Who let the logs out? Uh, uh!
If you don’t follow my Twitter feed you’re only getting half of the story…
Sometimes events so important will happen only in Twitterville so they must be told again.
This is one of those times.
Pants pulled down
Around ankles on the ground
On the toilet I sit
Good taste dictates that I omit
Hang on for the true story of what happened this very week.
This post has been rated DNR (Do Not Read) by the BPAA (Blog Post Association of America).
Warning: This post is intended for infantile audiences only. It may contain violence, sexual content, drug use and/or strong language. You must be IQ 17 or higher to read this post. By reading this post you are certifying that your IQ is at least 17. Do not read this post around meal time.
This is what I call a NEXUS post. How does a post get elevated to NEXUS status? It must meet a stringent set of criteria as specified by humble Abyssian scientists. These criteria are:
Only a post that meets all criteria will justify the NEXUS designation. This is how we work to guarantee a quality reading experience for you, our loyal reader. We are committed to entertainment.
Sadly, what you are about to read is true. No embellishment or artistic license here. Not this time. (Yeah, I’m breaking the rules just this once.)
I started the new job back in October 2010. Like the little engine who thought he could, I thought I could avoid the bathroom. I tried and tried. I really did. But after a few weeks I finally gave in. What can I say? I’m only (partially) human.
The first thing I noticed was the door handle was broken. It wouldn’t lock.
As spooky as that was, things went fairly well. If the door was closed and the fan was on (it’s tied to the light switch) then you knew the room was in use. You didn’t go in.
Until seven months later. Until this week.
Tom B. Taker
At last my training is complete. Coworker just walked in on me using the toilet. Door has broken lock. Get me off this fucking planet!!!
11 May via Twitter for iPhone
Yep. Female coworker, walking around like a brain-dead idiot, flung the door open to the restroom while I was … erm, how shall I say? Doing my best thinking!
Yep. Believe it.
Yep. There is a Hell. And I’m already dead. I’m a permanent resident. And I’m looking forward to next week’s annexation vote. Be afraid if you already live within Hell’s urban growth boundary. You’re next, motherfucker.
Remarkably I took it fairly well. I imagine it was a much worse experience for her than it was for me.
Yep. Seven fucking months with employees and it never once occurred to the boss to get the lock on the bathroom door fixed. So yeah, I blame him. I blame him hard. Hate isn’t supposed to be good, but it’s a healthy hate.
You’d think an incident like this would be enough to spur him into action. You’d be wrong. He’s the slob of the century. Reminder: He felt compelled to tell the rest of us why washing your hands after using the restroom is a “waste of time.” One time he was in the bathroom and I heard the toilet flush. Within half a second the door opened and he hopped out. Yep. No sounds of running water. He then came directly to me, held up his hand and said, “High five!”
Holy shit. Who thinks up scenarios like this? Not only am I an atheist, I actively pray there isn’t a God. Because, let’s face it, I don’t want to meet whoever thought this shit up.
But wait. There’s more!
Tom B. Taker
Holy mother of God!!! The toilet walk-in thing just happened AGAIN. This time by the boss. I love being surrounded by zombies. #walkamongus
12 May via Twitter for iPhone
This time the boss himself graced me with his presence. Yeppers. I shit you not. (Although I was shitting at the time.)
This one got me. It got me good. I was so fucking pissed.
I came out and the boss was gone. Coworker filled me in. “He went to see the landlord about fixing the lock.”
YOU FUCKING THINK?!?!?!?
I was so pissed I got the shakes. They went full throttle for about two hours. I had to get out of there. I took a late lunch. I left the building That helped a little. But four hours later, I was still so upset I still had the shakes. Did I mention I was fucking pissed?
God I hate that fucking place. Oh look! It’s time for me to go there again. Ta ta for now!
When you flush, please stop and think of me. I’ll be there!
When I look up I see the bus
Grease. Dirt. Grime. Wheels. Axles. Gears. Lugs. Nuts. Bolts. Paper clips. Other mechanical thingies.
When the real men gathered around to talk about engines and those other mechanical thingies that make vehicles go, I was never around. I made myself scarce.
