Misadventures in HR

They Did it AGAIN!

2011-11-11T22:44:00.001+04:00

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!

2011-11-05T19:45:00.001+04:00

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.

Banking in Sand Land: A Cautionary Tale

2011-09-17T16:39:00.000+04:00

A few weeks back, in the middle of the night, my mobile phone rang.

"Who in the hell is 'G-Train'?" my husband asked, handing me the phone.

"Umm...it's one of our suppliers...from New Jersey," I said, blinking.

"The company is called G-Train? Are you serious?"

"No. It's our sales rep. That's his nickname or something." I explained and answered the phone.

The ensuing conversation went something along these lines:

Me: G-Train, do you have any clue what time it is over here?

G-Train [sounds like a Sopranos cast member]: You still in Sand Land?! Are you kidding me, doll? Aren't you gonna like flee that country or somethin'??

Me: What are you talking about?

G-Train: Lady, c'mon. You just sent me $89,400.00 to settle an invoice for $8,490.00. HAHAHAHAHA!!!

Me: No way. I reviewed that transfer order before it went to the bank.

G-Train [screaming to his colleagues]: Yo, Pretty Ricky! Juice Factor! Get over here. This lady just sent me like a MILLION more dollahs than we invoiced her for. HAHAHAHA!

Pretty Ricky or Juice Factor: Damn, bro! That is one crazy ass broad! Yo, G-Train that money is all you! It's all you baby!

G-Train: I mean, what's going on doll? Is this your passive aggressive way of letting me know you wanna run off wit me?

Me: Dude, look, there's been some screw up. Don't take that money to Atlantic City or anything. It's coming out.

I ended the call while G-Train, Pretty Ricky and Juice Factor were fist bumping and talking about how they were going to make it rain in the Jersey shore clubs that weekend.

As I fired up my computer, my heart was in my throat. I've done some pretty stupid things in my life, but this would definitely take the cake. I opened the pdf of the wire transfer and heaved a sigh of relief as I confirmed that the document did indeed call for a payment of "US$ 8,490.00" to G-Train & Bros.

Just to make things crystal clear, the First Bank of Sand Land's wire transfer form also required you to write the amount in letters: "Eight thousand four hundred ninety u.s. dollars and zero cents".
So what the hell was G-Train talking about?

I logged into Fuckwittery, Inc.'s account. Sure enough there was a wire transfer for $89,400.00. The jackholes at First Bank of Sand Land had not only transposed the "4" and the "9" but they added an extra zero for shits and giggles. Payroll was due in a few days and a substantial portion of our working capital was in the custody of G-Train, Pretty Ricky and Juice Factor. My blood pressure hit the stratosphere.

Not with my luck.

I called the bank's help desk and was promptly put on hold and subjected to their shiteous call hold music, Ode to Joy...hammered out on a xylopone...on infinite repeat. (What is it with call hold music in Sand Land, by the way?) As I waited, I sent out a panicky email to our banking manager. After 25 minutes on hold, I was told that absolutely nothing could be done outside normal working hours.

The next morning, I was standing outside the bank branch with my accountant when they opened for business. I made a beeline for the manager's office. In as calm a voice as I could muster, I explained that we had submitted a wire transfer for $8,490.00 but $89,400.00 had been transferred out of our account. I handed the manager a copy of the transfer and a screen shot of our bank account, sat back and waited for a profuse apology.

But the manager sipped her coffee, gave the form a casual glance and looked at me over the rims of her glasses. "Madam, I'm afraid there is nothing we can do. The money has already been transferred."

I took a deep breath and tried to stay calm. "This bank erroneously transferred more than $80,000 out of my company's account. I'm afraid you are going to have to do something about it."

"Do you never make mistakes?" the manager asked, her face clouding.

"Not $80,000 dollar mistakes! Are you insane?!" I shrieked before regaining composure. I was starting to feel paranoid, like I was the unwitting victim of some elaborate, international candid camera prank. "Look, a mistake is not the end of the world but you've got to fix it."

"Madam, when you transfer money, you have to accept the risk that there may be some mistake. Everyone knows this." She stood up and motioned for the door, apparently to indicate that I was dismissed.

"On what planet is it common knowledge that a bank can make unauthorized transfers out of a customer's account?" I snarled, glued my seat.

"The planet of Earth," she answered matter of factly.

"Ok, is that why the transfer forms make you write the amount in both letters and numbers? Why don't you just type "any amount this bank damn well pleases" in those fields?"

We continued sparring to no avail. When I got back to the office, I started burning up the phones to everyone I knew in First Bank of Sand Land's headquarters. After two days of continuous emails and calls, someone high up the food chain finally admitted that the bank would have to correct the transfer and initiated a process to claw back Fuckwittery, Inc's money from G-Train & Bros.

When the missing $80,910 was safely ~~for the time being~~ back in our coffers and my blood pressure returned to normal levels, I thought I had a pretty good story on my hands. But it turns out I didn't. As I told my Sand Land friends about this ordeal, I was consistently met with sympathetic nods, not bug-eyed, slack-jawed looks of incredulity. Everybody had a story of the banks erroneously transferring money into or out of their accounts for no apparent reason. I came to learn that more than a few people here spend hours of their free time every month combing through their bank statements in search of these inevitable, uncorrected errors.

The only person I've come across who was impressed with the banking establishments of Sand Land was my 9 year-old neice. On a Christmas visit, she was awed by the ever-present ad campaigns exhorting the public that they can win money lottery-style by keeping their savings in Sand Landian banks. Compounding interest is just so un-fun compared to photos of ecstatic newly minted gajillionaires.

Personally, I just don't have the time or nerves to constantly comb through my personal bank accounts. So the next bank transfer I effected was my own money. No doubt my neice will be seriously disappointed when she comes back this year.

Sorry Gang!

2011-05-27T20:37:00.000+04:00

Hiya guys! Sorry for being AWOL for so long. Yes, I'm still around, chugging along. Work has been crazy busy and between lots of business trips and a couple of unusual side projects, I haven't had much time for blogging or any other fun activities. All work and no play well and truly makes Ms. Adventures one dull gal and any posts during this time would definitely have been total crap...so I spared you! :-)

Things should be settling down next month and I'll resume regular posting. Never fear party people, I've got lots of stories for you...including an employee motivation scheme I've rolled out recently that seems to be taking a bite out of Fuckwittery, Inc.'s fuckwittery. I call it the "Robin Hood Rewards Program" and yes, it is a wealth transfer scheme of sorts.

In the meantime, please forgive me!

The Ladies' Guide to the Sand Landian Job Interview

2011-03-17T10:57:00.000+04:00

Dear Ms. Adventures,

I have been searching for a job in Sand Land for several months. At first, no one was showing interest in my CV. But then I used your Sand Land CV guide to spiff up my CV and I am finally getting called for some interviews.

But I'm still not able to land a job! I research the company ahead of time so I will be well prepared. I arrange for a babysitter to watch my children while I attend the interview. I arrive at the interview 15 minutes early. I give good answers to the interviewer's questions. What gives??

Sincerely,
Jobless Gal in Sand Town

Dear JGIST,

I could not help but chuckle as I considered your plight. Perhaps you are doing everything right by the standards back home. But honey, you're not in Kansas anymore! Many of the behaviors you've described may signify "excellent candidate" back home, but in Sand Land they scream "pathetic, douchey loser." But don't fret, gentle reader, if you follow these simple steps, you'll have employers wrapped around your little finger:

Everything about this picture is wrong.

Step #1: Cancel that babysitter!

In Sand Land, when a lady attends a job interview, it is expected that her children will accompany her. Consider them an accessory as essential as your CV. If you do not currently possess children of your own, borrow or kidnap someone else's.

You should plan to bring a minimum of three children under the age of 10 to the interview. One of the children must be an "Unweaned Bipedal", which is to say that it should be old enough to walk upright, but...umm...not yet eating solid foods. Consider the other 2+ children "Wildcards" who can be of any developmental stage. Both categories of children have essential roles to play at the interview.

