Make Sure To Order Your Horse Meat Before The Holiday Rush

Got up early today to catch some OT at work. It's raining in Iowa today which means our family will probably be stuck indoors all day long, except for boring errands and house cleaning.

I have obviously chose to avoid both.

I worked hard. To reward myself, I decided to post the following silly item in the area break room, known around the place as "Java Bars."

The phone number doesn't work, but I think if you change the area code to "419" it goes to a Adult Movie Theater House.

If it's too hard to read, here's a transcript:

"Succulent Tasty Horse Meat For Sale Now taking orders for this mouth-watering delicacy. Available in quantities of 10 to 50 lbs. Delivered to your home. Please call the number below to place your order today! Also available: smaller quantities of boneless donkey meat. Order before the holiday rush."

Fun In The Cubicle: Don't Rock The Jukebox

There’s a guy at work-a totally sweet and jovial dude about my age-who fronts a country cover band on the weekends. They’ve been at it in one way or another for a good twenty years or so and they’ve progressed from their humble beginnings as a reliable, small town bar band into a much older, reliable, small town bar band.

They’re terrible.

And I mean that in the kindest way possible, but it’s also hard to understand why after so many years you don’t happen to notice that your band is incredibly awful.

They’re wonderfully goofy looking, the kind of image that could be used as one of those “Worst Album Covers Of All Time” web sites, under the “Embarrassing Promotional Band Photos” tab.

To top it off, my co-worker talks about his band constantly. To whoever walks by his desk. So at the end of the day I positively loathe his band, even when I’ve never actually seen them play live.

You may ask “Then where do you get off talking shit about his band if you’ve never seen them play?”

To which I will correct you by saying “I never told you I’d never ‘seen them,’ but I did say I’d never seen them play live!”

The truth is: there’s You Tube footage of them.

Out of respect for a guy that has his heart in the right place and is someone I spend an inordinate amount of time with on any given weekday, I will not be posting information about his band or links to that previously hinted footage.

I will only say that anyone who gets on stage and plays in front of a crowd with just a little bit of heart, has my utmost respect.

And having said that, it gives me every right in the world to still formulate an opinion of them and slightly ridicule them if the moment is so deserving.

A local radio station recently gave area country bands a chance to do an American Idol contest, one in which the winner would get to open up for country star Alan Jackson when he makes a local stop in my city this summer. I think it’s for our annual 4^th of July celebrations, the same ones that were pretty decimated by floods back in 2008.

The festival is limping back to light, and Alan Jackson is just about the same mid-level name recognition that they had in years past. I think the dude from Styx and the dude from Chicago made a stop here once.

Anyway, my co-worker sent in an audition tape and his band got chosen. Like I said, he talked incessantly about this, and how he was nervous, and how this could be his band’s big break, and how he needed to save his voice to better prepare for the show.

I shit you not: this is a guy that normally sings two thirty song sets for any normal country joint performance who’s now concerned about his throat for a three-song performance in a new country bar downtown, judged by a trio of minor celebrities, like the mid-day radio dj at the country station.

Or maybe it was the morning-drive guy.

This “save my voice” bullshit is the kind of nonsense that I get to hear. Everyday. Nonstop.

“Good luck!” I say on the day of the show, half genuinely and half with a desire to have him report back on Monday that he and his bandmates were forced to dodge a barrage of AA batteries from the crowd.

Like I said, he’s likeable enough for me not to make that a “D” battery image.

They got through the first round, but I’m sad to report that they lost in the semi-annual round, which means that those minor celebrity judges was playing fair.

One judge wrote that their drummer messed up during “Sweet Home Alabama,” a charge my co-worker disputes.

That’s the story, and it has nothing to do with the photo attached to this post.

Yes, our going away present was a sixer of Fat Tire...and tuneage.

No, what you see there is a picture of my co-worker singing to the manager of my department who recently resigned because we all work in a fairly shitty company.

As you can tell, he’s really getting into the performance, a trait that he exudes even when singing to some of the more tenured ladies in our area.

My former business manager is trying her best to look excited when all she really wanted to do was to get the fuck out of there. She’s slyly snagged his cowboy hat and provides a little clapping rhythm while he gets on his knees, the brief performance in the corner of the cafeteria.

When my co-worker was lobbying other co-workers to come down to watch his band during their inaugural performance of the “Get A Half-Hour Opening Slot Before The Opening Band Of Alan Jackson” contest, I would have put my odds at 25% of me attending. The show was free, but my time is valuable, so to rustle enough energy for me to drive from the ‘burbs to the downtown (now with double the violence!) to work my way in a country bar was very implausible.

So I made some posters for my co-worker instead.

I found the snapshot of the going away party performance from the week prior and crudely wrote “Tuneage” on it. I then began to put them up on the cubicle walls in our area, some empty and some occupied by other co-workers. I picked the ones that I knew wouldn’t seem to mind lending a spare wall and those that also my find humor in it.

My musician neighbor did not seem to understand why, but I assured him that it was all in good fun and that it was promoting his performance that evening. He seemed to tolerate that explanation even though-as you can see in the picture-it doesn’t list a damn thing about his event.

It just declares “Tuneage.”

