Operation Make Matthew Mad

While I live my life as the mindless poet, I enjoy a life of drunken excess, carnal pleasures and abandoned addiction. Between the hours of 8:30am and 5:30pm however, I am often to be found chained to a cubicle like a monkey in a Russian lab. Working for ‘the man’. Watching as my very existence fritters away into nothings.

I arrive at work each day in a beaten pick-up truck, its exterior a mirror image of my own interior. Basically blue, a little cracked, but with enough signs of experience as to clearly add to its character. I slide across the bench seat to let myself out of the passenger side, knowing that taking my chances by opening the driver’s door will result in it falling from its hinges. Again. Usually letting out a long sign as I flick my cigarette into the ‘butt bin’, I let myself into the building.

I then sit and stare at these 3 ½ walls. And wallow.

But then I think to myself ‘you know what, mindless poet? It could be worse. You have a job (a little crappy) a car (falling apart but functional) a love life (for the moment at least, one never knows what may happen) and youth on your side. Look up! (I call to myself) look around! Gaze upon the more unfortunate!

Thankfully, this isn’t too difficult in my office. Mainly consisting of middle aged women, my co-workers generally allow me to feel better for a moment, and to remember my fortunes.

This is, of course, until Matthew walks in.

Matthew is the embodiment of all that is wrong with the mindless poet. He’s younger, blonder, taller and better looking than I am. He’s the kid at school that would have been the quarter back if he’d not messed up his knee saving a kitten from a fire. He looks like Tom Brady, drives a Saab, and smells so nice. He has strong arms, perfect hair and teeth, more green in his wallet than I do…

And I want him removed. Not dead necessarily… just ‘removed’.

It is with such a mindset that I embark upon a most dastardly and evil plan… Operation Help! Make Matthew Mad… (Oh! MMM….)

I fully intend to drive Matthew firmly around the bend, down the road a little bit, into a garage, into another car, and finally into the asylum. This will start today and continue until the job has been completed….

Day One: From Small Beginnings...

I have started by removing the staples from his stapler each morning. I’m at work usually 5 minutes before him, so this should be an easy task. I’ll stand by for the grilling when the paranoid little sod blames me. ‘What Matthew? Take your staples? Grow up son would you? Grow. Up.’.

Day Two: Early setbacks

Its day two of Operation Make Matthew Go Mad.

His suspicions have clearly been raised, he looked at the stapler this morning with a ‘what the?.... Didn’t I?.... how did?....’ expression before placing another load of staples into it. I also noticed something new to hate about him, he keeps his staples in a drawer in his desk. A locked drawer. And keeps the key in his wallet. What else is in this drawer? More investigations are needed.

I have considered the merits of adding further torment at this early juncture, but think instead that the ‘Chinese water torture’ approach is better for now. He clearly suspects mischief, but is also already starting to doubt his own sanity… calling ‘has anyone seen my brain’ to anyone who’ll listen. Judy, the former air hostess that occupies the cube to the right of me made the terrible, unforgivable mistake of uttering a tiny titter at this, encouraging the boy to repeat his ‘winning line’ to anyone who passes.

The operation is clearly suffering at the moment. My plan to make Matthew mad has given him an opportunity to converse with the rabble and to bolster his own feelings of self-worth. The operation was always going to suffer some losses, but it will soldier onwards!

Tomorrow… I start to fight a new front. Switching of pen caps.

Day Three

I work in a cube farm for a software company.

My job is about as boring as jobs can be. I sit here, listening to the sales people peddling our wares in the cubes over the wall from me while I wait for the orders to come to my ‘team’. We then enter these orders into the arcane computer system that we run. Built in 1990 and based upon an old DOS prompt thingy, it serves to confirm the old adage that a painter’s house is never finished.

Once these orders have been processed, they are passed to a colleague to check for errors. Mine are usually passed to Matthew. Here begins the terrible tale of the sticky.

When these orders leave my desk they are pristine. New orders, ready to be let out into the world. Full of youth and carefree abandon they are the new generation, untouched, virginal, clean.

That is, until Matthew gets his little paws onto them.