Step #2: Tell your husband to clear his schedule.

Much like children, a husband is an essential accessory at any woman's job interview. If you are not married, you will need to hire someone to pose as your spouse at the job interview. Be sure that your husband or the hired actor is capable of assuming an air of belligerence and machismo at the interview.

Consider the "Unweaned Bipedal/2+ Wildcards/Husband" ensemble as the bare minimum necessary to conform to Sand Landian job interview etiquette. You can always go the extra mile and invite parents, siblings and any house guests who may be staying with you at the time of the interview.

Step #3: Care and feeding of children prior to the interview.

All Wildcards you are planning to bring to the interview should be placed on a diet of processed carbohydrates, high fructose corn syrup and added sugar for a minimum of 48 hours prior to the interview. The children should also be kept indoors and deprived of TV and favorite toys so they will be in "peak interview form" - an emotional state characterized by pent-up energy and extreme agitation.

Step #4: Getting yourself ready for the interview.

In job interviews back home, you may have tried to demonstrate that you were eager to get the job and enthusiastic to contribute to the organization's goals. But this type of Eager Beaver attitude gets no love in Sand Land. Rather, you'll need to project a "you'd be damned lucky to have me on whatever terms I and any member of my interview ensemble demand" attitude.

To convey this mindset, consciously avoid all information related to the company with which you're interviewing and its industry. You should also be prepared to give the impression that you have little to no clue about what the prospective job entails. And try your best to remain ignorant of the company's physical location.

Step #5: Prepare and pack large quantities of food.

Your interview will probably last all of 15 minutes and during that time your entourage could become ravenously hungry. Tantalizing "interview entourage picnics" that I've come across in the past have included aromatic ingredients like raw onions, canned fish and BBQ potato chips.

Step #6: Leave your house at the time your interview is schedule to start

A major, deal-breaking faux pas in Sand Land is showing up to the interview early or on-time. Never do this! You'll look like an over-eager chump. From the Sand Land employer's point of view, late = aloof = hard to get = awesome employee.

Once you are in the car, have your husband drive about aimlessly as you call the company and ask for directions to the interview site.

Step #7: Take over the waiting area

When you finally arrive at the interview site, you and your entourage must launch a coordinated banzai-style attack on the waiting area. Think of the lobby as Guadalcanal and your crew as the Imperial Army.

Instruct your children beforehand that they will be rewarded with Baskin-Robbins if they succeed in digging up all of the lobby's potted plants with their bare hands. While they are doing this, your husband should pester the reception staff to change the TV channel and crank up the volume. Your objective is to bring the company's operations to a grinding halt so everyone sits up and takes notice of the awesomeness that is you.

Step #8: Meet the interviewer

When you are called to the interviewer's room, be sure to bring your whole crew. The children should dart into the room and begin playing with the interview's office supplies, paper weights, mobile phone, etc. Your husband should munch on the BBQ chips while demanding to know the salary you will be paid, he should then warn the interviewer that you can't work later than 2:00 p.m. When the interviewer asks your husband and children to wait outside, express extreme annoyance.

Step #9: Ask not what you can do for the company, but what the company can do for you.

Answer the interviewer's questions in a confused and distracted manner. The interview should be a tit-for-tat game wherein you attempt to ask more questions than the interviewer. All of your questions should be asked in a manner that assumes you have already been offered the job:

Interviewer: How many words can you type per minute?

You: Typing? Uh, yeah. I can type. How much annual leave are you giving me?

Interviewer: 30 days. How much experience do you have answering phones?

You: Ummm, I can use phones. Are you going to give me 45 days' leave next year? What about air tickets?

Step #10: Shit fits.

90 seconds into the interview, your husband should give the go ahead for the 2+ Wildcards to run into the interviewer's office and begin throwing full blown shit fits. Each Wildcard should throw a shit fit that is completely unrelated to the other Wildcards' shit fits. For example, one Wildcard could scream about how they want to leave while the other Wildcard rolls about on the floor demanding a juice box.

Step #11: Deploy the Unweaned Bipedal.

In the midst of the Wildcards' shit fits, the Unweaned Bipedal should scamper into the room, jump into your lap and attempt to climb up your shirt.

The interviewer will be amazed at how your cool, collected self manages the chaos. They will sit back, watch the situation and think to themself: "Hot diggity dang! Look how Superwoman wrangles them kids! No assignment we'd throw at her could ever come close to the technical difficulty of simultaneously placating those Wildcards and juggling that Unweaned Bipedal."

Before the interviewer can stop themself, they'll blurt out "Hired! We'll give you whatever you want!"

Happy Job Hunting!

XOXOXO,
Ms. Adventures

What to do when work gets you down? FAIL Break!

2011-03-09T02:09:00.000+04:00

Over the past few months, I've chronicled some of the funny, frustrating and inane happenings that typify the Sand Landian work environment - or at least my Sand Landian work environment. But let's face it, all workplaces, regardless of geographic location, can be crazy, stressful and/or bizarre at times. In the ~~obnoxious~~ wise words of Mr. Adventures, "That's why it's called "work" not "fun!"

People often ask me: "What do you do when you just can't take it anymore?"

To which I respond: "Dissolve a few xanax in my nightly vodka and chase it with a shot of Cuervo gold. Problem(s) solved!"

No, just kidding, I really don't do that...at least, not the xanax part...most nights...

In all seriousness, when I find myself getting overly dismayed or stressed out by Fuckwittery, Inc's whackness, this is what I generally do:

1. Close my door.
2. Go to YouTube
3. Type "FAIL" in the search box
4. Select a video. (This is my current favorite.)
5. Spend 4 or 5 minutes laughing as random people do shit that's waaay stupid, even by Fuckwittery, Inc. standards. And if you've read even a couple of my posts, you know that's saying something.
6. Mentally compare my coworkers to the protagonists of the FAIL video I just watched:

Me: Self, it really sucks that your administrative assistant, who spent two years in "secretarial university," takes 85,000 years to transcribe a single letter because she types using only her index fingers.

Me: Yeah, that's totally lame. But, you know, at least she hasn't done something really lame like attempt to roller skate off of the roof like that tool at 3:58 in the video you just watched."

Me: Yeah, that really puts it all into perspective. I feel better now, back to the grindstone!

Now, if I'm having a really, really bad day, FAIL videos just aren't going to cut it. Let's say, hypothetically (wink wink), I just discovered our accounting clerks spent the last couple days delivering 100+ invoices to the wrong companies and I'm seriously contemplating ending it all by roller skating off the roof. Well, then I'd watch this video five or six times:

So that's basically how I keep myself from losing it. If not for my occasional video breaks, I'd probably be just another unemployed bi-winning warlock banging seven gram rocks...that is, if they even have seven gram rocks in Sand Land.

What do you fellow employees of Sand Land do?

"I'm the branch manager, is it not my right to use this office as a church?"

2011-03-01T01:22:00.005+04:00

My company has a few branches scattered across Sand Land. I spend most of my time at our headquarters in Sand Town but every month, I try to set aside a few days to travel to our remote locations and check up on things. To the extent possible, I try to keep both the date of my travel and the branches to be visited under wraps. Like a field anthropologist, my goal is to drop in quietly and unannounced so that I can bear witness to the real deal - not some hastily cleaned-up fallacy that the employees would treat me to if they had advance warning.

After making the rounds to our larger branches, I set out one morning to visit the remotest, most neglected of our outposts - the "Bumblefuck Branch." The Bumblefuck Branch is located in the middle of nowhere, consists of only four employees and is basically the redheaded stepchild of Fuckwittery, Inc. In fact, at the time I joined the company, no one even clued me in to the Bumblefuck gang's existence. I came to know about them after a few days on the job when some dude going by the name of "The Reverend Jedidiah" and claiming to be the Bumblefuck Branch manager ~~emailed~~ faxed me a handwritten annual leave request.