I’m proud to note that some co-workers have even made requests for duplicates of this “flier” and that a copy for you can be secured for the unbelievable price of $9.95 plus $9.95 shipping and handling. It comes on office-worthy 8 X 11 copy paper and printed in stunning black and white.

Supplies are limited, so act now.

Letter To Dianne

So I’m digging around in my file cabinet in the garage and I come across the following letter that I’d written over three years ago.

Again, for those readers that need to be brought up to speed, I spend a tremendous amount of time making sure people get their money. Sometimes, that conversation can be challenging and sometimes it’s hard not to take it personally-particularly if you’re really working hard at getting these people their money and you have to deal with company nonsense while the customer is screaming at you.

I deal primarily with members of my organization now, but it wasn’t too long ago that I was dealing directly with the customers. During that role, I initially dealt with affluent customers, and then I switched to the complete opposite: people that could barely formulate sentences and would ask me for loans of ridiculous amounts, like $50.

Below is a woman named Dianne that I spoke with in September of 2008. I can’t remember the exact nature of Dianne’s call, other than she was elderly, lived in Glendale, AZ, and that I needed to get her husband’s permission to allow me to speak to her about his account with us.

Dianne didn’t like that.

She relented and I got the authorization from her husband, an extremely polite man, given whom he was married.

After providing her with the information, Dianne neglected to hand up the phone properly, so I took the liberty of listening in on her and her husband’s existence. Dianne was apparently doing the household bookkeeping that day, paying bills and balancing the checkbook, and she was doing this while completely drunk.

I noticed it during my conversation with her. She was slurring her words a bit and getting irate at the most simple of logic. Like the fact that I needed to get her husband’s authorization because she was not the owner of the account.

With our business complete, she went back to her bookkeeping, and she was barely into the task, her husband returned to ask where something was.

That’s when the fireworks started.

Through the phone I could hear Dianne completely rip into her husband for breaking her concentration. She evidently was doing the old fashion check ledger vs. calculator thing, because his question caused her to lose her place in her calculations and she proceeded to belittle him for the next five minutes.

Occasionally, I would hear him respond, but it did him no good.

His pleading was only met with more drunken shenanigans, layered with enough angry vitriol that he never could make it to the end of his sentences.

And the best part? All of this was before noon in my Central Time Zone. This meant that they hadn’t even reached 10:00am in Glendale, Arizona.

For these customers that bring a bit of extreme negativity to my world, I will sometimes reward them with a letter. My letters come from a variety of sources, but all are created to confuse, anger, or cause some kind of emotional rebuttal that will hopefully impact their day with the same amount of negative energy that they have inflicted on me.

Thankfully, for the benefit of you readers, one of these letters survived and never got delivered.

I present to you my letter to Dianne.

P.S.: All of the swearing you see below is nothing compared to the sailor mouth profanity that I heard coming from her mouth as she yelled at her husband. In closing, she lamented that she would now have to make a special trip to the bank to get her “shit squared away” because her husband’s interruption made it impossible to continue with balancing the checkbook.

P.S.S.: I’m proud that I included “2541 Hennepin Avenue, Minneapolis, MN” as the return address. Wonder if she was a Husker fan.

September 10, 2008

Dianne T.
63XX W. WXXXXX Road
Glendale, AZ 85304

Dianne:

Are you tired of having to go t the bank to get your shit squared away?

Me too.

My husband was always bugging me when I tried to balance the checkbook, causing me endless recalculations and numerous errors. I could barely figure out the fucking thing on my own, and I sure as hell couldn’t figure out the goddamn thing with my cocksucker of a husband asking me “Honey, where are all the batteries?”

How the fuck should I know where the batteries are?! Find them yourself, Richard!

Anyway, I recently changed banks and I wanted to let you know about some of the exciting services that Bank of America are now offering that I think you’d find as beneficial.

Bank of America has recently introduced an easy to use online banking service that provides a running balance of all of my accounts so that I never have to use a goddamn calculator ever again.

Now if they could only help my piece of shit husband find those batteries!

I would encourage you to call Bank of America to have them begin the easy process of transferring funds from your existing institution over to them.

Once the accounts are closed, Bank of America will begin to get your shit squared away.

Sincerely,

Betty Cosgrove
Wife of that cocksucker Richard

Welcome To The Monkey House: The Company Christmas Party 2011

Last night was my company’s Christmas party.

Once a majestic event where over 1,500 employees would cram into a local Marriot, eat shitty chicken and feast on the free beer and wine, this year proved to be a less than exciting event.

First of all, there were only 1,200 RSVP’s returned this year, which I’d like to associate with the rising discontent that has infected our company.

What happens when you try to do more with less?

Welcome to the monkey house!

I seriously believe that most major corporations like today’s economic climate because they can shovel shit onto the workers and then follow it with a menacing “And what are you gonna do about it”

And who wants to go to a party hosted by bullies.

I haven’t been to our holiday party for a few years now, mainly because I always wished after the party that my wife and I would have used the babysitter time for dinner and a movie instead.

We always end up the karaoke room because it’s the first place people go when they start to feel loosey goosey.

And from there, it’s only one more Bud Light until a stunning rendition of “Sweet Child Of Mine.”

This year, the stunning rendition was Bon Jovi’s “Wanted Dead Or Alive” courtesy of my young friend who works in the cafeteria. He had the thing planned in advance and after a few beers he made his way to the stage.

