They Did it AGAIN!

Several weeks ago, all of you fine folks indulged me while I ranted about First Bank of Sand Land (FBOSL) fouling up a wire transfer by several orders of magnitude. Since you're all invested in my plight, I feel obligated to issue the following update: MOFO's DID IT AGAIN!!!(!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!)

Requested transfer amount: 7,705 Sand Landian Schillings

Actual transfer amount:  7,750 Sand Landian Schillings

AAGGGAHAHHAAAGGGHAAAA!!!!!

Actual footage of me checking Fuckwittery, Inc.'s bank
statement earlier today...except it's not really me
and I don't wear pleather blazers

Yup, Mr. Fat Fingers, FBOSL's lysdexic wire transfer clerk, strikes again. Hey FBOSL (or should I say FBSOL, emphasis on S.O.L) how come none of these errors are ever in my company's favor? Huh?!

I really wish Michael Jackson's doctor had been acquitted. Placing him on permanent retainer was probably my only shot of getting a good night's sleep so long as I have to deal with you all...

Oh, I almost forgot...FBSOL, if  you're still reading this, Sand Cat here is pestering me to ask if she can work as a wire transfer clerk in your esteemed concern. Yeah, I know, she's trying to use your recent screw ups as a pretext for wasta'ing her way in.

But hear me out on this, FBSOL: while she doesn't comprehend the mathematical significance of numbers themselves, she loooooves to knead her paws on my calculator, which means - you guessed it - she is capable of punching buttons! Based on my recent experiences with you, it would appear she has the requisite skill for the position.

Sand Cat tells me she is willing to start for a basic salary of 179 Sand Landian Schillings per month which can be paid in either cash or kind consisting of bonito tuna flakes, glittery yarn and neon flea collars. She's willing to accept 1 SL Schilling less than minimum wage as long as you allow her to play that ear worm of a song by Fine Young Cannibals on infinite repeat over the PA system - as she doesn't understand numbers, a fun loving work environment is more of a priority for her than money and she's really in to that whole 80's day-glo thing right now.


As my way of thanking you for not being specist and giving her a fair shot, I promise to cover her maxi taxi fare so you can save on that pesky transport allowance. But wait, there's more! She's also game for dismembering any insects that are squatting in the branch to which she is deputed - without demanding overtime pay (provided you let her keep the carcasses).

Think you can find any human beings willing to sign up for this deal? Doubtful with your Sand Landization requirements. C'mon, FBSOL, act now before someone else reads this and snatches her intrepid ass up!

Hey FBSOL, hook a kitty up!
 I kyoot an I gotz mad kwalifikashuns!

Attention All Nerds In Sand Land: Keep Your Academic Prowess Under Wraps!

Confession: I am a nerd - a fact which is obvious to anyone who knows me or has glanced at my blogroll. I'm an unabashed dork who proudly earned a varsity letter in high school for winning a "Math-letics Olympiad" and skipped her junior prom to compete at the science fair state finals. When I meet high school age kids, I often ask about their academic pursuits and their post-secondary school aspirations. In the course of conversation, I may let it drop that I'm an ex-mathlete or that I have a degree in chemistry.

But I've learned the hard way that, when in Sand Land, no good comes of people learning about your nerdly glories of yore. In fact, leaking such details can lead to a whole lotta shit coming your way.

A few weeks ago, Mr. Superwasta, a well placed employee at one of my company's key suppliers, ambled into my office with his sulky teenage son, Sassafras, in tow. Why Sassafras was following his father around that day, I have no idea. Perhaps it was Bring Your Child to Work Day in Sand Land and us fuckwits had (thankfully) missed the boat. Anyhow, my company was pushing hard for Mr. Superwasta's company to give us a bigger volume-based discount, so I put on my charm hat and tried to make small talk with the glowering young lad:

Me: So Sassafras, what's your favorite subject in school?
Sassafras (not looking up from his iphone): Chemistry.
Me: Oh gooooood for you! That was my favorite, too! I majored in Chemistry!
Sassafras (looking up at me with excitement. Serious jazzhands excitement): Really? Did you learn balancing chemical equations?
Me: Oh yeah. I learned that in high school.
Sassafras (gazing upon me as if a choir of angels is perched on my shoulders, singing): I'm learning it right now. I think it is very interesting.
Me: High five, brother!