I asked around about the Bumblefuck Branch and none of the headquarters employees seemed to have much of a clue about what was going on out there. At the time, I had my hands full trying to get the headquarters and the main branches organized, so in lieu of traveling to Bumblefuck I invited Rev. Jedidiah to meet with me at the headquarters in Sand Town.

Rev. Jedidiah was an intense guy. I never figured out if he was a formally trained theologian or if he'd simply bestowed the title upon himself - my money's on the latter. The first time I met him, he was wearing a black blazer, a navy shirt buttoned all the way to the top and a clunky wooden crucifix in place of a tie. He strode into my office with a briefcase in one hand and a tattered Billy Graham book in another. I knew instantly I had to make time to check out the Bumblefuck Branch - fast!

So the next week, I hopped in my car and set out for the middle of nowhere. As the quaint little town consisted of a single intersection, it wasn't hard to locate the Bumblefuck Branch's sign. I got out of the car and walked to the door that was directly beneath the sign. I pushed the door open and a cloud of incense wafted into my face. Hymns blared from tinny computer speakers and clusters of religious icons and statues sat in each corner.

"Oh crap, how stupid am I?" I thought to myself. "I walked into some church instead of the Bumblefuck Branch."

I walked back outside and glanced up at the sign, trying to figure out where the entrance to my company's branch could be. "Oh come on, you moron," I thought after a couple seconds. "That was totally Rev. Jedidiah's decorating."

I walked back into the deserted office. "Hello?" I called.

A perplexed Sand Landian lady came out. I introduced myself and established that this was in fact the Bumblefuck Branch.

"Where's Jedidiah?" I asked.

"He's in a meeting," the lady said, glancing back toward his office.

"Ok, I'll wait here until he's finished," I said.

I plopped down on one of the ratty seafoam green sofas and took in my surroundings. Bible verses printed on a dot matrix printer in all caps lined the walls. Mixed in with the standard regulation "God loves you" and "Everything through Christ" quotes were alot of "Thou shalt not do this" and "Thou shalt not do that" and even the odd verse from Leviticus exhorting you not to do random, freaky stuff you never would have dreamt up unless you'd read in Leviticus that you were banned from doing it. Seriously! There was a verse instructing believers to "detest flying, four-legged insects"...WTF?? Do four-legged insects even exist? And what abomination did the Bumblefuck gang commit with these non-existent insects that compelled Jedidah to paste that verse to the wall? Ok, sorry, I'm getting way off track...moving on...

After reading all the dot matrix Bible verses and checking my email, Jedidiah's meeting still showed no signs of wrapping up.

"Who is Jedidiah meeting with?" I asked the receptionist.

She looked instantly uncomfortable. "Umm...his friends?" she speculated sheepishly.

"Friends?" I said. "This meeting's not about work?"

She bit her lower lip. "No," she whispered, shaking her head.

I jumped up and knocked on Jedidiah's door. When he opened it, I saw that there were three other men in his office. All dressed exactly like Jedidiah: black blazer, navy blue buttoned-all-the-way-up shirt and clunky wooden crucifix in place of a tie. Apparently, this was some kind of uniform.

"Hey Jedidiah, how's it going?" I asked

"Reverend, Madam. It's Reverend Jedidiah." he replied, clearly annoyed that I'd busted in on his meeting.

"Excuse me, Reverend. Are these some of our local clients?" I asked, motioning to his three clones.

"No, madam. They are not," he scoffed. "They are my deacons," he explained proudly.

"Got it," I nodded "What are your deacons doing here during working hours?"

"Planning tonight's prayer meeting, madam."

"Really?"

"Yes, madam," he said, sounding irritated. "You are welcome to join us if you like. It will start at 5:00."

"It's starts here? In this office?"

"Yes, madam" he said in a sing-song voice as if I'd just ask the stupidest question on earth.

"Alright, deacons: can you all clear out of here and let me speak privately with Rev. Jedidiah?" I said, motioning toward the lobby.

The deacons shuffled out one-by-one and shot me the evil eye. I closed the door and turned to Jedidah.

"Look, Rev. Jedidiah," I said. "All of this has to stop. You cannot decorate the office with religious iconography and hold religious gatherings on the premises."

Rev. Jedidiah stared at me speechless. So I just kept going.

"All of these decorations have to come down now. The hymns have to be turned off and you have to do your work."

"What do you think I'm doing here, madam?" he asked slowly, his eyes narrowing. "Are you telling me saving souls isn't work?"

"Um, it's not the work I'm paying you to do. So you'll have to confine the soul saving to your free time. I'm quite honestly shocked that you think what you're doing here is appropriate."

"Excuse me, madam. I'm sorry you're surprised. But let me ask you this: I'm the branch manager. Are you telling me it's not my right to use this office as a church? I'll have you know that at every single meeting, we pray for the prosperity of this business.We have even prayed for you," he said, pointing at me like I was a total ingrate.

"That's very kind of you, but even so, it's definitely not your right to turn the place into a church."

"Madam, at my next prayer meeting I'm going to pray very long and very hard for you. I'm going to pray for you to realize that you are being manipulated by satan. You are being used by him to stop my work."

"Ok, Rev. Jedidah. As long as that prayer meeting isn't taking place in this office, you go right ahead and do that. Now let's get to work taking down all those statues and Bible verses."

For a moment, I thought Rev. Jedidah's head would rotate 360 degrees. He looked like he was about to fly across the table and choke the devil out of me. But he collected himself and calmly tendered his resignation. At the time, I was alittle surprised at how readily he walked away from his job.

He skipped town a few days later before the end of his notice period, leaving his deacons like sheep without a shepherd. In the weeks following his departure, we were contacted by one person after another who had lent Rev. Jedidah funds for his ecclesiastical pursuits. The good Reverend had stiffed them all. On a happy note, the employees who had the misfortune of working under him are now holding down the Bumblefuck Branch rather nicely.

Asking for Sick Leave, Sand Land-Style

2011-02-13T16:59:00.002+04:00

(Friendly disclaimer: If you've just eaten, are eating right now or are contemplating eating in the near future, skip this post and find something else to read...here's a random, interesting article I recently read...if you're struggling with your New Year's weight loss resolution, continue reading.)

During my stint at Fuckwittery, Inc., I've come to realize that there are many differences between Sand Landian workplaces and U.S. workplaces. One of the most striking differences is the manner in which employees go about obtaining sick leave.

From my experience in U.S. workplaces, people tend to be alittle guarded about discussing their health problems at work. When the need for sick leave arises, employees are usually pretty vague about what's wrong. You would no sooner launch into a protracted description of your malady than you would whip out your paycheck and show it to all your co-workers (yet another difference between the two workplace cultures). But in Sand Land, the employee-employer sick leave discussion involves significantly more blood and guts than the average Tarantino flick.

Allow me to juxtapose the radically different approaches to obtaining sick leave with a couple of scenarios, which are based (less loosely than you'd think) on conversations I've found myself having with Fuckwittery, Inc. employees.

Now, in both the U.S. and Sand Land, there are two types employees seeking sick leave: (1) people who are legitimately sick, and (2) people who aren't sick but don't feel like being at work. We'll analyze both cases.

Case #1: Legitimately Sick Employee

It's 11:45 a.m. on Tuesday morning. "Jim" is happily working away on his expense report when he suddenly develops a bad case of projectile blue diarrhea.

Here's how Jim would likely proceed in a U.S. office:

Jim (calling his supervisor): Hey Sally, I'm not feeling too well. I'm going to need to go home.

Sally: Oh, sorry to hear that, Jim. Hope it's nothing serious.

Jim: Nah, my stomach's just alittle upset. I'll log into my email later today if I'm feeling better.

Sally: Ok. Thanks for letting me know. Hope you feel better.

Jim: Thanks, Sally.

(Jim hangs up, grabs briefcase and quickly, quietly makes his way home.)

And here's how Jim would proceed if he worked at my company in Sand Land:

Jim (banging on my door): Madam! Madaaaaaam!!!!

