I mentioned a few days ago that I had to move to a new building at work. Actually, our whole group moved — close to twenty people, packing our crap and moving our stuff and stuffing Post-Its into our pockets, like squirrels stocking up nuts for winter. So this week is our ‘settling in’ period, where we unpack everything and figure out what’s all screwed up. And there’s a lot that’s screwed up, people. Observe.
First of all, I’ve got a new officemate now. And the movers got our boxes o’ crap mixed up, which means we inadvertently swapped our secret stashes of naughty piccies. Which is embarrassing at best, but to make things worse, the dude is apparently into gay pygmy porn. And really — Verne Troyer in a Zulu costume, bent over a wildebeest? I don’t see how that helps anyone, frankly. I just hope I can get my ‘Angela Lansbury Money Shot’ calendar back. Rrrrrrrowr!
(Yeah, yeah, I know — that’s bad, isn’t it? Every time I tell that joke, God clubs a baby seal or something. Probably.)
Anyway, that’s bad enough, but it’s just the tip of the iceberg. They also managed to switch my phone number with the girl’s down the hall. And now her boyfriend keeps calling my desk — breathing heavy, talking dirty, asking me what I’m wearing… it’s creepy, dammit.
Still — I think I’m gonna do him. I’m not gay, personally, but that bitch stole my stapler on the day we moved. I’ve got to get her back somehow.
Finally, my chair didn’t make it to the new office. I was pretty disappointed with that — I’ve spent months squeezing my assprint into that thing, and it was just starting to get comfy. But the worst part is, there weren’t any chairs available in the new place. No proper chairs, anyway. Some dude came around and tried to talk us into taking some of those ridiculous ergonomic monstronsities from a few years ago. I didn’t know those things were even around any more — and I hadn’t thought about them since I mentioned them in my very first post here, almost two years ago. If you’ll allow myself to quote… myself:
‘Who designed that thing, anyway? ‘It’s good for your back’, they said. ‘It’s good for your back, it’s good for your back…’, like a bunch of Day of the Dead extras. Is having a ‘good back’ really worth sitting like a knock-kneed emu for eight hours a day? I’ll take the scoliosis and slipped discs, thank you very much…‘
(Ah, good times. I haven’t changed a bit, eh? I’ve got no more talent, just as little subtlety, and I’m getting paid the same damned big bunch of nothing. Just a couple of years older, and further out of shape, is all. Exxxxxcellent. Oh, this is working out swimmingly.)
Anyway, these ‘chairs’ were even worse, because they came with wheels. Wheels! I just looked at the guy, kneeling on the thing and rolling around the room to demonstrate, and said:
‘Buddy, you couldn’t pay me to sit in that thing. That’s not a chair — it’s a mobile blowjob station.‘
That pretty much put the kibosh on that little show-and-tell. Sure, I got called into the boss’ office to talk about ‘inappropriate behavior’ and ‘poor attitude’ and ‘double-secret probation’… blah blah blah. It was still worth it. Even if my officemate took one of the damned things. He’s a little weird that way — I’ll have to keep an eye on that guy. Especially since I’ll apparently be sitting on the floor next to him until they get me a chair — and remember, he’s into the ‘little people’. Pygmy porn, indeed.Permalink | 3 Comments