“Are there any Bon Jovi fans out there?” he asked the crowd, receiving a few legitimate cheers in return.

“Then you may want to leave.”

It was intentionally horrific, accented by plenty of f-bombs, particularly the “I’m fuckin’ wanted…” during the chorus.

Then there was my supervisor’s boyfriend, a man who apparently ran a karaoke service of his own, which made him extremely comfortable with going up repeatedly for hard rock songs like “Rebel Yell,” “Sad But True,” and a Marilyn Manson song that he kept threatening us at the table with.

“I’m serious!” he threatened, “I’m gonna go up there and do some Manson!”

After an hour, that threat became a reality, causing even the karaoke DJ to comment how he was making yet another appearance to the stage.

There was also the obligatory chubby girl with the “great” voice that had a contingency of fans/friends who only needed to press her a few times before she made her way up to the stage for her signature version of “I’ve Never Been To Spain.”

The crowd cheered at her talent, which meant that she’d milked the adulation for another 45 minutes before she trotted up the stage again for her version of Tracy Chapman’s “Give Me One Reason.”

“Oh! She’s good!” offered the Puerto Rican girl on my team after the Chapman selection proved to be a winner amongst the ladies.

I’ve probably only been to a half-dozen karaoke’s in my life, and I think I’ve heard “Give Me One Reason” at probably all of them.

There was the butchy lesbian that sang an Usher song (I point this out because one of my co-workers in her 60's was not entirely convinced of the gender), a gaggle of drunk girls that sang the horrific local favorite “Iowa Gurls,” and a long-haired IT guy that barked out AC/DC’s “Dirty Deeds Done Dirty Cheap,” including a pointless “RAWR!” at the end, just to remind you that he’d memorized every nuance of Bon Scott’s delivery.

But it was my boss’ insistence that her chubby, forty-year old boyfriend wasn’t “that bad” as he wailed away on the Marilyn Manson version of “Sweet Dreams” that prompted me to look down at my imaginary watch and declare “Oh! Look what time it is!” much to the delight of my wife, who was probably ready to leave an hour before.

We returned home where I enjoyed a cold slice of Dominos pizza to make up for the bland Coconut Breaded Chicken that was on the menu for the festivities’ tropical theme.

So even though the chicken entree was woefully dry, was the musical entertainment good enough to go back again next year?

I dunno.

It depends on if someone who’s seen a million faces will “fuckin’ rock them all” as an encore.

Mouth Bleeding...Pants Unbuttoned

Here's a letter I wrote at work today.

The incident and the people involved are totally fictional.

I'm not easily riled at work, but sometimes people deserve a little bit of insanity for the way they treat other people who are trying to help them.

And then there are people who show up in the news for something stupid they did while drunk.

For that, I'm happy to share the incident with their parents in the form of a letter.

It's worth the 44 cents.

George XXXX
XXX N. Governor St
Iowa City, IA 52245

James A XXXXX
XXXXX Mayher Dr.
Orland Park, IL 60467

Mr. XXXXX:

Last week,your son James kept hitting me about the face, intensely intoxicated, and would not provide me with any reason of why he was using violence against me. He would swear at me right before using a closed fist to strike me. Two teeth came out after it was all over; my dentist will replace them with artificial ones, but I would just like to know why he beat me.

I’ve never met your son before. Why does he hate me so? Why did he hit me? What have I ever done to him?

I couldn’t leave my home for three days. I was an emotional wreck. The headaches passed after the fourth day, but the mental trauma is too deep to leave me. I keep thinking he’s watching out for me behind the tree, ready to pounce.

For a moment as he was hitting me, I could see in his eyes that he would have continued to punish me had he not gotten up and ran back into a local tavern. I gathered my things that I dropped after the first punch knocked me down and went home. I put my broken teeth in my pocket in case the dentist needed them.

Please, make him come home so that I can walk the streets of my town without fear of his vicious retribution against me. I don’t even know him, but I’m sure he will strike again, lashing out at me for God knows what. I’m dreadfully frightened and I’m sure my next beating will be more severe.

I just don’t understand why this young man has chosen me as his victim.

I pray that he will stop punching me. I fear my heart will stop after his next attack.

Any help you can provide would be appreciated.

Sincerely,

George XXXX

And My Mind Goes Back To A Girl I Met Some Years Ago...

Oh 38 Special, there’s a “special” place in my heart for you.

You were part of the very first concert I ever saw-an event that I am currently working on a piece for as it just celebrated the 30th anniversary of the show. An anniversary that I thought I should capture as it also managed to make me feel old.

Wild Eyed Southern Boys was the album.

It’s the one with “Hold On Loosely,” a song-along with the gem “Rockin’ Into The Night” from their previous album-that I thoroughly enjoyed back in the day.

That’s right. I was stoked that I was about to see 38 Special.

At the same time, there were a couple of things I thought was stupid about the band even at the tender age of 14.

One was a song called “Back Alley Sally” from Wild Eyed Southern Boys.

It’s stupid. And it reminded me of a joke that I heard a classmate tell me and some other friends in the 6th grade. I’m not going to tell you the joke, because it’s not funny. It involves a prostitute by the name of “Sandpaper Sally” (hence the comparison to “Back Alley Sally”) and the scabs she possessed.