Me (rushing to open door): Yes?!

Jim (forcing the door open and smacking me in the head with it): Madaaam!!

Me: Ouch! What's wrong, Jim?

Jim (flopping into a chair, perspiring profusely): Madam, I am very, very sick.

Me: I'm sorry to hear that. Why don't you go home till you're feeling better.

Jim (nodding slightly, taking a deep breath): I just came out of the toilet, madam. I have very, very bad diarrhea. I'm really shocked because it's a strange color and -

Me (waving hands, interrupting): Ok, ok, ok. I understand you're sick. Why don't you go home now and get some rest, ok?

Jim: Madam, it's blue!

Me: Aggggghhhh!

Jim (wild-eyed): Yes! BLUUUUE! And it's just shooting out like anything!! I don't know how it could be blue, do you?

Me (trying to be calm, but about to cry): No, I don't know why your diarrhea is blue. But I really think you should go to the doctor right now, ok?

Jim: And the gastric pains are too much for me and it's really stinging very badly even as we speak -

Me (standing up, opening door ): Ok, Jim. This sounds really serious, you definitely need to see a doctor. We'll call your wife and we'll get someone to take you to the doctor...come with me.

(As we make our way to the reception, Jim pauses in each doorway to fill his colleagues in on his blue diarrhea.)

Case #2: Employee who's not sick but doesn't want to be at work.

It's 2:15 p.m. on the last day of the workweek and Jim is bored out of his mind. He just checked Facebook for the 87th time since lunch and saw that some of his buddies are organizing a game of Ultimate Frisbee in a nearby park at 3:00 p.m.

Here's how U.S. Jim would feign illness:

Jim (calling his supervisor): Hey Sally, I'm not feeling too well. I'm going to need to go home.

Sally: Oh, sorry to hear that, Jim. Hope it's nothing serious.

Jim: My stomach's pretty upset. I think I got some bad food in the cafeteria this afternoon. I'll log into my email and catch up over the weekend if I'm feeling better.

Sally: Ok, thanks. Feel better.

Jim: Thanks, Sally.

(Jim hangs up, grabs briefcase and quietly makes way out of the office.)

And here's what Jim would most likely do if he worked in Sand Land:

Jim (hovering in my doorway, groaning): Muh-muh-madam, can I speak with you?

Me: Sure, is something wrong?

Jim (gripping stomach, leaning against doorway): Yes, madam. Ahhhh...owwww...my stomach.

Me: Oh, no. Looks like you're feeling bad.

Jim (staggers into my office and suddenly adopts the posture of the Hunchback of Notre Dame): Madam, my stomach is paining soooo bad and I think there's something wrong with this bone in my spine - it hurts when I stand up but I can't sit down because I have this boil in between the back of my two thighs and whenever I sit down the pain from the boil radiates up to the bone in my spine and it combines into one horrible pain explosion. And I'm also congested and my throat is paining.

Me: Ok, why don't you pack up and go home for the day.

Jim (whimpering): Are you sure it's ok?

Me: Definitely. Get to feeling better.

Jim (standing up straight, beaming): Thank you, madam!!

(Jim scampers back to office, packs up his things and, on his way out, flashes the "thumbs up" sign to the person who sits directly opposite my office.)

Help! My Boss Has a Fake Degree! What Should I Do?

2011-01-25T14:49:00.002+04:00

I recently vented to you nice folks about job hunters in Sand Land running around with bogus credentials from U.S.-based diploma mills. In response, I've received several emails and a comment from people asking what they should do about a boss or co-worker who is sporting a fake degree.

How naive I was when I wrote that post - I hadn't given alot of thought to the possibility that numerous people have managed to parlay meaningless pieces of paper into gainful employment, let alone positions of authority. But I guess it makes sense, doesn't it? I've never come across bullshit degrees in the U.S. but I've run into more than 20 in Sand Land. Large numbers of people wouldn't continue to plunk down hundreds (or thousands) of dollars for fake credentials if they didn't see a return.

So, in response to the emailers and commenter, let's play a game I learned in Sunday School.

[That's a sentence I never thought I'd write.]

Way back in the days when my parents forcibly dragged me to church multiple times a week, my Sunday School class often played a game called "What Would Jesus Do?" Or WWJD for short. We would sit in a circle on the floor and snack on Cheez-It's and Kool-Aid. One by one, kids would describe a problem or dilemma they were facing. Then they would say "WWJD?" At which point the listeners would debate what Jesus Christ would do if faced with the same situation. The ability to recite mad quantities of Bible verses from memory was key to getting your peers to buy in to your suggested course of action. So basically my thoughts never counted for shit...but anyway...I'm not bitter. Really.

For purposes of our "Would Would You Do" game, please use the comments section of this post to tell our advice seekers how you have handled (or would handle) the issue of bosses/co-workers with fake degrees in your workplace.

To squeal or not to squeal?

For the people who asked my opinion, here are my thoughts:

(Disclaimer: I am not a seasoned HR professional. All of my training and most of my work experience is in an unrelated field but my current job requires me to spend a good deal of time blundering through all things HR. If you want the opinion of a respected HR pro, you might consider sending a query to someone like the Evil HR Lady):

The 5 year-old tattletale in me screams "Bust those fakers!" For those of you who have sacrificed time and tuition money to earn bona fide credentials, you have a right to be pissed when people use fake degrees to weasle their way into the same or better job. A fake degree is a time bomb on a resume and, in my opinon, an imposter deserves to have it blow up on them.

However, my jaded, office-politics savvy self says keep your indignation in check and tread carefully. This is a serious accusation to level against someone. Before I contemplated saying anything to anyone, I would need to be 10,000% sure the credential in question is bogus - not simply from an obscure school I've never heard of. If I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that the degree was crap, I would still think long and hard about the following considerations:

1. Is this faker a high performer who's exceeding expectations? Yeah, I know that's unlikely but if it's the case, the powers that be might not care about the faker's dubious academic background (assuming the faker is not masquerading as a doctor, attorney or other licensed professional).

2. What is the faker's position in office hierarchy? Are they very tight with the company's owners or top-level management. If they're a sacred cow, be aware that you're taking a big risk by ratting them out. Nepotism and personal connections play a bigger role in the Sand Landian work place than any other place I've seen. Outing someone with influence could backfire on you. No, it's not fair, but that's reality.

3. Would the people in power at your company be upset by an employee with a fake degree? Are you sure they understand what a degree mill is?

4. What is the risk to your company if it becomes public knowledge that the faker has a bogus degree? Again, if this is someone claiming to a be a licensed professional, it could be quite a scandal. If your company deals closely with firms from abroad (particularly western countries), employees with fake degrees may tarnish your company's credibility. But if it's a small, Mom and Pop enterprise, the risk to the company is less.

Without firsthand knowledge of your work situations and office culture, it's impossible for me to give you quality advice. The points I've raised are general things I'd consider before calling someone out. Best of luck, whatever you decide.

Ok, party people: You just discovered someone in your office has a fake degree - WWYD?

Are the Hookers of Sand Land Trolling For Johns in the Classified Ads?

2011-01-22T18:37:00.001+04:00

I regularly advertise job vacancies in the classified sections of Sand Land's local papers, and I always use an email address that gives absolutely no indication of Fuckwittery, Inc.'s name. I've learned the hard way that if you use an "@fuckwitteryinc.com" address, a minimum of 100 people per hour will call Fuckwittery, Inc. and a good 70 to 80 will end up being transferred to me.

Once upon a time, unbeknownst to me, a former HR manager submitted a job ad to the local papers that contained my personal mobile number(!!!). Starting at 7:00 a.m. one morning (and continuing for 2 weeks), at least 20 hopeful job seekers per hour were dialing me up. I contemplated flinging my mobile out the window as it rang nonstop on the drive to the office. When I got to work, I called the numbskull HR manager into my office:

Me (shrieking, jumping up and down): Dude, what the hell were you thinking listing my mobile number in a job posting?