Mistakes in this department are written on a yellow post-it note, which is then attached to the front of the order and returned to the poor soul that entered it. They render the order useless, sub-par, not up to scratch.

Matthew takes great delight in checking, and condemning orders. Like the true Aryan child that he is, he scrutinizes each order carefully, pouncing on any mistake with a gleeful ‘ah ha!’ Whipping a post-it note from his pad he slams it onto the order, accusing it kangaroo court style of failing to live up to his exacting standards. Seriously… these little yellow pieces of paper may as well be star shaped. His sole goal is to ‘sticky’ each order that passes his desk, hoping that this will enhance his reputation with the senior guards. I mean management.

Therefore, each day I walk into the office and am confronted by a pile of my orders, stickies covering them like the ‘pox. This only serves to increase my loathing for Matthew, and add fuel to my plan to ‘remove’ him. My orders shall one day be liberated!!

Update. Humor has turned to anger. The stapler is now locked in his drawer with the staples. I shall have to be crafty.

A SAAB day for Matthew

This is what Matthew's car... his pride and joy Saab now looks like. The Mindless Poet has a concussion, but his truck, apart from a couple of scratches, is totally fine.

The full story to follow... needless to say though, Matthew is mad and it was his fault!

And now... the rest of the story

Today started off much the same as any other. After returning home this morning fresh from my evening of wild and abandoned carnal pursuits (ok ok... watched some tv, ate a bagel, 'did it', it's my life, don't judge me, I like it) I stayed at home for far too long, checking the sports stories on the BBC (The Mindless Poet is British) before suddenly realizing that I was probably going to be late for work. Jumping into the passenger side door of the fabled truck, I hightailed it up the highway towards cell block 6, affectionately known to me and to others, as 'work'.

I join the highway shortly after leaving my house, allowing me the luxury of basically sleeping at the wheel until I make it to my exit. From there, it's about a three mile ride to the office, past a school, a historical site of interest, and an airbase.

As I came off the off ramp (well what else would you do with it, I hear you say... SHUT UP! I say, it's my story, leave me alone!) I noticed, in my rear view mirror, a green Saab. Matthew at the wheel.

He was a little too close for comfort, driving a little too aggressively for my liking. I decided to do what any sane and sensible person would do... and fuck with him.

I have Matthew's cell phone number. Locating mine, I composed a short text message.
"Wanker" said I.
"Patsy", came the speedy response.
"Eat My Truck"
"no thanks, i'm not into that"
"Liar! you pick up pickups"
"You're all about the dump trucks"

At this point, ladies and gentlemen... I responded with the words that every person faced with a text like that would respond with. I know that it was childish... but I had no choice. It's a code, it's a rule, it had to be said.

"Your mom" I said. Chuckling to myself. He had fed me the ball, and I'd scored what should have been the winning goal. Satisfied that I'd won, I sent one last text to rub his pretty little nose into the mess that he'd left. Perhaps I should have left it at that, but we were now close to work and could continue this assault when out of our cars. Better to finish him off, once and for all.
"Suck on my tail pipe" - I said. Putting the phone down I realized that there were a couple of cars in front of me playing the 'you first, no you first! ok me? oh sorry! I thought you meant me! I'll go. No no! ok we'll both sit here then' game. I brought the truck to a halt.

Looking into my rear mirror, I saw Matthew and his Saab appear to pick up speed. I then heard a screech of brakes, the Saab start to slide, and a look of horror adorned his pretty little face. At the very moment that my cell phone beeped to signal one last message, there came an almighty BANG!

The truck and I were pushed into the middle of the road. Getting out of the passenger side door (which a passing colleague saw and thought I might have been delirious), I inspected the back of the truck (no damage whatsoever) and went to check on Matthew.
"Are you ok?" I asked.
"I am but my car isn't" came his selfish, but actually probably understandable response.

I eventually went to the hospital and was diagnosed with a mild concussion and signed off work for a couple of days. Needless to say however, I'll be back at work tomorrow to make the most of this moment, and to remind Matthew constantly about the dangers of driving and texting.