My stomach is churning now, which I believe is the intent of the “Sandpaper Sally” joke: to not necessarily funny in the sense of a traditional joke, but to be so gross to the point where the humor lies in the person telling it, because it’s funny to see people on the verge of vomiting I guess.

The other thing that I hated about Wild Eyed Southern Boys was the cover. It was a pathetic cartoon depiction of a woman wearing short-shorts walking up to the bar while the scraggly members of 38 Special ogled her figure.

Why don’t I just show you the cover rather than describe it.



See?

Stupid.

And even at 14, I knew it was dumb.

It’s probably why I never bought another 38 Special album ever again, even though I did kind of dig that “Teacher, Teacher” song from some dumb movie and that one that goes “What if I’d been the one to say goodbye.”

At work, we have a gentleman around my age that sits in my department and sings for a country rock band. He loves the sound of his own voice, so that means he breaks out in song on a daily basis.

Another co-worker recently came up and advised me that this gentleman had recently had a photo shoot with his band, and that they were trying to “recreate some cover by 38 Special.

Now the person that told me this didn’t have the foggiest notion of what album cover it was for, but I did.

I knew immediately.

And I will share it with you now.

The Baker's Dozen of Things My Co-Workers Overheard Me Say In 2010

My job is a drag.

I don't let it bum me out too much; I do things to keep things interesting and all of my aggravation leaves my body as I walk to the car every night.

But during the weekdays, you can find me speaking to a variety of different people. From the dumb and poor to the rich and stupid, it takes all kinds and it takes a patient man to listen to some of the bullshit that I have to listen to.

I don't exaggerate when I say that I do with two primary things: money and death. It can be a challenge sometimes, which is why my finger is frequently on my mute button so that I can smart back to some rude and abrasive fuck or poke fun at some amazingly stupid people.

And I don't mean stupid as in low intelligence. I mean stupid as in having too much of an ego to consider logic. I can confirm there is a new level of retardedness in this country and there are a lot of really mean people in this world who like nothing more than to take their personal frustrations on others and who think that it's everybody else's fault but their own.

Still, it beats managing retail, for sure, and a lot of that is due to the fact that I have a mute button.

Someone actually saved some of the comments they overheard me say to people on the phone-mute button on, of course-during the past year. I received a copy of some of these and have narrowed it down to my top 13.

A Baker's Dozen of smartass remarks=all of them true-compiled without my knowledge and now said to be moving around in other departments.

Reportedly, there is also a rumor that these comments led to my termination, which isn't the case since no one on the receiving end heard any of these.

But because of this, I have toned down the rhetoric just in case someone important happens to be listening to my shenanigans.

1.) “Yes m’am we put the wrong policy number on your statement. That’s how we like to do things. It’s actually a mass conspiracy against you. You know like the people who killed Kennedy.”

2.) “Thanks Cindy…lay off the Nyquil.”

3.) “You keep talking to me like that and I’m gonna take you to Granite City for dinner.”

4.) “Well we encourage you to pay back the interest so the loan doesn’t keep getting bigger OR you can just keep talking and not listen….that’s fine too.”

5.) “You’re kind of a miserable fellow aren’t you?”

6.) “Those are savings bonds m’am…..you threw them away? You just threw away money. They’re like checks from the government and you discarded them?”*

7.) “Sure sir, I’m glad I could help…Now take that cookie out of your mouth right now.”

8.) “Excuse me Marilyn? Can you turn down the Maury Povich show?”

9.) “Excuse me m’am…are you in some type of other universe where what you’re saying actually makes sense?”

10.) “Thank you have a nice day….and go change that battery in your fire detector.”

11.) “Yeah after Kurt Warner threw that touchdown in the Super Bowl, I pooped my pants.”**

12.) “I’m uncomfortable explaining how to sell a product to an agent who’s licensed to sell that product.”

13.) “Yes my name is Todd…..but you can call me Carl.”

* I actually didn't have the phone muted on this one.

** This is almost true. I made this huge Super Bowl spread for my family and after ingesting a large amount of fancy cheese, crackers, and other snack items, I suddenly came down with the flu and spent 3/4 of the game shitting and puking. I did manage to see Kurt Warner throw that last effort touchdown pass and I did go defecate immediately afterwards, just not in my pants.

My Workplace Is Louder Than Yours

I seriously received the following email at work today. Aside from a few security deletions, the email (and jpeg of the chick holding her ears) are exactly as they were received.

From: X, Robin
Sent: Wednesday, October 27, 2010 2:42 PM
To: Totale, Todd
Subject: White noise


Maintenance is working on our white noise system. Sorry for the inconvenience. Hopefully it will be fixed soon.




Robin X
Senior Administrative Assistant


The contents of this message are confidential and only intended for the names recipient herein. This message should not be forwarded, transferred, copied or otherwise distributed to other users. Email is not a secure medium of communication and is subject to possible interception by unauthorized users; therefore, any reply to this message should not include additional identification regarding the individual and/or policy discussed herein.