As Mr. Superwasta and Sassafras left, I smiled at having connected with a budding chemistry enthusiast. Later that day, I got an incoming call from Mr.Superwasta's mobile. Sassafras was on the other end of the line asking if I could meet him that night. Based on my recurring experience in Sand Land of being inappropriately hit on by males between the ages of 13 and 97, I immediately began making vague excuses about not having any free time...ever. But Sassafras was not to be deterred. "Look, I have chemistry homework due tomorrow and I don't understand it. So you need to do it." I suggested that he re-read his textbook and email me if he still had general questions and then I waxed poetic about how important it was for him to do his own work if he truly wanted to master the subject.

Half an hour after hanging up, I got another call from Mr. Superwasta's mobile. This time it was Mr. Superwasta himself. "Have you got my email?" he asked, slightly panicked.

"No, I haven't checked my mail in a couple hours."

"Why not?"

"Because it's 11:30 on Wednesday night and I'm at a friend's house."

"Fine, check your mail and call me back," Mr. Superwasta said before hanging up.

I pulled up my email on my blackberry. My eyes bugged out as the screen flashed "downloading messages 1 - 16". All 16 emails were from Mr. Superwasta and all had the same subject: HELP HIM.

Attached to each email was a pdf containing a single page of either a homework assignment or an exam. I replied to the first message saying that I'd previously spoken with Sassafras and would be glad to give him some pointers if he had general questions but I couldn't do his assignments for him, academic integrity sure is a bitch ain't it, blah blah blah...

Within 30 seconds, Mr. Superwasta's reply hit my inbox:

Dear Ms. Adventures,

Sassafras does not need to do chemistry good. He will be a doctor. He will not be a chemist. He just needs the good marks and he is a busy boy. So kindly please do the needful and send him all of the answers tonight.

Best Regards,
Mr. Superwasta

In my semi-buzzed state, I bristled at the notion that a high school student was busier than me. I mean, you all can vouch for what little free time I have these days, right? I turned my phone on silent and returned my attention to my gin and tonic. 15 minutes later my husband came over, his mobile at his ear. "Your boss," he mouthed, handing me the phone. I pulled my phone out of my pocket and saw there were three missed calls from my boss.

"Ms. Adventures, did you tell Mr. Superwasta you would do his child's chemistry homework?" Fuckwittery, Inc.'s owner asked, groggy and irritated.

"Um, no. I told him I would not do his child's homework," I said, cringing at the prospect of being ordered to go home and get to work balancing chemical equations.

"Good," he said. "Mr. Superwasta just woke me up and asked me to track you down so his son could get the answers to his homework from you."

"I'm sorry, sir. But I'm not helping high school kids cheat."

"I'm delighted to hear that. Have a good night."

In all fairness, Sassafras Superwasta is not the only person to have approached me about completing school assignments. It's happened quite a few times, albeit in a less coercive manner. Some of Fuckwittery, Inc.'s more wasteful expenditures involve sending "high performing" employees to the local "MBA" programs sponsored by various bottom feeder universities based in the West. When midterms and finals week roll around, I often get a few wild-eyed panicked employees asking me to solve "business math" story problems and the like.

Fortunately, telling your employees you're not going to do their homework is a less excruciating prospect than swatting away Sassafras Superwasta. But nonetheless, it's always an awkward conversation and feelings get hurt. So from now on, I'll be discussing crap like Paris Hilton's My New BFF with the teenagers whose paths I cross and I'll be doing my darndest to look stupid whenever someone comes to my office lamenting the difficult final exam from Univeristy of Mattressfordshire their teacher's just handed out. I've done a stupid thing or two in my life, so I'm fully confident I can pull it off.

Fellow nerds, I advise you to learn from my follies and act in a similar manner.