Which reminds me... that last text message? "I think I'll just look instead".

It couldn't be a better story if I had made it up. All of the above, is exactly how it happened.

My apologies...

Ladies and gentlemen, my apologies for not updating the blog on Friday (or over the weekend for that matter). The concussion worsened and had me confined to my bed, whereupon a blood-clot formed. After traveling up my leg it finally reached my brain and gave me a series of mini-strokes, which has resulted in paralysis of the left side of my body. Being that I am left handed, I spent the weekend learning how to use my right hand for eating, writing, and masturbation.

Either that or I was tired on Friday, then busy at the weekend. You decide what you want to believe.

Operation Make Matthew Go Mad however, appears to be working well even though I am weakened and sleeping a lot! The truth is that the effects of the accident (If we’re calling it that, but more on that later) and the damage to his precious Saab have turned this man into a little bit of a wreck… and he is now determined… DETERMINED! To prove the following.

1) That the crash was not his fault.
2) There were no injuries to me.
3) That he has no social life.

As part of the aftermath, a police report had to be filed. Instead of writing the description of the crash in the little box provided on the downloaded sheet, Matthew decided to write an essay to describe the events, and to firmly place the blame for the crash on a patch of road that precedes the ‘crash site’, where apparently there had been a hydraulic liquid spill the day before. Of course this didn’t affect my braking, nor the cars around us, nor any other cars at all… but this was to blame for the accident.
Apparently.

Also, in the police report, it was reported that there were no injuries to myself or to my vehicle.

That proves points 1 and 2, don’t you think? And why have I surmised that he has no social life?

He sent the completed police report to me at Midnight, on Friday night… he’d been working on it all night! Then also sent me a text. Received while I was, again, ‘doing it’ (yes yes I know, I’m gloating). Then followed up at 8am on a Saturday morning! This boy clearly needs something better to do with his time.

'Fremenies'

I have a confession to make.
It’s not a huge confession, I’m not admitting to stealing my girlfriends’ underwear (it’s not me sweetie, honest… I love you?), nor am I here to reveal that it is, in fact, I who has been siphoning gas from the cars in my neighborhood (but really… if we get to $4 a gallon, I shall publicly retract this denial). No. No my confession is far less serious, yet far more embarrassing for me to make.

But first, a little background.

The aforementioned girlfriend, while no doubt on her way to a store to purchase replenishment underwear (seriously honey… what’s with that? We should investigate. It’s not me, I swear), was on the phone with a friend of hers. For the sake of protecting identities (would you want to be associated with me?) we’ll use initials instead of names. Here’s the code:

The mindless poet = J
The mindless poet’s girlfriend = A
The mindless poet’s girlfriend's friend = S
The mindless poet’s girlfriend's friend's 5 (soon to be 6) year old daughter = K

Here’s how the conversation went (at least, how I remember it going after 'A' recounted it to me).

S: So how is J?
A: He’s good
K: (From the back of the car) What happened to J?
S: He was rear-ended
K: What’s rear-ended?
S: Someone drove his car into the back of him
K: Who drove into him?
S: His arch-rival
K: What’s an arch-rival?
S: It’s like a nemesis
K: What’s a nemesis?
S: Well he’s like a frenemy
K: Oh ok, I know what a frenemy is.

Here, is my confession. I had never heard the word ‘frenemy’ before. A 5 (soon to be 6) year old child possesses a word in her vocabulary that is totally foreign to me. I would have won this contest if I were head to head with her and it were a best of 3, because I would have been able to slam down definitions for both ‘arch-rival’ and ‘nemesis’ and crushed her into submission before she’d even put a point on the board. But ‘frenemy’ would have left me stumped - thinking for a little, working it out in my head, then delicately reaching for the buzzer to offer a hastily improvised meaning.

There. Now I feel a little better. Catharsis really is good for the soul!
This conversation though got me to thinking something. Why do we pretend to be friends with people while secretly despising them and wishing them harm? Children don’t do this, and when we’re children we know exactly who in our classes like us. While it may initially hurt us to hear the words ‘you’re a poo head and I hate you’, it at least lets us know where we stand.