Those have never been things that were of interest to me. “You have a 360 block with a 44 magnum under the hood? Wowwie with headers, pipes and mufflers? How about leg warmers, does it have those, too? Is all that shit considered good or did you just describe the equivalent of the Ford Pinto?” Now that is a car I’m familiar with! It explodes when it backs that ass up!
So how is it when I get up and dust myself off that I find myself surrounded by all things mechanical? It’s because when I look up, I only see bus.
You might say it is where I have been thrown. You know what else gets thrown? Garbage! But anywho, I guess that finally explains the tire marks on my face.
Whine alert! The well-written prose above should be more than enough to clue you in that I’m about to whine about my job. Now is your chance to get the hell out of Dodge.
Still here? Sucka!
Where I work I’m the sacrificial lamb. I’m the official speed bump for buses. That’s my job.
Oh, management will spew all sorts of bullshit and meaningless platitudes about how we’re a “team.” That’s just a playful way of saying that shit flows downhill and you live under my butt. We’re more than willing to do all of the fake things that have no meaning whatsoever when it comes to making you think we care. But never forget, we’ll throw you under that boss without a moment’s hesitation. Hahaha!
This time it involved a subtle version of Co-Worker Playing Dumb Deflection Techniques routine. “Yes, I’ve been trained how to save JPG files in email. But not GIF files, oh my. Only my team member Abyss knows how to handle those! I’ll be happy to get him for you.” Of course that’s a bunch of bullshit, but it always goes down that way.
For some on the so-called “team” (ha!) the office culture has evolved into a very convenient paradigm. TIF = Alfredo in the back. Bad Manager will grudgingly handle JPG. But anything else under the sun? That belongs to Abyss. Automatically. Without thought or hesitation. Without the need to ask questions to learn more. Without any sort of goddamn attempt at all to show initiaitve or be a “team” player or think outside the box. If it isn’t the one and only magical JPG then flush it into the mouth of Abyss posthaste. Period. Bar none. End of story. Now get your face under that motherfucking tire now, scum!
It is so delightful to be part of such a “team.”
Of course it goes without saying that the reverse is never true. Oh no, not by a long shot. I’ve trained myself on all sorts of things so I’m sort of viewed as a miracle worker around here. In fact, almost everything I know, including my frickin’ job, I learned on my own initiative. I taught my fucking self.
Even so, I don’t know everything about everyone’s jobs. There are some things I never do or don’t do often enough to be able to do on my own when the chips are down, even though I’m the closest thing ever seen to a real team player in this shithole.
So earlier today I was tossed under the bus because the manager wanted human salad. I was left to run the operation with live customers on things I know nothing about. Not too surprisingly I reached a knowledge impasse and had to go ask her for help. Yes, this is the same “her” that plays the proactive “oh I certainly don’t know how to do that” game at every opportunity.
No surprise what happened next:
The fucking fangs of evil were deployed and aimed at my neck. Alpha dog alert – alpha dog alert – this is not a drill!
“Oh,” she said with a look that could easily put daggers through the titanium hull of the U.S.S. Enterprise. She continued, and I’m paraphrasing here, “What do you want me to do about it? Come up there and wipe your ass for you?”
I just shrugged. It’s only a customer who’s waiting. Which, of course, means that I couldn’t possibly fucking care less. When the company makes money I sure as hell don’t. So with this team player properly chastised by the one who preaches team playing all the time went back to hose down the customer with the tasty water of uselessness. Customer left unsatisfied. Game over. Win-win, baby!
If the company makes X amount my bonus is a $50 gift card to Wal-Mart. If the company makes 10X my bonus is a $50 gift card to Wal-Mart. That’s called the team rewards system.
And that’s all the fuck I have to say about that fuck.
I know this post is written badly but I don’t care. Let someone else on the motherfucking team worry about it.
Also, be sure to stop by the lobby for my new line of “When I Look Up I See Bus” t-shirts. Backstabbing asshole employees not included.
Addendum: While writing this post I received the following in email. “A message to all members of NaBloPoMo. Hey, bloggers! The theme for May blogging is LOOK UP.” Mwuhahahahaha! Looks like I’m off to a good start. 🙂