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I Thought Work Was Supposed to Be Fun

You know, some people are just never damned happy.

I’ve got a meeting with my boss, every Monday morning. Three weeks ago, he said he had ‘concerns’. Apparently, they really want me to show up at the office for eight hours, every weekday. I thought that was just a suggestion — nobody really does that, right? Well, nobody’s told him, and he was miffed. Probably pissed that he’s the only one there at nine am, and five in the evening. Lonely guy, I suppose.

So, I started showing up early. Sure, I had to fricking sleep in the office to get there by nine, but every day, when the boss got in, there I was. Drooling on my keyboard, usually. The ‘L’ key still doesn’t work right — but I was there, dammit. And I stay for eight hours, too. Nap till ten, coffee break at eleven, then lunch, a snack, an afternoon siesta, a walk down to the water cooler — it almost makes it bearable. Who knew eight hours in the office could be so much fun?

Then, two weeks ago, he told me he was ‘troubled’. Apparently, it’s not enough for me to be in the office for half my waking life. Now, he tells me I’m supposed to be at my desk for most of that time. Why not just dress me in stripes and chain me to the radiator? But rules are rules, and the guy does sign my paycheck, right?

So, I started hitting the mall before work every day. First, I showed up with a PlayStation. And sat at my desk with it, all day. Just like he asked. When I got bored with that, it was a dartboard. Then, a karaoke machine. And lawn darts. And Twister. And finally, a mini-fridge. Sure, the liquor store wasn’t open when I brought the thing in, but I managed to stock it with beer later in the day. Hey, I still get a lunch break; I know my rights. And things were going just swimmingly at that point.

And then, last week, he said he had ‘serious reservations’. Whether about my sanity, or my continued employment, he didn’t say. Maybe it was because I’d started doing tequila body shots off the cleaning lady — I don’t know. But he did mention that I was apparently supposed to be working, while I was there. At the office. Sitting at my desk. For eight hours. Sheesh. Can you say, ‘control freak’? But what’re you gonna do?

So, I buckled down. I ditched the lawn darts, sold the PlayStation, and gave the beer to the cleaning lady. And frankly, she earned it — tequila with just a hint of Pine-Sol is the only way to drink it, folks. Anyway, I did away with all of that, cleaned off my desk, and buckled down. I coded like a madman. I programmed morning, noon, and night. I built server software and search engines, registration gadgets and login widgets, file-access doodads and high-speed switchers. And finally, when I was finished… well, we had the best damned porn site on the whole freaking internet. I even loaded it up with some of my secret stash — naughty nannies, erotic emus, and perky, perverted Powerpuff Girls, you name it. I was so proud — and strangely excited, too. Of course, the boss wasn’t so happy, given that I work for a hospital. Hey, patients need porn, too, right? Apparently not.

So now today, he told me he’s ‘disappointed’. Now, he wants me to work on shit that I’m supposed to be working on. Like, actual projects — nonsense like that. And I don’t know what the hell I’m gonna do now. Honestly, I think I’ve met him more than halfway here. I’ll say it again — some people are just never damned happy. Sheesh. This is bullshit, man. I need a vacation.