Matthew and I are officially ‘frenemies’. We talk to each other about non-work related things. We’ve even gone to lunch together at the local prison (they have a catering program, 3 course meal for $1.47. Don’t judge me), and we’ve hugged. Well I hugged him. It was late, we were still at work, and I wanted to see how he would react (his reaction was ‘get off me you homo! Help!’) At the same time however, we both clearly share a contempt for the other that transcends normality, and both cheer like fools when the other is absent from work.

I have decided to take ‘Operation Make Matthew Go Mad’ in a new and exciting direction. I shall be milking my injuries and totally making up new and interesting symptoms, both in an effort to attempt to squeeze some kind of ‘guilt’ emotion from his cold, cold heart; and to turn the tide of public opinion within cell block 6 against him. There’s been a little too much ‘how’s your car Matthew’ and a little less ‘how’s your head J’ for my liking, so today I’ll be turning the dial. If anyone out there has a neck brace, please let me know and I’ll pay for the postage. I’ll be wearing odd shoes, telling people that I have to leave early to shovel snow, asking where the ringing noises are coming from, trying to ‘fix’ the printer so that no paper can escape, and using words that I’ve never used before.

Like ‘frenemy’.

The Twinkie

When I first checked into cell block 6, referred to by those who know no better as ‘work’; I did as all do. I was polite to everyone, I honestly thought that I would be friends with all of my colleagues, and I certainly didn’t possess any plans to become enemies with anyone.

But office life is what it is. Alliances are formed, friendships made and broken, and there’s always someone with an ‘annoying as fuck’ laugh that you secretly want to stab with someone else’s letter opener.

When first sentenced, I thought that everyone here was ‘terribly nice’, ‘awfully helpful’; and ‘kind of weird’. The majority of my colleagues, as previously mentioned, are middle aged women who delight in feeding me cakes and cookies, but who ultimately are lacking in a few vital areas. I cannot talk about sports with them, I can’t recount any details of a weekend binge-drink-sex-sleep-sex-drink adventure, and I can’t discuss the finer merits of the two girls and their one cup. It is for this reason that I looked towards Matthew… apparently closer in age and social awareness to myself, for initial friendship.

I know, I should have known better, the warning signs were there. He spent an hour telling me about the color of the President’s ties. He let me know that he only dated girls who had gone to the same school as he had. All that I have to say in my defense is this… when you first start a romantic relationship with someone, there are things that they do that you consider ‘different, but cute’. The novelty soon wears off. You begin to resent these things, you begin to resent yourself for initially finding them ‘cute’.

The same goes for Matthew. At no stage did I think that he was ‘cute’, but I did catch myself thinking ‘I really should know more about correct shoe care, perhaps I can learn something’.

This honeymoon period didn’t last. I soon came to see him for what he is, a pretentious little swine with an eye on an upper management position. He’ll be my boss within a year, I guarantee it.

Before this breakdown, we sat one day discussing the merits of the Hostess Twinkie. For those of you outside of the USA, this is a synthetic cream filled snack, popular with children, pot-heads, and the elderly. Matthew was about to eat one of these deliciously awful treats, when he noticed that it had encroached upon its sell-by date by one week. Going to throw it away, I asked him what he was doing.
‘It’s past its sell by date’, he said. ‘It’s bad’
‘Those things will survive a nuclear holocaust’, I said. ‘It’s fine’.
‘I don’t eat things that go past their date. I can’t sue them if I get sick’
‘That Twinkie will not make you sick. I’ll eat that thing a year from today and I’ll be fine’.

The deal had been done.

The Twinkie now sits on Matthews monitor, and I’m reminded weekly of the date that I’ll be required to eat it… 9/5/08. Time has ravaged the poor thing in ways that are unexpected to me. It has shrunk, the packaging has expanded like a balloon, and it looks like it’s been sweating.

Herein lies another reason for my requested removal of Matthew. He goes, the Twinkie goes. My girlfriend won’t keep thinking I’m going to die after eating it, I step away from the bet with dignity.

