Uh oh

I just got done playing soccer. There is a bump on the top of my right hand
and I can't pick up my coffee cup. I'm concerned.

¿Why don't we use these?

I had to sit through five hours of interviews today because the Navy is
turning my job into a civilian position and I was asked to chair the
selection panel. My six months' experience and 24 years of age apparently
qualifies me to interview sexagenarians.

"Sir, you have fought in the Vietnam War, have touched every single water
and steam valve on this base and have been a supervisor for longer than I
have been alive. What qualifies you to do my job?"

Anyway, back to the subject. I picked up McDonald's coffee on the way in
because it was cheap, I wanted a parfait (don't judge), and I needed
something to keep me awake. During the interviews I had plenty of time to
study the black plastic top. It carried the usual caution with an
anthropomorphic twist: "Caution: I'm hot! ¡Cuidad: Esta caliente!"

Three things:

1. Mexicans do not anthropomorphize.

2. "Caution: I'm hot!" would be a great punch line for a narcissistic female
coffee cup joke.

3. Upside down punctuation marks are useful in a situation like this. In
the English version, I had no idea I should be concerned until I hit the
exclamation mark. I was lulled into a false sense of security. The
Spanish, however, hits you immediately with the gravity of the situation.
It's like prefacing their exclamations with Hey! and their questions with
Yo:

¿Esta caliente? Yo, is that hot?
¡Esta caliente! Hey! That's hot!

Why can't we do that?? No, excuse me. ¿¿Why can't we do that?? I'm tired
of waiting until the end of sentences to find out if I need to be
inquisitive or surprised. I don't need that kind of suspense.

I also have similar qualms about ampersands. No one can draw the damn
things. You go through all the effort to abbreviate "and" but then you give
the symbol a name that is three times longer than the word it replaces.
¿Why? The ampersand should be called "nd." Anything else is a waste of my
time. That's why I stick to "+," the poor man's ampersand.

Outbreak

It is hard to imagine a more potent example of impending doom than an entire office getting sick around you.

It has been going on for about eight days now. It started with Tom ("Patient Zero") and spread quickly Andy and Ed. By Friday last week Tim was sick. Sara and Donna are now showing symptoms.

Drawing concentric circles around Patient Zero, I have established that the virus has a sphere of influence that expands at about two and a half feet per day. Cubicle walls cannot contain it. The hallway could not slow it down. Forrest and I sit about 24 feet from Patient Zero. Forrest is approximately 120 years old. He is my canary. When he starts showing symptoms I know my time will be short.

In about 22 hours I start my four-day weekend. I have to survive until then. If I have to get sick, it can wait until next Tuesday. No rhinovirus is going to screw up my long weekend. I soak the walls of my cubicle with Purell. I avoid eye contact lest this virus is transmitted visually. I
breath only when absolutely necessary. I feel dizzy. More Purell.

Forrest just coughed. Was it old man cough or an involuntary spasm of sick? My belly has become a chaotic mixture of foreboding and preemptive Robitussin. Don't die, canary!

My Saturday Mornings

1. Wake up by 7:30 am.

2. Make some coffee.

3. Eat some Kashi cereal.

4. Watch a DVR episode of Dirty Jobs.

5. Find answers to questions from the week, like "Is Behr paint on sale this weekend?" and "What are Virginia state income tax requirements?"

Jealous?

The many perils of cubicle squatting

As I mentioned before, I am an office nomad. Having been stripped of my desk and computer by a more senior coworker, I wander the halls in search of available computers. I hope for vacation days and pray for chronic illnesses to free up a desk. I won't lie to you--my lifestyle is assuredly not glamorous, but there is certainly an air of adventure to it. It is exciting. It is Romantic with a capital "R." It is the life of a white collar hobo.

But alas, there are many dangers that can befall an enterprising wanderer such as myself. Incorrect lumbar support has left me permanently hunched over, and inadequate task lighting has left me slightly annoyed. Sticky keyboards and organizational faux pas have tested my closet OCD to the point of involuntary muscle spasms. However, the biggest peril that can befall a white collar hobo is thelure of strange and mysterious office supplies.

Now, you may think that a veteran cubicle jockey such as myself must have seen every type of office supplies ever devised, and a week ago I would have agreed with you. While squatting in Kord's cubicle this week, however, I met the Clam Clip. The Clam Clip is a handheld device that sort of resembles the offspring of an eraser, a marker, and a staple remover (if such interspecies office supply procreation were indeed possible). On the top of the device is a push trigger that, forabout three-quarters of its operation does absolutely nothing.

At this point most timid office workers might have put down the Clam Clip and slowly walked away, but not a white collar hobo. I did the only thing I could do. I brought the Clam Clip up to eye level for closer inspection and jammed that trigger forward.

I am still not sure exactly what happened. All I know is that I got shot in the face with what I can only surmise was a clammed clip. We may never know. I could not find the projectile anywhere. I suspect that it is either lodged deeply in my forehead or somewhere in Low Earth Orbit. That crack we heard was most likely the projectile breaking the sound barrier.

The Clam Clip has since been disposed of in such a manner that its evil will never harm anyone again. Please don't tell Kord when he gets back from his vacation.

F You, Phil

Six more weeks of winter, you furry little son of a bitch. I'm cold, dammit. While you sit all fat and happy in your cozy grotto, we're out shivering in the real world. It's a shadow you stupid rodent. I don't think it is fair that I'm wearing eight layers just because your many neuroses enable you to get skittish around slightly darker patches of ground.

I hope someone makes a hat out of you.