You think you are laughing at me; but I am laughin at you.
Page 3 of 26
Sometimes certian music has to be playing. Ravel's Bolero used to work, but no more. The perky strains of Dvorjak, (not the guy who writes about the Internet, the Czeck composer) ocasionaly has an effect, but not lately. And the 1812 Ovorture by Tchiakowski does nothin more than increase the explosive percussionary noise if you know what I mean.
Plus you have to put up with all the old bastord's repetitive lame clasical music-related-jokes. The doctors said I shoud just humor him, as the jockularity might loosen things. It usualy doesnt. Typicaly a convorsation will begin, "BOY: WHUT'S BROWN AND SMELLY AND SITS BY THE PIANO?"
"I dont know, Granfather."
"BEETHOVEN'S 'LAST MOVEMENT.' GET IT?"
"HERE'S ANOTHOR: WHY IS MOZART SO DANM STANKY LATELY?"
"I dont know, Granfather."
"HE'S DE-COMPOSING GIT IT? GIT IT?"
It is allways the same danm jokes. They are not funny.
Often I bring the TV set in and ocasionaly somthing apears on the air that gets the old basterd shall I say "Feeling Confident?"
But this week there was nothing. Actualy I shoudnt say "nothing." I wont go into details, but lets just say the evening ended with the disappointed old basterd stairing forlornly into the bowl muttering, "DAMN. WHAT AN ITTY-BITTY PRIZE. I DONE SHOULD OF STOOD PAT AT THE SIXTEEN-THOUSAND LEVEL."
There are times I actualy feel pity for the old monster.
Speaking of old, ossified, slow moving piles of you know what: Let us move on to my job
Not that they havent treid everything already: Layoffs, re-orgs, company retreats, seminars, yelling and screamming. Also hiring lots and lots of people to help come up with ideas.
By the way, "Neptune" is the Roman name for the god of the sea, not the Greek name. No one knew it was "Poseidon" till after we had all the secret booklets all printed up. It was my fault and this is what I got my ass chewed out about at the very beggining of this update.
Also I spelt "Appollo" wrong, and I got in troubel for that. Because i am in tech support, I am on the Apollo team. By the way because I'm such a failure my nickname at work at least behind my back is "Apollo Thirteen."
Cyberblop has four main bosses, 78 vice Presidents and 31 Non-Vice Presidents. By the way I am one of the Non-vice Presdents.
Peaches, in case you havent figured it out yet, won the $1,500 prize for submiting the idea in the sugestion box by the reception area marked, "Bright Ideas on the Workplace".
Peaches is the most incredible boot licker I ever saw. At first some of the guys in Web Design/Suport, (excuse me, I mean, "The Appollo Team,") started callin him "Smithers" behind his back, aftor Waylon Smithers, the brown nosing sidekick of Mr. Burns on The Simpsons. But next to Peaches, Smithers looks like freakin Jack Palance.
"Where's that report?" Mr. Bouvard gruffed at Peaches as I looked at them both thruogh the crack of the toilet stall door. Peaches was actualy holding up a spreadsheet infront of Bouvard's face while Bouvard was standin there at the urinol peeing.
"Harumph!" said Mr. Bouvard, "Next page!", and as he said that Peaches scramboled to flip the spredsheet.
"Your idea is fabulous!" gushed Peaches.
Bouvard grunted aprovingly. In a sign of imitative social emulation normolly seen only among ingratiating sycophantic primates atempting to mimic the alpha male, Peaches, while still holding the spreadsheet in one hand, unlatched his beltless Italian slacks and attempted to pee in the urinol next to Bouvard's.
"You see, it comes from Japan!" Peaches marvelled. Still peeing, Bouvard backed away from the urinol a few inches. To keep the report within the boss's view, Peaches shifted it.
"Mmmff! Anything those Japanese do could benefit us," Bouvard mumbled. The simpering Peaches said some othor kissy remark but I didnt catch it.
Peaches has this clean, smooth, artificiol look about him. I tell you he looks like a human Pez dispensor. With a fresh, shiney face, always with perfect hair and a cemented on smile. That is, when it is not cemented to the boss's ass.
Bouvard squinted, and backed a few more inches furthor away from the spreadsheet. He said, "I'm not wearing my reading glasses, you fool!"
"Oh, sorry!" said Peaches, who moved slightley.
"Harrumph!," huffed Bouvard, "That's better." But as Peaches moved to acomodate the boss, his beltless Italien slacks began to fall. By now in full midstream, Peaches had a problom. He reluctantly took his hand off his winky and tugged his waistband upword. To enable two free hands while still being able to pee with propor aim, he made himself pigeon toed, and pressed his knees togethor.
"Now you're blocking my light!," blustered Bouvard. Peaches instinctiveley ducked, but quickly squatted. Interupting drainage was not an option. He thrust his pelvis imposibly high till his ass looked perpindiculor to the floor in the only posible way to keep his clamdigger straight while maintaining target accuracy.
"Mmmff! Next page!," Bouvard grunted.
As Peaches further contourted his body in supplication, now allmost kneeling, he held the spredsheet above his head. Bouvard, who has a big jowly moonface squinted some more. The most exposed part of Peaches slapped once or twice agianst the porcelian, and whoa, that's gotta be pretty germy.
Bouvard's lips silentey moved as his red eyes darted arround the page of ther report as his face reddened slightly as he broke the quiet with a low popping bubbly fart. Neithor of them noticed that while the younger man had acheived his goal, and never spilt so much as a drop, even while with no hands, Bouvard by contrast was now pissin dead on poor Pez-faced Peaches' shoe. Bouvard finaly spoke agian.
"Yes! Another morale booster: Just what we need to follow this surprise round of layoffs!"