Thursday 24th April, 2008

Today... TMP gets a day off! A real day off, not a 'I have a concussion' day off.

I'll be spending the day thinking of new ways to continue my 'Operation Make Matthew Go Mad'... but am also wanting to hear any ideas that anyone out there has. Something needs to happen to his hair, it's far too perfect.

Friday, 25th April 2008

I had a dream last night.

I was strapped to the executioners’ gurney, awaiting my sentence. I don’t know what I did, but it was probably more severe than stealing underwear or siphoning gas (I’m still not publicly admitting to either). The curtains were about to open to reveal my pathetic body to the audience, I was mentally preparing my last words.

The nurse then came in to locate the vein that would deliver me from evil. Bearing more than a passing resemblance to my girlfriend, I took the opportunity to flirt with her, throwing down my best lines before going in for the kill with a ‘whaddya-doin-afta?’ Just as she looked around the room, clearly seeking an escape route for the both of us, Matthew walked in. dressed all in white with hair oh so perfect, he hurried her away from me and proceeded with the execution in a simply excellent but very sterile manner. Everything was done to the letter, there was no room for error.

I awoke petrified.

Clearly though, this is how I see Matthew. He is the spoiler of my fun, he is the bringer of doom, and one day soon he’ll hold the power of life and death over my wretched, immoral soul.

Matthew, by his own proud admission, has never done any of the following:
1) smoked a cigarette
2) taken any illegal drugs
3) been arrested
4) been so drunk that he loses control of himself, or
5) Stolen anything.

Matthew is the Arnie to my Danny DeVito in the movie ‘Twins’. He’s the embodiment of perfection, whereas I consist of the shit that was left behind.

I’ve decided to alter Matthew’s chemical make-up. Beginning today, in addition to the messing with his stapler and pen tops (still ongoing and not having quite the desired effects), I’ll be adding additives to his diet. He only drinks coffee on a Friday morning (don’t ask) so today I’ll be adding a little ex-lax to the mix.

Monday 4th April 2008

I started to feel a little guilty over the weekend.

Perhaps Matthew doesn’t really deserve to be vilified in such a way. Maybe he’s just misguided. Maybe he needs a gentle nudge, not a painful jolt of ‘makemepoopnow’. Perhaps I could guide him, try to make him a better person? Or perhaps… and this was the thought that made me sweat… perhaps he’s really not all that bad and perhaps I’m just jealous of him.

That was until I got into work this morning and was pulled into a conference room by our supervisor, Lynn.

Lynn is a curious creature. She looks a lot like Magda from ‘There’s Something About Mary’, and has clearly seen a lot of trauma in her life. She is full of tales of woe and hardship, and continually finds new examples to explain why she thinks that the world is against her.

Lynn sat me down and explained to me that a training manual that I had written some months ago, and which management had decided to not use; had turned up in the hands of Matthew. Matthew made some changes (i.e. the NAME OF THE AUTHOR!), resubmitted it, and is to get the credit for its publication. You see, now there’s a business need for it. So it’s being used.

I walked away, shaking my head… thinking ‘the cheeky little fucker’. But what should I do?

I think that instead of making an official complaint, doing this the ‘right way’, I’m just going to up the ante and mess with him some more.

Tuesday 29th April, 2008

This morning, like most mornings, I arrived to work early. I checked for any sign of life within the office, before realizing that the coast was clear and that I could go ahead and put phase #2 of 'Make Matthew go Mad' into operation.

I took off my shoes to sneak into his cube. I don't really know why. I put gloves on, again, not sure why. I took a cut up piece of hot dog, taken from the lunch that was prepared for me from left overs from the girl who rocks my world, and dabbed it with a tissue. Just to be safe.

On Matthews desk is a desk fan. This is not company issued, but brought from home and paraded for all to see. The company supplied fan has two speeds, Matthews four. The company supplied fan is an off white color, Matthew's jet black with chrome accents. The company supplied fan has nothing on the back. Matthew's fan now has a cut up hot dog, taped to its reverse.

When it gets hot, this dog will stink. When the fan is turned on, the dog will blow rank air into his pretty little face. It's the least that he deserves.