HR numbskull: Madam, I thought that you would want to screen the candidates personally.

Me: Okaaay. And why wouldn't I do that by checking the HR email account and reading their CVs?

HR numbskull: Well, madam, what about those applicants who aren't knowing how to use email? How would you screen them?

Me (foaming at the mouth): How would I screen them? How would I screen them?!?! They'd be weeded out automatically since it's 2011 and I have no earthly use for people who want to work in an office and can't use email!!!

Anyway, I digress...when we place an ad in the paper, our anonymous email account generally receives the following:

500+ emails from job seekers who want to apply for some job other than what we advertised for (i.e., systems analysts responding to an ad for reception staff and vice versa).
300+ emails from job seekers who want the job advertised but who are in no way qualified.
50 - 60 emails from local suppliers wanting to sell us shit like printer cartridges, window washing services or various power tools.
20 emails from people who appear somewhat qualified for the job advertised but look to be total wackadoodles.
10 emails from weirdos inviting us to join Facebook, Linked In, Quepasa, Brijj or any of the other half-baked networking sites people in Sand Land use.
4 emails from African princes asking for our bank account information so they can hide $30 million from some usurping dictator who has killed their whole family.
2 emails from people who want the job advertised and appear to be reasonably qualified and normal.

But with the past couple ads we've placed, I've notice something new in the mix - emails from girls with names like "Orchid Lovely" and "Sweetie Luuuvie Baby":

Dear Hensome Man,

Perhaps you will be suprise to know that I am loving you. Did you know it? Did you see how I do?

Tuth of this matter is I do, for all of the heart and for always. I seen you from a distance. I admire your grace. I know you are not only a strong man and a hensome man but also a important man. So I confess to you I want you for myself.

If you want to ask me why I love you, sweet man, do not. I will be so bashful to tell you. So do not ask me that. Just write me back to say we can see each other. Don't make me a sad girl. I am a shy girl who has never loved anyone the way I love you. I want to see you, so tell me we can.

Loving you in etirnity,

Orchid

The first time our account got one of these emails, I thought it was a fluke. But then I got two more this week - all professing their undying love and respectful admiration of the ~~handsome~~ hensome/wealthy/powerful/strong man that I apparently am. All emails ask me to write back to arrange a meeting. So, with curiosity peaked, I did write back:

Dear Ms. Lovely,

Finally! At last you have found me! Orchid, I know you must be my true love because you are the only one who recognizes me for the manly man that I am. Most people mistakenly assume I am just an average looking woman. Only you were able to discern that I'm actually a hensome man.

I long to meet you!

Forever yours,

Ms. Adventures

The next day, I got this response:

Dear Ms. Adventures,

Only the foolish person could not see your hensome. I am happy you love me. I can meet you at th entrance to the [dodgy grocery store] in [neighborhood in Sand Town] at 10:00 p.m. tomorrow. I can't hardly wait to love you.

Loving you in etirnity,

Orchid

What's going on, folks? Are any of you HR/recruiter types out there getting these emails? Are times really that tough for the hookers of Sand Land? Judging from the skanky/trashy nightspots, I kind of had the impression that, beneath its puritanical facade, Sand Land was a fairly freaky place where ladies of the night wouldn't have to troll the classified ads for their johns.

U.S. Diploma Mills Do Brisk Business in Sand Land

2011-01-16T18:39:00.002+04:00

The sad state of higher education in Sand Land has been a recurring theme in several of my posts. I've written about a few of the young people I've interviewed who are unable to apply what they studied at Sand Land's universities and training institutes. But over the past few months, I've increasingly noticed another education-related problem - a problem that appears to be most pronounced in certain quarters of Sand Land's expat community: degrees issued by U.S.-based diploma mills.

I first became aware that people over here were purchasing bogus degrees when Fuckwittery, Inc.'s former HR manager introduced me to "Jake" a candidate who had "done graduate studies in the U.S." The conversation went something like this:

Me: How's it going, Jake?

Jake (shaking head quizzically): I'm sorry. I didn't get you?

Me: How's it going?

Jake (continues to shake head): I can't get what you're saying.

Me (enunciating): How. Is. It. Going.

Jake (looking at me like I'm insane): What is this thing that is going?

Me (shooting the HR manager the "are you f'ing serious?!" evil eye): Don't worry about it, Jake. So where in the U.S. did you study?

Jake (looking at me blankly): I can't make out what you're saying.

Me (trying to talk like a CNN newscaster): Where in the U.S. did you study?

Jake (eyes lighting up): Study?

Me: Yes!

Jake: I studied at Lawrence University.

Me (nodding): Nice. How'd you like those Wisconsin winters?

Jake: What?

Me: Lawrence University is in Wisconsin, is it not?

Jake: Uh.....um....I don't quite remember where it is.

Me (grabbing his CV from the HR manager): You don't remember which state you lived in?

Jake: It was a few years back.

Me (skimming the CV): You have a Masters of Accounting from Lorenz University? Where in tarnation is that?

Jake (shrugging shoulders): As I told you, it was a few years back. I don't remember.

As soon as I gave Jake the boot, I googled "Lorenz University." After spending roughly four seconds on the website, any marginally intelligent human being will recognize it as a diploma mill. You can "express order" everything from high school diplomas to doctorate degrees (thesis optional). They make idiotic boasts like "One of our prodigies, has been promoted to the post of Divisional Head." They even have a separate website dedicated to proving they're not a scam.

Since running into Jake a few months back, I've now come across 13 resumes listing degrees from Lorenz and many more resumes with credentials from other U.S.-based diploma mills. I know I'm probably preaching to the choir, but come on workers of Sand Land, don't waste your time or money on this crap! These degrees are worth less than the paper they're printed on and any employer with a brain will see through it. It's better to list no education on your resume than to tarnish it with this shit. If you don't believe me, check out the list of cats and dogs who have been awarded "life experience degrees" from these clowns.

And if you're still not convinced, consider my personal investigative research: I filled out an inquiry form on one of these websites for my feline BFF, Sand Cat. Luckily, Sand Cat has a rather sophisticated human-sounding name. I explained that, because she has a speech impediment, Sand Cat preferred that the university deal directly with me as I am her authorized representative.

27 minutes later, I received a call from some redneck claiming to be an "ed-joo-kayshun consultant." As the redneck's dog barked incessantly in the background, I explained that, because of her speech impediment, Sand Cat had never been able to attend school but wanted to know if she qualified for a Bachelor's of Science degree based on the following life experiences:

1. She'd hung out with me while I studied for graduate school entrance exams and was very familiar with my notes. [Sand Cat likes to lay on paper.]

2. She had participated in all of my grad school study groups and project teams. [Sand Cat sat on the group members' laps. When she was feeling frisky, she would swat our pens around my living room while while we worked away.]

3. For the last three years, she's sat in on all my study sessions and attended all my online review courses for a certification that I'm working on. She's much more intimately acquainted with the study materials than I am. [Sand Cat sleeps on my desk while I study and she spends a good 4 to 5 hours a day sleeping directly on the textbooks whereas I have to leave them and go to work.]

Sand Cat BSc, MS

As I stated Sand Cat's case, I started to doubt the redneck would buy it. But quite the opposite:

Redneck: Now, here's tha thang I'm wunderin' 'bout: If yer friend has got all this post gra-joo-wait expeereeunce, why isn't she kunsiderin' gettin' 'er master's at tha same time?

Me: You can do that?

Redneck: Well yes m'am, ya sure can. If yer friend goes an' gets 'er masters at the same time as tha undergra-joo-wait degree, she'll only have to go through tha review process one time. And she only has to pay fer one shippin' charge fer her degree dock-u-ments. If she gets tha bachelor's and then waits on tha master's, she's gonna hafta pay those shippin' fees twice. Thangs start ta add up, ya know.

Me: Ok. I don't think my friend has considered the possibility of earning both her bachelor's and master's at the same time. Let me confer with her and I'll get back to you with her decision.

