends you haven’t seen in ages. Welcome to addiction. My cube mates are sadly strung-out on the purer, more potent form of Facebook, the Golden Triangle brand if you will. They choose to let life slip by with Farmville and Café World. One cube mate is working the streets at night turning tricks to keep his iPhone connected so he can check his cabbage and send cows to his “friends” while on the go. It’s.. It’s tragic. I lost one friend to Mafia Wars, and I’m here to tell you, it would have been nobler if our friendship was lost and his life snuffed out, by a real flesh and blood Pauly Cianti Gambone. That would have been cool. But no, he got snuffed-out by a fucking avatar. Stupid douche.

But the true sadness with my cube mates is coming to work. Just the sight and the sounds of their affliction. Strung-out on Café World, with a stupid grin and a 10 thousand yard stare on their face. The Boss has blinders on making him the mother of all enablers. Denial is not a river in Egypt kids. But for me to sit here and preach would be hypocritical for I was a user too. Luckily I found a way out and cleaned up. I’m on the methadone of Social Networks (texting and e-mail) it’s a tough road and every now and then I fall off the wagon. I’ll post a narcissistic quip on my status and use the logic that “ I’ll just do it this one time to show that stay-at-home mom Nancy that she is not all that.”
So as cabbage and sheep get delivered in virtual land on the left of me and machine guns and soup get doled out on the right, my workload has quadrupled. That’s not virtual. That’s reality.

Tags: addiction,facebook,myspace,cafe world, farmville

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