(Not So Much) Fun In The Cubicle

I have to confess that for the past month, I've been so fed up with work that I merely go there, barely converse with anyone, do my thing and then go home. They've sucked the fun right out of the place and the company's lame attempt at fun is falling flat with cynics like me.
If you don't care about your staff, that's one thing. But to pretend that you care when you really don't is pretty unforgiveable.
But you probably know me well enough to know that I can't just sit idly by and not enteract with my fellow man. Dicking around a bit is in my blood and I'd like to think that my antics make coming to work a little easier for some.
For one individual, it didn't.
Brief backstory: I don't really work with this guy too much and have even fewer points of contact with him. He works for another team, does another task, blah blah blah. Let's just say he works for the team that tries to save customers while I mainly work with the sales people that...well, it doesn't matter.
Our story picks up when one of his contacts gets a hold of me by accident, isn't very forthcoming with information, and essentially says "Go get this guy for me. He knows what's going on." Fair enough, but I like to offer that person the courtesy of giving them a heads up instead of just blindly transferring them over. You know: there's this douchbag on line one looking for you.
The caller isn't really a douchebag, just a "do this now" type of guy. I do manage to get what the call is in regards to: it concerns a guy named "Chalupa."
"I'm sorry," I politely respond, "could I get the spelling of the name?"
"C-H-A-L-U-P-A" he offers, with a hint of a chuckle, knowing that everyone immediately thinks of the Taco Bell product line of the same name.
The guy he's looking for-we'll call him Christopher because that's his name-isn't available, so I offer to take a message and he accepts.
Getting all the information, I email Christopher with the message and have a little fun with it.
A few minutes later, I get a reply back. There's a half-assed line of gratitude, but there's also a surprising lecture in it to that I immediately notice and it totally ruins the rest of my day.
Here's the culprit and my original email:

From: Vagina, Christopher
Sent: Tuesday, September 01, 2009 9:33 AM
To: Totale, Todd

Subject: RE: The Chalupa Case

thanks I will call him

in the future I would appreciate comments as such to be left alone

this is a very challenging case and has required alot of my time off the phone.

Thanks Todd

From: Totale, Todd
Sent: Tuesday, September 01, 2009 9:04 AM
To: Vagina, Christopher

Subject: The Chalupa Case

George C. would like you to call him at 319-653-XXXX regarding the Chalupa case.
Later on, he would like to see you personally about the Gordita matter.
Don't get him started on the Beef Meximelt incident...

Seriously. What the fuck was wrong with that?! Everyone and their dog would immediately visualize a Mexican food dish-probably from that aforementioned fast food chain-when they heard the name "Chalupa." Rather than sending an inpersonal email saying "Call this douchebag," I decided to liven it up a bit. If you don't think it's funny, then leave it alone. If you do have a laugh, you're welcome. But this little pussy actually replies and spends more energy lecturing me than thanking me for passing along the message.
Here's an idea, why not give the guy a way to reach you directly instead of having me be your little "While You Were Out" bitch?
I've been to one training class with this guy and he seemed alright at the time. He offered a few laughs and responded as such when the rest of us did as well. But now he's obviously let his position of irrelevance go to his head, pretending to be an important cog in the chain of our company when the extra time that he speaks of is woefully exagerrated (I dug deeper and learned of the issue he was facing and it's something that shouldn't require much of his time at all).
As much as I wanted to respond and as much as I wanted to confront, I stayed silent-forwarding the jaw-dropping tit-for-tat email to a select few and sharing the exploits of my moronic counterpart to you-the world wide web.
No wonder I can't stop playing Jay Reatard's "It Ain't Gonna Save Me" over and over.

Fun In The Cubicle

One of the things I like to do when speaking with a customer is to simply mute the line and wait for the customer to end the call. The moment the call ends, I am monitored how long it takes to complete the task that I’m presented with. As a result, there is a slight incentive to finish the task while I’m still on a call, or to try and get as much done while the customer is still on the line. You get “dinged” a bit the longer you stay off a call dealing with work.
One of the things that I do is to simply mute the call when it’s done and start working. 95% of the time, the customer ends the call and it makes no difference. The other 5% for some strange reason, stay on the call…mainly without knowing they’re still on…and go about their routing. Occassionally during these moments, I get a chance to evesdrop into the everyday lives of random people. Mostly, it’s just the sound of people watching television or listening to the radio while they’re doing work. But on a few moments, I get a sense of what it is like in the caller’s real world. These can be very entertaining:
Like the call last week where the customer found out his ex-wife had legally made off with $10,000 of her ex-husband’s money. I could hear him muttering “Jesus Christ” for close to five straight minutes.
Or the call from a few months ago where a drunk elderly woman began to berate her very polite husband for asking her a question. She was doing their checkbook, and he asked where something was. She lost her place in the check ledger and this upset her so much that she began swearing at him in ways that completely surprised me. The couple were in their mid-70’s and I took the call before noon. They called from the west coast, so that meant that they were already drunk by the time The Price Is Right was on TV.
I told my new co-worker about my exploits and he decided to give it a go. The lucky bastard struck gold within minutes of incorporating my technique. After dealing with a forty-five year old woman from Chicago, he heard the following conversation between her and her female friend.
“What are you gonna do with your tax refund money?” her friend asked her.
“I don’t know.”she replied.
“Well, we could go get some weed like we wanted to last week…Or you could pay bills, but that’s lame.”
Amen sister.

