THE NEW GUY

A bird shat upon my head as I was walking to my car this morning.

Not tiny Sparrow poop that you can easily flick off, but Seagull poop that came at me in waves. First there was the “messenger” wave that hit me, saying, “Hey buddy, this is only the beginning. You’re about to really get it.” Then the second and third waves came, hitting my hair, jacket, and tie. Not a good thing to happen when you’re running late for your first day at a new job as Sales Manager.

It’s funny how they say that when a bird doth shit upon thee, good luck is sure to follow for the next seven years. After the events of the past year, I no longer believe in luck, unless of course the letters B-A-D are sitting directly up front with their seatbelts securely fastened. Although someone did once say that a fine line separates bad luck and stupidity. Does this make me stupid? (no need to answer)

I should be preparing for my introductory meeting instead of talking about my misadventures this morning with the Seagull/upside down fire hydrant, but I think I’m going to play it cool. If I throw my six month plan at them my first day it will freak them out, and besides, I don’t really want to be “that” guy, do I? Instead I think I’ll use the age old, lead by example method, that’s produced the numbers for me in the past. It’s not exactly what I pitched to THE BOSS in the interview, but he’s from Planet 80’s. My money says that rule number five on the Secret Santa gift exchange is a direct result of his brilliance, or lack thereof.

I didn’t come here to take his job, but it may very well wind up falling into my lap. That would be nice after the events of this past year. Speaking of which… so far, so good. With these new glasses, no one seems to recognize me. Brilliant idea on my sister’s part, me thinks.

OUR HEROINE

by Lucy

I know I should be happy with my fat holiday bonus check. (Only $6,000 left on the fucking Mastercard!!) I know I should be happy that my parents are awesome people, who let me live in their house for free. I should be happy I got a sterling 360 degree review, and that in two short years I'll have an MBA from UCLA ... PAID FOR by fucking X Corp. And I'll be able to go move anywhere I want and live a decent lifestyle that I can actually afford.

But I need arms.

This is my latest theory. The Arms Theory.

You can be totally fine on your own. And you are! You really are. You have your girlfriends for laughs. You pay for your own jeans and happy hours. You get plenty of exercise. You read books. Good books! You see movies by yourself, and people say it's 'bold,' not depressing. Your cute little bulldog, George Clooney, sleeps at the foot of your bed every night. You have plenty of presents under the Christmas tree. Who NEEDS a man? All they add is heartache and periodic groping. Seriously, you are doing FINE without one.

But some nights you just want arms. They makes you feel safe, you know? When they snuggle you. It feels like everything will be OK. And you don't have to be ON all the time. You can just relax.

Unfortunately, all the arms that have held me have belonged to communication-challenged, emotional nimwits with wandering eyes. But if I could just find a nice, sweet pair ... *sigh* Maybe I should ask Santa for a cozy duvet cover??

Holy fuck. Who am I going to bring to the fucking holiday party.

THE INTERN

Help plan the holiday party? More like help plan the helliday party. If only THE LIFER's ass wasn't grafted to her office chair maybe she'd be able to handle this on her own. But then again my dad always says if you want something done you have to do it yourself. So I guess this tells us a little bit about THE LIFER's work ethic now, doesn't it? She obviously doesn't care about her job (otherwise I wouldn't have to take care of her crap work). Ya know, I bet she would benefit from watching a few episodes of G.I. Joe. The show really teaches so many quality take-home messages! She could really learn from at least watching the last 3 minutes of each episode… I thank my lucky stars that my parents made me watch every show about 26 times and have a fully developed sense of ethics and principles.

I wonder if we'll have an open bar at the party?

I ALSO wonder whose brilliant decision it was to make me THE LIFER's personal slave? Doesn't anyone remember that the whole slavery issue was resolved on December 10, 1997 when Amistad came out?? Besides, the only time I've ever had to help plan anything was when Jessie Jean broke her back (lame excuse) and made me take over organizing our dance team's Spirit Fingers workshop.

OH. EM. GEE. Shut the FRONT DOOR! Did she really just tell me that?? I'm in shock and am completely mortified.

While I was just slaving over the guest list and THE LIFER waddled past and SNORTED at me! She apparently found it very amusing that I was making myself an invitation to the party. She just leaned over, crossed my name off the list, and chuckled to herself as she popped in another cheese puff. Why the F'ing H don't interns get invited to holiday parties??? I. Am. Speechless.

After eating at this party these people better pray they have their doctors on speed-dial.

THE BOSS

Hello, little fly. My, but aren’t you slow, lazy and glistening with fat? While I lay motionless on my Eames chaise returning from the fifth level of Transcendental consciousness, you buzz above my nose as if it’s a landing pad, unaware that I’m watching your every move.

Musca domestica, named for the pheromone muscalare that stimulates swarming and sexual attraction. Since the Cenozoic era you’ve survived by feeding parasitically from the shit of evolved species. Which brings me to the 360’s.