Thursday 1st May 2008

Ladies and gents, my apologies for not writing yesterday.
Yesterday was the end of the month here in cell block 6, a day that usually signals a frantic day of typing and getting in orders and trying to get the fuckouddahere before midnight.

Usually, our good friend Matthew takes it upon himself to ‘go slow’ at this time, finding issues with orders that require a great amount of investigation and deep thought. He does this for two reasons… one to squeeze further overtime hours from the company, and two – to hold a power over all of the rest of us who want to get the fuckouddahere before midnight.

Yesterday however, I held power over Matthew! He wanted to get the fuckouddahere early so that he could make an appointment to see a car. And I? I could hold him up! Make him miss the appointment and prolong his agony!!

Alas, I wanted to get the fuckouddahere too… my ladyfriend was waiting patiently for me and I needed to be there.

Matthew though has been remarkably nice to me these last couple of days. He invited me to go to Costco with him (which on the surface seems like a decent idea, I could do with getting 10 bags of rice… but is it worth it?) and also wants me to go with him to look at cars.

I’m trying not to fall for this trap though. There’s a trap, I know it.

The dog is stinking the place up.

May 5th, 2008

Matthew has found a new car! It's a SAAB. He's going to be driving a SAAB again.

I'm not one to talk, of course. My girlfriend also drives one, I usually take the wheel if we go anywhere (giving her ample opportunity to tell me that I suck at driving) and have grown to like it. But still... she makes the SAAB look good, he makes it look like an inside out hedgehog, the prick is on the inside. But i've become the biggest kind of hypocrite, driving my girlfriend's SAAB while sounding Matthew out for doing the same.

So! I've decided. Enough of this charade! I will no longer do this. I will never again drive my girlfriend's SAAB.

I'll drive my fiancee's SAAB though.

Wednesday, May 14th

Ladies and mothers, gentlemen and bloggers, fans of the fart and lovers of the libido, my apologies.

You see, the problem with writing a blog about one boring person in a boring office can get… well… boring sometimes. Matthew is still Matthew, he still grips my shit, I still hate him and I’d still be totally lost without him. It’s time to expand your horizons of my workplace (I sometimes do work here); it’s time for you to meet the family.

We’ll start with my cube; let you get comfortable in here yeah? Then you can go out and meet and greet the ‘others’, then you’ll do my work and let me get on with what I’m doing? Which is usually nothing good, and usually involves chatting with ‘my bird’ or playing ping pong on the quiet. Which, by the way, I am officially the office champion of.

My cube is the same kind of cube that you may be sitting in now. Grey, depressing, adorned with strip lights. I have no photographs in here; I consider photos in cubes as an acceptance of your sentence. When I finally break out of this confinement I don’t want to be stopping to collect anything aside from my coffee mug and possibly my basketball-shaped-stress-ball.

I’ve been at this place for 8 months and now have 4 coffee mugs. One was here when I arrived, one was given to me by a colleague (Lisa, you’ll meet her later), one was purchased for me by my lovely girlfriend, the other was a corporate offering, a big white and green ‘thing’ with ‘Go Green *company name blocked so I don’t get fired* written all over it. I have 3 calendars, 2 monitors, and a shot glass from Rachel in sales. All I need is 5 gold rings and I’ve got a song that’ll get in your head!

Also in my cube is a list of names of customers that are funny. There is:
1) Sunday O.Ojay
2) Nimrod Dolev
3) Kelli Hooker
4) Candace Waddles
5) Tweety Bang, and
6) Rose Hefty

There’s also a company name, ‘Slappy and Sadd LLC’. I’m not making any of this up.

Tomorrow, I’ll start to introduce you to my colleagues… stay tuned!

Thursday, May 15th

Today, ladies and gentlemen… it’s time to talk about something serious. Something close to my heart, something that I hold in the highest regard.