The Flatbread Phenomenon Continues

This is an actual email from work. I found the "Flatbread phenomenon" line humorous. For those of you not familiar with it, about two months ago, the cafe began offering flatbread pizzas. You can go to the salad bar, grab some veggies (if desired), bring the bowl to the area that does made to order stuff, and have them make you a flatbread pizza. Admittedly, they are quite good and the line to get one is quite long, particularly when the rest of the menu sucks dick.
For someone like me who doesn't have a lot of time dicking around waiting for a pizza, the phenomenon is relatively an envious glance from me as I suffer through a ham sandwich.

Next week's menu for the C street Cafe is attached. We have some new soups from Au Bon Pain (sounds like "pan") that we will be introducing into the menu next week. Tomato Bisque, Wild Mushroom, and Cream of Chicken are all reduced sodium soups.

The Flatbread phenomenon continues....steak and egg flatbread sandwich will be featured for breakfast on Wednesday next week. Try it and tell us what you think!


TODAY:

Because our menu is "subject" to change, we have a few changes to TODAY's menu.

We will be having the "Second Helping Thanksgiving Buffet" on our 3rd island today. For only $4.95, load your plate with turkey, mashed potatoes, gravy, corn, baby carrots, and a piece of pie. Don't forget your fountain beverage! Sliced bread will be available to build your own feast of a sandwich.


Maybe you just want dessert? We are offering pie by the slice for only $0.85 each.

We also have whole pies for sale for $6.29 each. This special price is only available this week. Pies are limited, and come pre-cut. They are available in the cafe.

Dress Code And Sphincter Relaxation

TO: All Cedar Rapids Employees

FROM: Human Resources Council

RE: Halloween Dress Code Relaxation

DATE: October 9, 2008

The dress code and your sphincter will be relaxed for all employees on Halloween, Friday, October 31st so that anybody may wear Halloween costumes. Otherwise employees will continue to dress in a manner consistent with policy found in the Employee Handbook. Since Halloween falls on a Friday, this is a “Jeans Day.”

In choosing your Halloween costumes please remember company policies and practices regarding non-offensive attire. Please refrain from wearing anything containing a political message, a message of social commentary or any other similar kind of message. We want this to be an enjoyable time of the year for everybody. Please remember that regardless of the day on the calendar we are in the financial services industry and even in a relaxed, holiday environment rules of taste and decency should be observed.

Panic Is Not An Investment Option...But A Nacho Bar Is

We didn’t win the jack-o-lantern contest.
The winners put an enormous amount of time in theirs which made ours look even more dreadful which made it even more awesome. Someone brought some black hair which made Gene really come to life.
As part of the on-going employee appreciation week, we’ve had numerous activities like guessing jar contests, baking contests, finger football, and at least once a day, someone stops by with a treat.
This is, of course, in between calls with people freaking out about the financial industry. My mantra has been “Panic is not an investment option.” and, to be honest, most people just need to hear some reassuring words in order to calm down.
It doesn’t help that our company is going through a merger at the same time, which is also prompting more calls. It’s not really a merger in the strictest sense of the word; we’re simply shortening the name a bit in the hopes that the consolidation will save us money in the long term.
But you don’t care about that do you? Truth be told, I don’t either. I’m more interested in the “nacho bar” they’re providing us this afternoon.

Gene-O-Lantern

Even though it’s over three weeks away and even though we have a ton of work to do already, my company likes to do these employee appreciation days a few times a year. Essentially, they pull people off their regular duties for 10 minutes of nonsense and then it’s back to work. On top of that, they bring in the big shots to actually shadow you to get a better understanding of what you do in a given day. Essentially, they pull the senior executives off their regular duties for 10 minutes of nonsense and then it’s back to work for them too.
At the end of the day, we all breathe a collective sigh and wish each other well for another year, ultimately trusting each other that we know just enough to do our own fucking jobs.
The trouble is, the appreciation thing lasts for an entire week. That means 5 days of silly bullshit like “finger football,” bingo, jersey day, and the latest entry: the jack-o-lantern contest.
Several pumpkins were brought in and the managers were given a time in which they could choose their pumpkin. Since my team doesn’t really actively participate in these kinds of things, we waited until the last minute only to find the most ugly and unappealing pumpkin out of the lot.
We then waited until the last minute to start to solicited ideas of what we wanted to do. By this time, other teams were in full develop mode, gaining each team member’s contributions and putting on the finishing touches.
Again, let me remind you that we hadn’t even started ours.
Someone takes the initiative to email everyone with the “We’ve got to participate too, so what are we going to do?”
I jokingly reply: “Gene Simmons.”
Apparently, the demon was the only response, which meant that I found the pumpkin, a Sharpie, and some white grease pain on my desk. I began working on it and immediately began whining about it using the pretense that because this team event was now looking to be an individual contribution.
“This better not be negatively affecting my stats.” I demanded.
“I’ll talk to scheduling.”
Regardless of how stupid this thing was, I’m not about to throw away the possibility that I could effectively throw away my normal job duties for some stupid jack-o-lantern contest.
I threw together a dumb looking replica of Gene and briefly fretted at how awful it looked. But then I realized that that is what made it so awesome. It didn’t matter how awesome the other jack-o-lanterns looked. Our team’s was the most “metal” looking, a primitive hark back to 7th grade art class presented by grown adults forced into an admittedly juvenile situation.
You wanted the best, you got the best.