A recap in brief:

THE LIFER: Four-F...Fat, fumbling, frumpy, with Fun-bags. Wildly unproductive and yet, still oddly alluring.
JUST GRADUATED!: Cute as a button, clumsy as an ox, as full of rah-rah newbie nonsense as a greeting card.
AGING FRAT GUY: All the acumen of a tub of Bar Cheese left out in the midday sun.
KISSASS: The Baryshnikov of brown-nosing, Mickey Mantle of Machiavellianism, and Oliver Wendell Holmes of horseshit.
THE SECRETARY: Strong oral skills; lousy at communication.
Lucy: Surprisingly competent while grossly in need of a good deprogramming to get her on board with X Corp-think.

And now, little fly, the question is WWGPD? What Would George Patton Do?

Why, I believe the general would’ve used the opportunity of the upcoming holiday party to give these chuckleheads the gift of a bull-nosed, bullet-headed sergeant to kick their lily asses. In the corporate world, we call it a Manager. Yes, I’ve got one picked out and yes, he took the job.

And now the son-of-a-bitch had better get these malcontented misfits in line or -

BZZ-BZZ

- Gotcha!

I’ll get him, too.

Subject: Secret Santa Ground Rules

December 12, 2007
2:23 PM
From: ANNOYING E-MAIL NAZI
To: X-Corp Staff
Subject: Secret Santa Ground Rules


Due to the disappointing results of last year's Secret Santa gift exchange, it has become necessary to lay down a few ground rules to govern this year's spontaneous expressions of holiday cheer. If you recall, last year's Secret Santa exchange resulted in no less than three lawsuits. Let's try to get that down to a more manageable number this year, shall we?

These rules are to be followed:

1. Participation in the Secret Santa gift exchange is mandatory. We don't care what religion you are. No one here believes in Santa, either.
2. No regifting from last year. That blown-glass Christmas ornament in the shape of a pickle does not need to be given to yet another employee. No one cares about the German tradition of finding the pickle in the Christmas tree. Leave it at home.
3. No firearms, fireworks, or other flammable/incendiary devices. This includes inert grenades, as well. We simply cannot take your word for it that the grenade you got from the bargain bin at Military Bob's Surplus is inert. The fire department did not enjoy their unscheduled trip to X Corp last year.
4. You may not place Secret Santa gifts on your expense accounts.
5. No matter how well you think you know your co-workers, lingerie is always an inappropriate Secret Santa gift.
6. NO strippers or lap dances, no matter how festive their Santa hats and boots may be.

Now that we're clear on the rules, let's look forward to a super Secret Santa gift exchange this year. Thanks in advance for your cooperation, and happy holidays.

:)

Subject: Email revocation

From: THE BOSS
To: IT GUY
Cc: CRUSTY HR LADY
Sent: 12/20/2007 2:04:12 pm
Subject: Email revocation

IT GUY:
Moments ago I returned to my office after a grueling afternoon of 360 reviews to find a handwritten note taped to my door. Being both a pioneer and apostle of the wireless industry, I despise anything handwritten. And tape, too.

In that note, THE KISSASS explained in the most wheedling of tones how you revoked his email privileges based on section 8, paragraph 7 of the X Corp Company IT policy, i.e., use of profanity in company e-mail is forbidden. While this is true, there is also the unwritten rule of X Corp that trumps everything else: I am THE BOSS and what I say goes.

To that end, reinstate email privileges for THE KISSASS immediately. Yes, he’s a weird and wormy little sycophant, and that’s just why his clients love him. And why his numbers are almost twice as high as everyone else’s.

By the way, the next time you make a decision like that without consulting me first based on the use of profanity in an email, you’d better fucking think fucking long and fucking hard be-fucking-for you fucking do it. But then, we can discuss this fucking issue in your 360.

You’re fucking next.

THE BOSS

AGING FRAT DUDE

So my 360 review didn't exactly go as I had planned. First off, I never got to roll out the finely crafted business plan for our department after I spent all of last night doing shots with the guy who lives in the apartment next to me. He runs a web business. I could so work at home like that.

Any way, my cheeks aren't in the chair in THE BOSS's office for 60 seconds before he reads a whole bunch of comments about me from co-workers. Supposedly.

"Your coworkers' comments in no particular order..." THE BOSS tells me:

--"'Mister Delta Kappa who gives a Crappa.'
--'I'm surprised the guy still has thumbs considering the time he spends playing computer games.'
--'He generally smells like ass gravy.'"

That's what my scum-sucking, puss-popping BOSS says to me. Not even behind my back but right to my face. How insensitive. Half the office lights up cigarettes outside on break but I can't bust a few grumpies at my desk? Since when is farting illegal? And I'm the only one who does it, right?

Stupid liberals.

If I had been thinking, I would have said right then and there that I have videotape of him and his secretary playing a "Hide the Salami" (just realized I haven't played that game since college), but I didn't say that because the camera battery was dead by the time I pulled it out that one time I saw them doing it. Or maybe they were just talking.

Damn it, I should have bluffed. Damn it. Damn it. Damn it.

And then on my way out the door THE BOSS says he knows I've been using office copiers to print out fliers for my bi-weekly "Margarita Madness" nights.

Um, yeah. That's why they're called "copiers." You want me to draw up signs by hands? That would take hours.

That's it. I am so out of this place. I'm going to Kinko's right after this and running off a few copies of my resume and this time I'm actually sending them out.

Oh, here's my 360 review for the IT GUY. Fix the color copier. It's out of magenta.