It is a far, far better thing that I do, than I have ever done...

A shipyard is not the most cheerful place to work.  The atmosphere is so sickeningly Dickensian that you could almost imagine Sidney Carton (or was it Charles Darnay?) sidling up to Madame Guillotine.  THWAP!

In such a setting, you have to take the little things that make you smile and embrace them.  Dilbert helps.  I also play games.  For every pun I can use in an email, I get two points.  Obscure nautical references in conversation?  Four points.  Making comparisons between my supervisors and Captain Ahab, without them noticing?  Ten points.  A bonus point is awarded if I can sneak Pequod into the comparison -- "You're right, sir, it would Pequod an achievement getting complete cooperation on our little whale of a problem.  Perhaps you could spearhead the effort on this one?"

I also eat a sizeable quantity of Goldfish.  You know, those little cheddar fish-shaped crackers?  The ones that always, always smile back??  The ones whose incessant grinning and vacant eyes make you want to bite their heads off, which you can do because they are, after all, not even real fish and it does no good to anthropomorphize a cracker???  Why won't you frown, fish?!!

But mostly, for my own personal kicks, I rely on the absurdity of my coworkers.  Today I had to wait until after lunch.  One of the elderly gentlemen, who is the uncontested general of the Nap Time Brigade (see an earlier post from April), also believes that the farther away a person is, the louder he has to talk to them on the phone.  Today, the individual was at a desk approximately thirty miles away, so the old guy had to talk at a moderately loud volume to ensure the sound of his voice traveled intact over that thirty miles of telephone cord.  Our guy, so it happens, is volunteering to be a contestant on our command's version of American Idol, although we will not use that trademark and we don't limit ourselves to just singers.  If this was ten years ago, we would call it a talent show, but this is the New Navy and we are hip.  But, as it turns out, our Nap Time Brigadier General is an avid ballroom dancer, and regularly partners with his wife in such contests. 

Now I'm not making fun of this.  I believe ballroom dancing is technically challenging and a worthwhile hobby.  I commend the General for participating in such an activity, what with him being older than dirt.  But his enthusiasm just makes me smile.  I might have even giggled in fact.  You see, the General wanted to know the exact dimensions and composition of the stage he would be performing on, because a skilled a dancer as he needs the Proper Floor for his Proper Shoes, and if the Proper Floor was not available, he would bring the Proper Baby Powder so that he might prepare the Improper Floor so as not to scuff his Proper Shoes and affect his Superior Performance. 

I smile because, on the other end of that thirty-mile conversation, was some poor soul who probably was volunteered to organize this little talent show and had no idea where the talent show would be, or what kind of stage existed.  Up until that point, he had hoped and prayed that no one would volunteer and he could let it die quietly, but the General just guaranteed that wouldn't happen.  And just like Mr. Carton, you can bet he was praying to Jesus that this ordeal would be quick and painless.

THWAP!