Fun In The Cubicle

Haven’t done one of these in a while, but I think I’ve hinted that the recent influx of economic turmoil has created an added workload in my life. Most of the calls can be answered succinctly, but there is one call that stands out as being douchebag worthy. The mo-fogie wanted to know what impact our stock price had on the blah blah wolf wolf. I went through the standard spiel that satisfies 95% of the callers, but this guy fell into the 5% range and, from their, secured himself in the 1% percentile by being a total condescending asshole. I transferred him to a supervisor after 15 minutes of bullshit and he provided him with an additional 15 minutes of bullshit. I hate calls like this, the ones where they think they’re smarter than the average bear, but in reality are just people with way too much time on their hands and way too little self-esteem. During the call, the gentlemen fielded another call and chastised the other party for calling him to confirm his tennis time. He also proceeded to have me wait as he looked for a college accounting book so that he may look for an economic principle to make his point.
When it gets to this point, I usually fall into standby mode. The silence is met with a “Hello?” or “Are you still there?” as I wait for the Einstein’s revel in the sound of their own voice.
The same day, I had another manager from a different department ask me if I could stop drumming on my notepad. Anyone who knows me-or more specifically, worked with me-knows that I have a habit on tapping on various items on my desk. In fact, my desk at work is structure like a drum set. My notepad is both the snare and bass drum; my finger taps would play the role of the bass while the pen serves as my snare sound. In case you’re wondering, my pen (or “drumstick”) of choice is a red Papermate ball point pen. I don’t use it for anything other than drumming as my writing utensil is one of those cheap Papermate automatic pencils. I have a post it holder serve as my floor tom and my cup of water or soda serves as my cowbell. This comes in handy whenever I lay into Motley Crue’s “Live Wire.” My little Hawaiian Breeze fan is used whenever I’m reproducing some Neil Peart solo.
I was doing the drum intro to Ozzy Osbourne’s “Over The Mountain” when the supervisor came over to my desk. She’s about three cubicles over from me and felt my overzealous drumming was too much of a distraction. Her distractions to me include leaving her cell phone on ring at her desk and then having a bunch of calls come to it when she’s away from her desk. To this point, she has also complained to a few of my colleagues for leaving their phones on ring, but she is apparently exempt from this rule. She also likes to put calls on speakerphone, which is nice for me when I’m trying to hear actual customers on my headset.
I told her that I would try to tone down my drumming, but that it is a nervous habit that can only be controlled with ample amounts of medication.
I also applied for an internal transfer to a completely different department. It’s one of those gigs that’s so awesome that I will be pouting for weeks on end if I don’t get an interview for it. I’d have an enormous amount of flexibility, independence, a pay raise and I’d get to investigate fraudulent shit and deal with private investigators. I hope I get considered because it doesn’t seem like my current position as Motley Crue’s drummer is working out too well.
At least I’m still hung like a horse.

Fun In The Cubicle

At my job, I’m required to document my interaction with clients including their first and last names. On occasion, I will forget to get complete name which enables me to make up my own. One of my favorite things is to merely put the name of a television show. Example: I received a call from a “James,” forgot his last name, so I documented the call as from “James Atfifteen.” It’s become such a joy that I now incorporate the idea into names that I know fully.
Example: a call from Larry Smith will be coded as “Hello Larry Smith.”
A call from an Asian woman who I didn’t understand the name was listed as “Pink Lady.” I thought about coding it “Themaidfromthecourtshipofeddie’sfather” but that was too long.
It makes me laugh out loud, even when I realize that 90% of the people that may come across it will have no idea that MacLean Stevenson’s first role after leaving M.A.S.H. was the short-lived and incredibly unfunny Hello Larry.
I don’t know what it is, but right around 2:00pm, I’m ready to explode. It is around this time when the company allows me to field calls from dipshits that I come close to behaving poorly enough that it’s grounds for being written up. Today, I dealt with an old cunt from Minnesota who chastised me because the hold music wasn’t good enough to her liking and the voice prompt that advises “Your call is important to us” wasn’t sincere enough.
I swear to god that I’m not making this up.
Understanding what kind of sad individual that I was about to be dealing with, I advised the old bag that I would have a supervisor re-record the voice prompts and have them “put it a new cassette.” Additionally, I told her that whoever sent her the notice that stated she was late who immediately be reprimanded. I usually refer to the offending employee as “Carlos” or “Clark,” two fictitious members of our organization that get the brunt of my blame.
The reality on this particular case is this: the decomposing bitch waited until the last minute to send her payment in, and decided to send in an amount that was different that her payment coupon stated. This caused the payment to be received a day after the due date and a delay of an additional two days in posting it as it had to be manually entered into the system because it didn’t match what we were anticipating. Essentially, the system automatically generated a late notice a day after it noticed we hadn’t received her payment and while it was making its way into our company, our company was sending her the obligatory “you’re late” letter.
By the time she received it, everything was hunky dory, but she had it in her mind that she was going to give someone a what for, even though I was feeding her with the responses that she really wanted to hear.
There was not a hint of remorse after learning that I would personally advise “Carlos’” supervisor that he sent out the late notice without knowing that her payment was in the mail on its way to us.
I hope that fucker gets fired for not reading her mind.
We also have these acrylic holders that house our cubicle addresses and proper names. I replaced my supervisor’s name tag with “The Lady.” He knew it was me.

