The @-Work Nettwerk
Mundane Tasks and Capitalist Pig-Dog Commands
A Special Holiday Greeting from the @-Work Nettwork
Blow Out Them Candles,
The @-Work Nettwerk Shares In the Season:
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
Volume Twenty One:
Moist, Yet Firm, With a Light
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
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."
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
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
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
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.
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Nettwerk : Cubicle85@hotmail.com
Elizabeth Rose : firstname.lastname@example.org