Redneck: Yeee-ah. Tawk to yer friend because whut I'm suggestin' is tha smarter way.

Me: Ok. Will do. So if she wants to go with your school, we just need to fill out the order form online, describe her life experiences and pay the fees, right?

Redneck: Yes'sum that's rat. Tha education committee will review her qualee-fuh-kashions and if they consider her expeereence suitable she'll get 'er degrees by express mail. Tha degrees'll be signed by Hill-uh-ree Clinton and they'll be embossed with a gold seal.

Me (snorting): Hillary Clinton? The U.S. Secretary of State is signing these degrees? Come on, you just legally changed your name to "Hillary Clinton" didn't you?

Redneck: M'am. Whut I can tell ya is these degrees're all signed by Hill-uh-ree Clinton.

Since my conversation with the redneck, my mobile has received a deluge of text messages (usually around 3:00 a.m. Sand Land Time) addressed to Sand Cat from the diploma mill:

"Act now, Sand Cat! Get 25% Off + Free Shipping!"

"Enroll today and save, Sand Cat!! Fees increase on January 28th!!!!"

The Unabridged Walk-In Application

2011-01-15T00:13:00.005+04:00

In my last post, I described a workplace problem that is endemic to Sand Land: job hunters roaming door-to-door pestering employers to interview/hire them on the spot. Over the past few days, I've received numerous emails asking for a copy of the application that I use to scare away these walk-in job hunters.

The text of my walk-in application is pasted below. After adding copious spaces for the applicant's responses, the formatted version of the application is 13 double-sided pages. Remember, the whole point of this application is to look huge, scary and time-consuming - a magical combination that causes at least 95% of walk-in job hunters to hastily beat cheeks out of my office. The few who do stick around to fill it out usually give up mid-way through. To date, only "Mr. Mechatronist," the subject of my last post, has gone the distance.

For those of you who have the misfortune of dealing with walk-ins, I hope this helps get them out of your hair. For those of you who don't have to deal with walk-ins, the application will probably not make for very interesting reading as it is simply a mixed bag of random and, at times, nonsensical questions.

The Official Misadventures in HR Walk-In Application

First Name:

Middle Name:

Last Name:

Email address:

Mobile number:

Mailing address:

House address:

Landline number:

Fax number:

License plate number:

Driver’s license number:

Age:

Date of Birth:

Nationality:

Passport Number:

High School

Did you complete high school?

High school graduation date:

Vocational/Professional Training: (please list each training program separately)

Course Title	Course Description	School Name	Dates Attended	Did you graduate?

University: (please list each training program separately)

University Name	Name of Degree Program	Subjects Studied	Dates Attended	Did you graduate?

Post-Graduate Education: (please list each training program separately)

University Name	Name of Degree Program	Subjects Studied	Dates Attended	Did you graduate?

Work Experience: (please list most recent job first)

Job Title	Description	Company	Starting & Ending Dates

Computer Applications:

Program	Description	Rate your skill level from 1 to 5 (1 = basic knowledge, 5 = expert)	How many years have you worked with this program?

How many words can you type per minute type?

Which models of photocopy machines have you worked with?

Which models of printer/scanners have you worked with?

Which models of fax machines have you worked with?

Why do you want to work for this company?

What does this company do?

What are the top three reasons this company should hire you?

List all of the great things that will happen to this company if we hire you:

What are your hobbies?

Spouse’s Name:

Spouse’s date of birth:

Spouse’s occupation:

Spouse’s hobbies:

How many children do you have:

Please list the full names of all your children:

Father’s Name:

Father’s date of birth:

Father’s occupation:

Father’s hobbies:

Mother’s Name:

Mother’s date of birth:

Mother’s occupation:

Mother’s hobbies:

Number of brothers:

Number of sisters:

Please list the full names of all your brothers:

Please list the full names of all your sisters:

How many pets do you have?

Please list the names of all your pets:

Please list the species of all your pets as well as their dates of birth:

What did you eat for breakfast today?

What is the meaning of life?

What is your favorite cuisine? Explain what you like best about this cuisine.

Why did Humpty Dumpty sit on that wall?

What is your favorite type of music?

As a child did you have any imaginary friends? If so, please list their names, genders and approximate ages:

What is the formula for the quadratic equation?

How many roads must a man walk down before you call him a man?

What is your favorite color and what do you believe this reveals about your true nature?

What is your favorite shade of your favorite color?

Solve the following equation: 5(-3x - 2) - (x - 3) = -4(4x + 5) + 13

How much wood would a woodchuck chuck if a woodchuck could chuck wood? (specify answer in kilograms)

What element are you ruled by: earth, wind, water or fire? Explain what this reveals about you.

What was Paraguay’s 2007 per capita GDP?

If a tree falls in a forest and there is no one around to hear it, do you think it still makes a sound? Why?

New York Yankees or Boston Red Sox? How come?

Have you realized your personal truth? If so, what is it?

What is your astrological sign?

Approximately how often is your astrological horoscope correct?

Solve the following equation: |x - 2| - 4|-6|

Whose version of “Knocking on Heaven’s Door” was better – Bob Dylan or Guns n’ Roses?

What is your favorite movie?

How does the presence of “heteroskedasticity” and/or “autocorrelation” impair the validity of a statistical equation?

What Roman general conquered Gaul in the First Century BC?

From memory, write out the lyrics to Led Zepplin's "Stairway to Heaven."

Which actor portrayed James Bond most to your liking?

What is the difference between the product of carbon-12 reacted with chlorine and carbon-14 reacted with chlorine?

Rolling Stones or Beetles? Why?

Which general succeeded Alexander the Great in Thrace?

If given the choice, would you rather be a vampire or a werewolf? Please give at least three reasons for your choice (use complete sentences).

What is the x-intercept of the following equation? 2x - 4y = 9

If you’re driving at night faster than the speed of light and you turn on your headlights, will they work?

How far east can you go before you’re heading west?

When did the last emperor of China ascend the throne?

When does the weather stop being partly cloudy and start being partly sunny?

Explain how it’s possible for something to be both “new” and “improved”?

List all of the countries you have visited in your life:

Do prison buses have emergency exits?

If you could have dinner with three people, living or dead, who would you choose? Why?

In a movie theater, which armrest is yours?

In 1945, an Allied conference decided the partition of Germany in four occupation zones. Where was that conference held?

What is it about lead paint that small children find so delicious?

Is it possible to look into someone’s eyes and see their soul? Why or why not?

What was the most populous tribe of the Iroquois Confederacy?

What is the deal with "blue raspberry" flavoring seeing that there's no such thing as a blue raspberry?

If a genie granted you three wishes, what would you wish for?

Explain the concept of the “efficient frontier” in investment planning?

Who killed JR?

Who founded the Mughal dynasty?

What is your favorite holiday?

What does it mean to “find yourself”? Have you found yourself yet?

What is the difference between the mind resting in tranquility and the mind moving in thought?

How does soap clean?

171 gm of cane sugar is dissolved in 1litre of water. What’s the molarity of solution?

If you could be reincarnated as any animal besides a human, what would you choose to be? Why?

If the professor on Giligan's Island could make a radio out of coconut, why couldn’t he fix a hole in a boat?

With respect to commodities futures, explain the meaning of the terms “backwardation” and “contango”?

How has the increase in commodities speculation influenced the prevalence of futures that are in “backwardation” versus “contango”?

Do you believe in miracles? Why?

What is the population of Shanghai, China?

Summarize the Universal Declaration of Human Rights in no fewer than 5 sentences:

Cake or pie?

In a fight to the death, who would win – a saltwater crocodile or a great white shark? Describe what such a fight would look like and how your pick would gain the upper hand.

How many times did you roll your eyes during the movie Eat, Pray, Love?

List all of the organic elements on the periodic table:

Do you see a glass as half full or half empty? Why?

List all of the planets in the solar system - starting with the planet closest to the sun and ending with the planet that is farthest away.

The ancient city of Antioch lay within the boundaries of what modern country?

