The @-Work Nettwerk
Mundane Tasks and Capitalist Pig-Dog Commands

---

Intro Page Previous Installment Next Installment

Holiday Special:
Blow Out Them Candles, Jesus!

We didn't have a holiday office party, but I'm sure if we had I would have gotten drunk and made an ass of myself.

I've got a new concept in office decor: Holiday Tonsils. My supervisor, in a desperate attempt to promote holiday cheer in our unit, ran a string of red & green Christmas lights along the top of our cubicle dividers, which are 5 feet high. A lovely tallish co-worker was standing talking to me one bleary morning last week. He paused, opened his mouth wide, and stuck one of the little light bulbs in his mouth, like you do with a flashlight (don't bite down). Alternate red & green and voila. And it was only 8 a.m.

For the record, YES, Scrooge is supposed to be a Jew.

Just recently I attended a holiday party at work where everyone was taking shots and belligerently drunk. I was talking to a Sr. Vice President and he spit on my forehead while he was slurring his words. I pretended like it didn't happen but wondered if he saw the spit on my forehead.

My mom bought me an electric toothbrush for Hanukkah. Sometimes stereotypes CAN come true!

After an extensive battery of tests, I determined that Reeses Peanut ButterCups, wrapped festively for the holidays in green, red, and gold, are tastiest when wrapped in the gold foil. I know that technically they are all the same, but--as in life and art and advertising--there is a lot to be said for presentation.

This guy I work with bought one of those gap vests, so I threw away part of his lunch when he wasn't looking.

The big Christmas party was on Tuesday. In addition to a tasty cranberry-pineapple-orange-rum punch, there was a man making balloons (with a cute little bunny), a magician who made me pull a nail out of his nose with a hammer, and an elf on a unicycle who asked, since I was wearing a skirt, if she could ride between my legs. My answer was a surprised yet firm, "No you may not."

My assistant walked into the office unexpectedly on Friday, and I was sitting in the middle of the floor covered in popcorn kernels, with one of those big "three flavor" popcorn barrels in between my legs. I had just finished the entire "Yellow" section.

I asked my friend Tom, what are you doing for New Year's? He said "probably acid."

Volume Twenty One:
Moist, Yet Firm, With a Light Rasberry Reduction

Today's Golden Cubicle Award Goes to Jenny Jones, of Chicago, Illinois, who probably doesn't want other people to know that this is her entry:
*I went to the bathroom at work this morning to blow my nose. I grabbed some toilet tissue and blew out this rather stately booger. The problem is that it didn't make it to the tissue. I haven't been able to find it yet, but I know its got to be on me somewhere.*

Earlier today a man dressed up as Santa Claus barged, jingling, into the office and handed me a fruity green candy cane. Now it's lunchtime and I'm the only one here. I am seriously considering locking the door.

Today, my supervisor proclaimed, without context, that Kathie Lee Gifford is a "good American."

Friday was my day off, but I was called at 8:30am to come into work and attend my own surprise birthday party. I said no.

Whenever I think about how tedious and dull the report I'm doing is, I reach over in my drawer and eat an Altoid mint. That kind of jazzes things up for a few seconds.

Today I wore a black sweater with a purple skirt. Instead of wearing black tights, I got dressed in the dark and put on navy tights. Boy is my face red.

We love Windows 95 with minimizing capabilities. We were looking a digitized photo entitled "Doobie" from Annie Lou's holiday party right when the head honcho walked in. We simply clicked on minimize, pulled up a work document and he was none the wiser.

Today I resisted the impulse to sabotage smelly, glossy mailings to evil corporations like Monsanto, Chevron, The Gap, etc. by decorating them with explicit drawings. As a reward for my restraint I plan to eat an apple from the holiday basket that someone sent my boss. I wish someone would send her donuts.

We are wearing tiaras because our birthdays are this week. Our co-workers say they suit us. The woman down the hall gave Annie Lou a mean look.

More happy holiday news: we were each given a copy of the latest company photo as a gift. I was out sick that day, so I'm the only one not in it. Now I just feel bad and could really go for a martini or seven.

My hands are cold -- it friggin sucks to type with cold fingers, and besides that, the heater in the bathroom is broken. It's hard to force myself to go in there and remove articles of clothing even though I know that it's a good idea in the long run not to just pee in my cubicle... I think someone would notice.

I guess it takes working for the world's largest internet company to realize how virtuosic some authors are. For example, the Pulitzer-prize winning author of "The Making of the Atom Bomb," apparently seeing great potential in a "making of" series, has a lesser-known but I think equally important book: "Making Love: An Erotic Journey."

Today's Special "Grain of Truth" Award Goes to Ms. Jessica Roberts, of... uhm... actually, I'm not sure where the fuck Jessica is right now, but I'm sure its someplace pretty:
"I am disturbed by the implications of the fact that I enjoyed being in jail far more than I am enjoying my 'freedom,' er, job."

