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‘Good Communication Skills’? Oh, We’ll See About That

Well, that went… um, less well than before.

Certainly, much thanks and sloppy love to the folks who came by to try their hand at this week’s Punchline Fever. Unfortunately, it was less than a gaggle this week. More like a smattering. A sweet, hilarious, much appreciated smattering, but a smattering nonetheless. Well, we’ll give it another shot next week. Maybe next time, I’ll mention boobies or something. I don’t know.

Anyway, I am giganta-glad to have this week over with. You ever have one of those weeks where you stumble home on Friday night, bleary-eyed and exhausted, dragging your poopered ass-cheeks behing you?

(That’s ‘poopered’, by the way, not ‘poopy’. You got hygeine problems ’round back, that’s your own problem. Maybe move to the two-ply stuff. It costs a little more, but I think you’re worth it.)

In any case, I had one of those weeks this week, and I’m wiped out. (And just for the record, ‘wiped up’ as well. Ain’t no problem in my underpants.) And yet, I got next to nothing accomplished. I went to work every day, and I sat in my little meetings, and I typed on my little keyboard, and I wrote my little notes on my little sticky pieces of paper… but this week, it just didn’t seem to matter. I got the same shit on my ‘In’ list, and no shit on my ‘Out’ list, and there’s a whole fricking week of my life that I’m never gonna have back.

Okay, so it wasn’t quite that bad. There were a couple of pretty tasty lunches in there somewhere, and I zinged a few people at work. You know, when they needed it. Ooh, plus, I got to interview somebody, which is always a good time.

Seriously, interviews are the only time in life when you get to ask any sort of stupid, assheaded, blenderbrained question you want, and nobody can call you on it. We even do tag-team interviews, where two or more of us team up on a poor ‘candidate’ at one time. And I can still ask whatever the fuck I want, with total impugnity. I am King God during interviews — all will bow before my cryptic line of questioning!

Think about it. Is the fool in the suit looking for a job gonna give me a funny look? No. No way. He or she’s just worried about kissing ass, looking good, and making sure there’s no spinach between their teeth. I’ve been in that seat; if you get asked about how your grandma’s hairy nipples made you feel, then dammit, you figure it out, right there on the spot. You spin yourself a furry nana boobie tale, and hope it makes you sound smart. Anything’s fair game; it’s an interview.

And whoever else is in there with me grilling the person can’t say anything, either. Maybe I’m one of those people who ‘thinks outside the box’. Who’s to say that finding out how a prospective employee feels about pants made from stitched-together cinnamon buns isn’t valuable? I’m sure it says something about teamwork, or initiative, or sheer, raving insanity. Something important, anyway. It’s all about the lateral thinking.

So that was fun, at least. But the rest of the week was just one bewildering clusterfuck after another. I’m pretty sure there was a guy standing outside my office, giving out numbers to people waiting in line to walk in and yell, ‘Booga! Booga! Booga!‘ at me. (Ooh, hey, come to think of it, I should try that. We’re interviewing another couple of people next week.)

But now it’s all over. For the next forty-eight magial hours, there is no work. There’s only sleep, and beer, and Selection Sunday for my Syracuse hoops squad. Yeah, yeah, plus sixty-odd other teams, but really, they’re not important. It’s all about the Orangemen. And the lateral thinking. Orangemen, and lateral thinking. Nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition.

All right, I see that my exhaustion is catching up to me. I’m starting to run this entry like an interview. And around here, I don’t hold quite the same sway as in the little room where I can dangle the prospect of gainful employment over someone’s head. So I’d better wrap this up before the peanut gallery pipes up and gives me a hard time. That’s the last thing I need this weekend. I’m hitting the sack. Maybe I’ll make more sense tomorrow.

Hey, shut up! I can dream, dammit!