What is the highest level you ever attained while playing Super Mario Brothers

What is the longest river in the world?

Explain why you agree or disagree with the premise of the Laffer curve?

Describe the perfect pizza:

Are there more grains of sand on the beach than there are stars in the universe?

What is the sound of one hand clapping?

Which is superior: white chocolate, milk chocolate or dark chocolate?

What happens when you wish upon a star?

Explain how it's possible for bull sharks to live in freshwater rivers.

What would the perfect day be like for you?

Where do you think socks that get lost in the laundry go?

How much time did you spend filling out this application?

The Door-to-Door Job Hunt

2011-01-10T02:00:00.009+04:00

In the U.S., we often say that someone who is looking for a job is "pounding the pavement." It's a figure of speech implying that the job seeker is scouring vacancy ads, networking and diligently sending out their resume day after day. The expression doesn't imply that the job seeker is literally running around on the street accosting prospective employers.

But for many Sand Landian job hunters, "pounding the pavement" is a literal endeavor. Rather than (or perhaps, in addition to) responding to job advertisements, legions of people in Sand Land go door-to-door Jehovah's Witness-style in search of suitable employment. In the U.S., this tactic would at best earn you a misdemeanor trespassing conviction and, at worst, it could land you in Jeffrey Dahmer's freezer. But in Sand Land, going door-to-door is apparently a completely acceptable job hunting tactic, as evidenced by the fact that everyone here with a job has stories about wacko walk-ins.

As best I can tell, most walk-ins start at the beginning of the street and go methodically from one commercial enterprise to the next. As I've driven off to appointments, I've seen walk-ins I've turned away going into the other offices, fast food joints and stores that line Fuckwittery, Inc.'s street. Most walk-ins haven't the vaguest notion about what Fuckwittery, Inc. does. And quite frankly, they couldn't give a damn. They have two questions and two questions only: "Will you give me a job?" and "How much will you pay me for this hypothetical, unspecified job?"

When I first started at Fuckwittery, Inc., I got at least 3 walk-ins a week. Despite repeated instructions to the reception desk that all walk-ins should be turned away, many of them would somehow finagle their way into my office. They were genuinely offended when I declined to drop everything and interview them on the spot. A couple even threatened to complain to the government.

In an effort reduce time-wasting confrontations with walk-ins, I created a 13-page front and back "application" one night after I'd had a few dirty martinis. In addition to the usual personal data and experience questions, the walk-in application is riddled with dozens of open-ended, wackadoodle new-agey questions like:

"What's your favorite color and what do you believe it reveals about your true nature?"
"Have you uncovered your personal truth? If so, what is it?"
"Which element are you ruled by: earth, wind, water or fire?"
"If given the choice, would you rather be a vampire or a werewolf? List three reasons for your choice (in complete sentences)."

I keep a few applications handy in my drawer and when confronted with a walk-in, I smile brightly, shake their hand and ask them to complete the application and return it to me if they wish to be considered for a position. 98% of walk-ins glaze over as they flip through the application and they quickly scuttle off to the furniture store next door.

A few weeks ago, one of the receptionists came to my office to say there was a walk-in that they couldn't get rid of. I handed her a copy of the application and told her to have him fill it out, thinking it would make him run away. An hour and fifteen minutes later she was back in my office with the walk-in following closely behind.

"He completed the application," she said.

"Oh, ok," I said, raising my eyebrows as I took the application from her.

"Excuse me, madam. I'm looking for a job. I'm a mechatronist," he called from the doorway.

My ears instantly perked up. "A...mechatronist?" I asked, tilting my head to the side. My nerdy side and my snarky-evil side were mutually intrigued.

"Yes," he said, nodding purposefully. "I am a trained and professional experienced mechatronist."

"Well then, have a seat. So, tell me, what is a mechatronist?"

"It is a person who is knowledgeable in the discipline of mechatronics."

"Fair enough" I said, nodding my head. "And what is mechatronics?"

"Mechatronics is a cross-subject," he patiently explained. "It is 30% mechanical engineering, 30% robotics and 30% computing."

"What's the last 10%?"

"Um...thinking," he said, looking to the side.

"Sure, take your time," I said.

"No. Thinking is the final 10% of the mechatronics cross-subject," he said, correcting me.

"Oh, I see," I said. "So what does a mechatronist do?"

"We build robots that think."

"Wow! You can build robots? That think? All by yourself?" I asked incredulously.

"Some robots," he replied, nodding confidently.

"So what kind of job are you looking for? I mean, we don't build robots - thinking or otherwise. So I'm not sure what you'd do here."

"I would like a job in marketing or computer programming or business administration," he replied.

"Why? Why would you settle for that when you can build robots?" I asked. "Do you just need alittle pocket money while you build your evil robot army and prepare to launch inter-galactic warfare, Lord Xenu?" I thought to myself.

"My diploma is in business administration, so I want to go for that," he explained.

"I thought you said you were a "mechatronist"? Don't you have to have a degree in mechatronics to be a mechatronist? Or are you self-taught?"

"No," he explained. "I attended a seminar for mechatronics. But my degree is for business administration."

"Oh. How long was the seminar?" I asked.

"Two and a half days," he said, smiling confidently.

"I'll give you a call if we have any openings," I said standing up to usher him out.

(And for those of you who are curious, Mr. Mechatronist elected to be a vampire because he "doesn't like wofs." Suck on that, Team Jacob!)

How to Catch Employees Doing Really Stupid Stuff...Plus a Recipe!!

2011-01-05T03:38:00.002+04:00

Years ago, when I was new to the working world, I had the good fortune to report to a boss who was a bastion of workplace wisdom. There were several people in the organization whose technical skills were superior to those of my boss, but he worked his way up the chain of command with common sense and first-rate people management skills. I remember that some of the people in my hiring class didn't like reporting to him because they thought they would learn more by working for one of the organization's more technically gifted quant wizards.

In hindsight, I'm glad I reported to this man. He taught me early on that technical expertise is only going to get you so far. Equally important are your interpersonal skills and your ability to make decisions in a competent manner. Afterall, if we're being honest with ourselves, there will most likely be someone (or some program) more technically gifted than ourselves. Assuming one is reasonably competent in his/her field, one's management skills are most likely to determine career advancement.

My former boss had several direct reports who worked in other cities and one of his favorite sayings was: "If you can't be everywhere, be unpredictable." Once in awhile, he would hop a flight and show up in his employees' offices unannounced to check up on them. Sometimes he'd announce he was heading home early, only to re-appear later to see whether people were getting their work done.

At the time, I didn't have the pleasure of supervising anyone, so I didn't give my boss's tactics much thought. But his unorthodox approach to keeping an eye on people has proven immensely helpful since moving to Sand Land. Between visiting various branches and attending off-site meetings, it is impossible for me to keep an eye on everybody everyday. And sadly, I don't yet have supervisors in each location that I trust to properly hold down the fort.

When I first arrived at Fuckwittery, Inc., most of the employees followed instructions more poorly than Joby The Dog (NSFW). Gradually, things improved thanks to fines, incentives and forcing people to do things over and over again until their work reached an acceptable standard. At least, things seemed better while I was around the office. I always had a sneaking suspicion that the fragile veneer of professionalism cracked when I was away.

So I decided to employ my former boss's "If you can't be everywhere, be unpredictable" tactic. One day, on my way out to a short meeting, I stood in the middle of the reception and proclaimed loudly to all and sundry that I was positively exhausted and would be going home after the meeting...don't come looking for me this afternoon, gang, I won't be here!

When I returned a couple hours later, the office looked pretty much like that scene from the movie "Gremlins" where said monsters take over the town's bar and movie theater. A gaggle of employees loitered around the reception desk while one guy serenaded them with a Hindi love song, gangsta rap blared from another employee's PC, other employees crowded around a computer watching videos on YouTube.

Madam's outta the office - PAAARTY TIME!

"Gang, what's going on?" I called out, pulling off my sunglasses.