Volume Twenty-Two:
Having Moderate Difficulty Stopping the Bum Rush

Today's Golden Cubicle Award Goes to, well, me, Ben Wyskida of Washington D.C., aka "the ubermensch." I still have yet to recover:

**First, a context: DC has a very stringent "pick up your dog shit" law. So yesterday I was going for a walk on my lunch break, and this woman coming towards me on the sidewalk was holding a clear plastic bag of her dogs shit in one hand, and a plastic bag over her other hand, to pick up the shit with. So she had just bent over to pick up a piece of shit, as I approached her, when she accidentally dropped it on herself. As it cascaded down her body, I began to recoil (as if in slow motion) in disgust. She tried to catch it with her other hand, but forgetting that the other hand contained a huge bag of dog shit, the big bag of dog shit started to pour out all over her shirt, her pants, her shoes, and the sidewalk. All of the pieces were perfectly round, and as my face continued to register complete revulsion, the woman exclaimed "oh shit."**

It never ceases to amuse me that the geniuses in course scheduling abbreviate "Comparative Literature" as "CLIT".

I've been sitting here wondering: if I stood on my coworker's desk and jumped right at the window, would it shatter outward, so I'd land theatrically on the pavement below? Or is it some sort of safety glass that only cracks, so I'd just get charged a shitload of money to fix it? There's one way to find out...

How about if we all go home and take a nice long nap?

My coworker Cari finally decided on where she's going to take her vacation this year - Margarita Island, a little resort off the coast of Venezuela. She's a little concerned about terrorism, it being Latin America and all, and since I have a degree in Latin American history, she asked me "They haven't had any big revolutions or military coups or anything lately have they?" Actually, Venezuela just elected an authoritarian marxist general, who tried to overthrow the government a few years ago, to the presidency. He has disbanded the congress, fired most of the judiciary, and suspended the constitution while he writes a new one. I didn't know quite what to tell her.

I'm being very decadent today and eating Godiva truffles while I man the Reference Desk. I think Oscar Wilde would be proud.

Call me crazy, but I've really come to love my time in the basement supply room. It's all deserted down there, dusty, and old. When I'm down there I like to imagine that evil spirits are plotting ways to kill me or mangle me in more and more inhumane ways. I intentionally leave the door open with the key in the keyhole to make it that much easier for them to carry out their plans when the time comes. I wish I was down there right now.

I have this idea that I should start coming to work dressed as Batman. You know, add a little drama to the office...

In addition to eating Godiva truffles at the Reference Desk, I am also listening to sleazy French jazz. . .Serge Gainsbourg and chocolate conspire to make the perfect afternoon.

I had to drive my boss to a meeting, and he turned on the radio to hear the traffic report, but I still had in my Missy Elliot CD with the volume all the way up. As "She's a Bitch" pulsed through my car, I desperately grasped for the power switch, inadvertently turning on mega-bass and turning the volume up four notches before I finally shut it off. I also almost ran over a tourist.

Today I thought about that rap group, The Fat Boys, and laughed out loud. My coworkers looked at me funny, but I didn't think it was worth trying to explain.

Today when my boss was refilling the bird feeder in the lobby with M&Ms (strange presentation I know), I heard a loud crash and suddenly there were M&Ms everywhere. I couldn't tell, however, whether she threw them away orput them back in the jar. I'm playing it safe and staying away from the jar now, and telling my co-workers to do the same. I did not share this piece of information with my bosses boss though--he kind of deserves to eat something off the floor.

Last night, I had this idea. What if I came to work dressed up in a sheet like I was a ghost, and told everyone I had died the night before, but I still felt responsible for my work, so I'd haunt the office for a while to help out! I bet they'd really think I was a pretty good guy then! It would also give me a chance to talk to my coworkers in a scaryghost voice, which I've always kind of wanted to do.

Today I encouraged my mildly sick assistant to take the day off. I may look at internet porn.

I was staring past my computer screen at my charming North Henry vista, when I was awakened from my trance by a strange sound. Investigating the interruption, I found the Head of Production (hereafter to be referred to as Wilford Brimley) reclining in his office playing a jig on a tin whistle. His feet were resting on his desk next to his all too casually displayed basketball. Disgusted by the ostentatious display of leisure our armchair general was affording his worker bees, I stomped back to my desk. But entering the room I noticed something was wrong. My co-workers' eyes were transfixed on their computer screens. They were typing in time with the whistle, supplying the part of the snare drum; their feet were marching under their desks. I ran upstairs to speak with the HR person. When I got to her office Wilford was standing beside her smiling. In a calm voice she touched my shoulder and told me that it was all right and that I would understand soon. She gave me some pills to take and tapes to listen to at night before I go to sleep. Since then work has been better than ever. I don't know why I was so upset about it.

And now a moment of silence for all of us hoping that Y2K would mean some time off of work.