Fun In The Cubicle

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Fun In The Cubicle

I was going to write something about Perry Como, who died on this day a few years ago. Essentially, it was going to be a brief blurb with an old SCTV bit of Perry "Mr Relaxation" Como as played by Rick Moranis. You Tube doesn't have a clip, so plan B.
Trouble is, there is no plan b actually. So here's some fun at work.
Several months ago, I spoke to a very rude lady on the phone at work. She was from New Jersey, so no surprise there. But as she was bitching, I was forced to go and look for something. I explained that I would be right back, but actually I didn't put her on hold, I just muted the line. I heard her sigh...repeatedly...until her dog "Monty" started to yip and bark in the background. She began to converse with the dog in more of a polite and adult manner than she did with me. Suddenly, I began to despise that dog.
Fast forward to today, where I came across her name again, along with her contact information, and during a lull at work, I composed the following letter to her.
In case you're wondering, the story is real (all except the dog eating of course) and, although I have changed the names of the people, there's a chance that some of you may know exactly who I'm referring to.

John Axeman
2165 Loredo Blvd
Brainard, MN 64114

Delorez Cunt
666 Matlock Drive
Voorhees, NJ 08043-4717

Delorez:

I’ve been thinking about Monty lately. Sweet, tender Monty. There are times in which I consider how succulent he would be, perhaps accented by a spicy dry rub, meticulously cooked over charcoal briquettes. It would be a delectable feast Delorez, but rest assured, I would leave a seat for you at the table.

You see, I too know the pleasure and unconditional love that a dog provides us. There was a time in which I owned a dog, part fox actually, that I received while he was still a pup. I called him ‘Bosey.’

I was tripping on acid one night, when I stumbled home and understood that I needed to let Bosey out of the cage and run free. I felt guilty for keeping him locked up and suddenly an intense connection fell upon me. I unlocked the cage and let him go. “Bosey!” I yelled. “He’s a good dog. He knows where he’s at.”

Then I put a frozen pizza in the oven and promptly forgot about it, nearly causing a fire in my basement apartment.

I think it is fair to say that I wouldn’t have forgotten about Bosey, had it been him cooking inside of my oven, instead of that Totino’s frozen pizza. It’s also fair to assume that I will attend to the cooking of Monty with the utmost responsibility, loyally attending to his juices with the same loyalty that he provides you on a daily basis.

He will be so delicious.

Sincerely,



John Axeman


P.S.: I fell off a balcony in a drunken stupor in 1995 and passed away. All I thought about on my journey to that white light was my fox/dog mix Bosey. He was a good dog.

Fun In The Cubicle

A few years ago, I wrote something about FM3’s Buddha Machine, a Walkman-like device that plays 9 short loops through a very primitive speaker. It’s nifty, but that Walkman, I put it away when we moved to the new house over a year and a half ago and I completely forgot about it.
Until I was down in the storage room in the basement, the one that also contains my dismantled drum kit, microphones, cables, and other instrumental accessories now haphazardly arranged in boxes and bags. The remnants of a live replaced by one of children, responsibilities, and other mundane routines.
I digress.
I went down there for something unrelated, but noticed the little Chinese box that housed the device. I opened it and tried turning it on, only to find that the batteries had died and, good thing I checked because the cheap Chinese batteries that came with the device looked suspiciously like they were about to start leaking acid.
The machine, the Buddha machine, would have been ruined and my karma would have been negatively impacted.
Understand, the thing only plays an established set of loops and none of them are more than 40 seconds of length. So it wasn’t like I was dying to hear “Loop 3” or “Loop 6,” but I wanted the curio to work again so I replaced the batteries with some more reliable alkaline ones.
Admittedly, it should be used for something more spiritual, I suppose. But my idea fits my lifestyle better. I brought the device to work the next day and placed it in between the cubicle walls of my and my boss’ cube. When she irritates me (which is seldom now, by the way, as we seem to be communicating well) I turn the thing on and await the inevitable “Does anybody hear that? It sounds like an organ.” She’ll then begin looking around her desk for the appropriate source, momentarily considering my suggestion that it must be her wireless headset.
She walked around a bit, asking people if they could hear it and carefully measured the volume as she got farther away from the source. She never considered to look inside the wall or, more appropriately, consider that my shenanigans were the source of the mysterious tones.
It’s quite hilarious, and even more so when she called the maintenance department so that they could investigate. I, of course, turned the unit off by then, which put her in the dubious position of having to both explain the sound to them and offer that she wasn’t crazy.
They left and actually turned up the white noise generators a bit, causing many people to stand up, look at the ceiling and ask to anyone in earshot: “Did they just turn on the air conditioning?” The hiss was reduced after maintenance notices how discomforting their solution was.
“That’s what it was,” my supervisor offered, “because I don’t hear those noises anymore.”
An hour later, I turned the device on again.
50,000 of these units have been sold, creating a veritable cult. I’m sure many of those buyers use the devise for the correct intention, but for me, I’m very pleased with my new found application.