When we join a company we accept that we will be forced to be cordial to people that we wouldn’t usually mix with. Rather like in school we soon develop groupings among our peers, broken loosely into ‘friends’, ‘just colleagues’, and ‘sworn enemies’. If we’re lucky the ‘friends’ will outweigh the ‘sworn enemies’, if we’re really lucky our ‘friends’ will consider our ‘sworn enemies’, their ‘sworn enemies’.

You see, it’s kind of like school but not quite. Wedgies are frowned upon in an office setting; name calling is done in whispers, not to be heard by the intended target of abuse. You may not sit with your ‘sworn enemy’ at lunch, but you aren’t permitted to throw food at him/her, nor stick your thumb into their meatloaf. At least you knew where you stood at school though; you knew who didn’t like you. At work though at least you don’t have to cut around the hole or pluck your boxers from your crack, it’s a fair trade.

There are though, together with this community in which we work, a certain set of unwritten rules. It’s how we can better get along with each other and our compliance or otherwise may decide our place within the ‘friends’, ‘colleagues’ and ‘sworn enemies’ hierarchy. These are rules of etiquette, rules that are not taught but rather passed on through the genes of our parents, and are to be followed at all times.

Some are simple and can be broken down as thus:

1) Hold the door open for people. Especially where a card is needed to enter the building.
2) Respond to a corridor pass ‘how you doin’ with either a ‘colleague’ or even a ‘sworn enemy’ with the same ‘how you doin’. The offering of a ‘how you doin’ to a ‘colleague’ or ‘sworn enemy’ isn’t an actual request for information but a recognition of your presence and should be treated as such.
3) Photocopying large amounts doesn’t necessarily mean that you have the sole use of the only working photocopier. If you can break up your copying, you should allow someone who clearly has only one sheet of paper to ‘jump in’.
4) If you are the person with just one sheet of paper and are invited to ‘jump in’, do not make 250 copies of that one sheet. Respect the rules.
5) Do not treat the office fridge as an extension of your home appliance. Store only what you need for that days lunch in there, expect me to eat what’s left.

The above are clear and obvious. The one thing that perhaps isn’t is…

6) If there are 3 stalls in the bathroom, and when you walk in there is someone occupying stall 1, DO NOT! UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES! USE STALL 2!

Seriously people, this crap has to stop. Which is an ironic statement, because if I’m in the bathroom and in stall 1, and some fucktard comes into stall 2, my crap stops. Totally. I simply cannot squeeze fecal matter from my lily white arse when I can see someone’s shoes. AND! If you wear your badge on your belt then I can read it and know who you are. It’s bad enough seeing shoes and thinking ‘I think I know those shoes’, but the last thing that I need when I’m dropping the kids off at the pool is to be sure that the person who is panting, clearly sweating and certainly in need of more fiber is indeed a fat and sweaty tech guy. Who is currently working on my computer. I know who you are, I can see what you’re doing, and I can smell it. Get the fuck away from me, use stall 3, don’t forget to wash your hands and dude… go to a doctor and eat some veggies already yeah?

People, be warned. Things will turn very ugly if this trend continues. And... if you're Asian and work in NYC (I know, narrows it down to only a couple right?) then be very careful and watch your back.

June 6th, 2008

I had the following argument yesterday with Lynn (Magda) the supervisor:

L: Once you’ve done 12 platform exchange orders you should know what you’re doing.
TMP: Generally yes, but I think it depends on the regularity.
L: No it doesn’t. ONCE. YOU’VE. DONE. T-W-E-L-V-E- ORDERS. YOU. KNOW. HOW. TO. DO. THEM.
TMP: No really, I think it depends on the regularity of them. If you do only 1 a month, then I think it’s less effective than if you do 1 a day for 2 weeks. Repetition, you know.
L: No. doesn’t make a difference at all.
TMP: Ok then, think of it this way. When you’re training for a dance (Lynn is a ballroom dancer. The very thought of her in sequins scares the living shit out of me) you don’t practice the dance once a week for 5 weeks, you practice once a day for a week, right?
L: I’m training for 8 dances. EIGHT! And I have to wear different costumes. You don’t have to wear different costumes. It’s easy for you. Think of it, having to change costume between orders. See? Not so easy is it? 12 orders.