A collective gasp went up as people spun around and saw me standing in the middle of the office - deer in the headlights looks and slack jaws all around.

"You said you were going home for the day," the singer protested, a tinge of accusation in his voice.

"I was conducting an experiment...to see if you folks have enough work to do," I countered.

Since then, I've done my best to ensure that all Fuckwittery, Inc. employees have a workload that is roughly 110% of what I believe is feasible. And I've continued to use the "Bye gang, I'm signing out!" trick. The employees of Fuckwittery, Inc. fell for it several times - apparently the prospect of being in the office unsupervised was just too delicious. Gradually, as the ax fell for missed deadlines, the employees wizened up and learned to control themselves while I was away.

Part of me is alittle sad that my co-workers have gotten hip to my game, because I'll probably never again have the pleasure of creeping into the office, hiding behind a plant and watching the front desk staff prepare the following mess-free, work-friendly snack:

Sandwich Sand Landaise.
1 large piece of flatbread
4-5 slices of processed cheese product
12 packets of mayonnaise
4 packets ketchup
1/2 cup mixed vegetable pickle*
1 packet of potato chips, crushed with the aid of a computer mouse

Method: Clear reception counter of any work-related items. Place large piece of flatbread directly on top of reception counter. Unwrap processed cheese slices and lay evenly across flatbread, pile discarded cheese product wrappers elsewhere on reception desk. Remember, it is the "office boy's" responsibility to dispose of these wrappers, not yours!

Next, open packets of mayonnaise with your teeth and squirt them on top of the cheese product. Use your index finger to spread the mayonnaise evenly across the cheese product. The mayonnaise layer must be at least 1/2 cm thick.

Employ the tooth technique to open the ketchup packets and use the tip of your index finger to swirl the ketchup through the sea of mayonnaise. All mayonnaise and ketchup packets should be piled on top of cheese product wrappers. Don't worry if a packet or two fall on the ground, just point it out to the office boy when he walks by.

When you have blended the ketchup into the mayonnaise, scatter mixed vegetable pickles across your concoction.

Next, take a small packet of potato chips. Let the air out of the bag and place the flat bag on the reception counter beside your sandwich. Pick up your computer mouse and use it to crush the potato chips into a fine dust. Sprinkle potato chip dust across the top of the sandwich.

Now for the final flourish, starting at the left end of the sandwich, roll the bread tightly - just like a sushi chef rolls a tuna maki.

Bon apetit!

*For the folks back home, Sand Landian pickles look like this:

Not this:

Excel Spearhead Sheets

2010-12-28T07:22:00.000+04:00

Behold, dear readers: a member of my staff who is the very, very proud owner of an "MBA in financial management"....yet another testament to depths of Sand Landian talent pool.

------original message------
from: Joe Fuckwit joe@fuckwitteryinc.com
to: Ms. Adventures wickedwitch@fuckwitteryinc.com
date: Sun, Nov 28, 2010 at 1:57 PM
subject: Spearhead Sheet

Dear Esteemed Madam,

I take this opportunity to thank You for Your valuable suggestions about my Spearhead Sheet. It was really great to know Your requirements and I shall do my level best in furtherance of the accomplishment of these works. I have made the necessary changes and You will find two sample entries on the Spearhead Sheet which is attached herewith.
Please suggest.

Thanking you,
Joe F.
------original message---------
to: Joe Fuckwit joe@fuckwitteryinc.com
from: Ms. Adventures wickedwitch@fuckwitteryinc.com
date: Sun Nov 28, 2010 at 2:14 PM
subject: Re: Spearhead sheet

Hi Joe,

I've made a few changes to the file. Please proceed using the attached version. Please note that this type of file is called a "spreadsheet" - not a "spearhead sheet."

Thanks,
Ms. Adventures

------original message------
from: Joe Fuckwit joe@fuckwitteryinc.com
to: Ms. Adventures wickedwitch@fuckwitteryinc.com
date: Sun, Nov 28, 2010 at 2:26 PM
subject: Spearhead Sheet

Noted, Madam. Thank You for the changes to the Spreadhead Sheet.

Thanking You,
Joe F.

The Off-Site Part 2: "Whose Feet Are These?"

2010-12-20T16:59:00.002+04:00

(If you haven't already done so, you may want to read "The Off-site Part 1" before reading this post.)

Half an hour after the tour company called to say my out-of-town guests and I were being re-routed to "The Tourist Camp" instead of "The Desert Dunes Fantasy Wonderland Resort" I'd paid for, we turned off of the main road and onto a gravel path. The gravel path quickly gave way to a vast expanse of sand dunes.

Rufus revved the engine and guided his rusted out Land Cruiser toward a large dune. "We do dunes now, touristers!" he proclaimed, bobbing his head like a cocky hip-hop star on MTV.

"Oh sweet, this is gonna be like a roller coaster!" the guy riding shotgun yelled.

"Weeee!" we all screamed as we barreled toward the top of the dune, our utter disgust for Rufus giving way to child-like glee.

KA-THUMP! The Land Cruiser lurched to a dead stop.

We looked out the window to see that the bottom half of the front wheels were stuck in the sand. Rufus floored the accelerator, which only succeeded in causing the back wheels to fish-tail and drive the front of the car further into the sand.

"Ok, touristers. You too heavy for car, you get out," he said.

We climbed out and stood at the top of the dune as he tried flooring it a second time. Sand sprayed everywhere and the front bummer of the Land Cruiser disappeared into the sand.

"Ok, you dig, touristers!" he called, rolling down the window and pointing to the back of the SUV. We took shovels out and started to move the sand away from the front wheel. Then the guys got behind the SUV and pushed as Rufus accelerated. After 15 minutes, the old beast was free.

We climbed back in and coasted down the dune and head for the next dune.

"Alright, here we go!" called shotgun guy.

But the same damned thing happened when we got to the top. We all groaned and got out of the vehicle. I called up The Tourist Camp and proceeded to have my second Susie Greene-esque tirade of the day (again, Ms. Greene is NSFW). The Tourist Camp said they were dispatching "Kumar" ex poste-haste.

"Uh, dudes and dudettes, I don't think homeboy here has engaged the 4 wheel drive," shotgun guy said as we watched the wheels spin. How shotgun guy knew this I have no clue, but anyway...

We were digging out the rust bucket when one of the ladies pointed toward the horizon and proclaimed "Look! Help is here!"

In the distance, a white Prado raced towards us, negotiating the dunes as deftly as a gazelle bounds across the African savannah. A man dressed head to toe in khakis hopped out of the car, waving to us as his Yasser Arafat scarf billowed around his neck.

"Good afternoon, ladies and gentleman. I'm Kumar and I'll take you to The Tourist Camp," he called, motioning for us to get in the Prado.

We dropped the shovels and grabbed our overnight packs without giving Rufus and the rust bucket a second thought.

As we walked toward the Prado, Kumar muttered something under his breath. One of the visitors, who spoke Hindi, did a triple take.

"What did Kumar say?" I asked her.

"He said something like 'How many times have we told them not to send that stupid sisterfucker here'?" she translated, blushing.

"Damn straight, Kumar! Gimme five!" I said, high-fiving him as we walked to the Prado.

Kumar took us to The Tourist Camp, expedited our check-in and then chauffeured us on an extended dune bashing excursion. Kumar of Arabia had some serious dune bashing skills and we had a grand old time.

Things were going good until it came time for dinner. As we sat in a circle on the floor and ate from a communal plate, I saw the color drain from Mr. Adventures' face.

"What is it?" I asked.

"Um, he's baaaaack," Mr. Adventures, said pointing at someone behind me.

I turned around and saw Rufus stumbling toward us, brown-bagged beverage in hand - *WASTED*.

"Hi touristers," he said, plopping down beside us.

As we looked at him in scornful silence, he dug in. Then he stood up, reached across the communal plate and took a can of beer out of one of the ladies' hands.

"You are nice girl, you should no drink. Never!" he said, smiling sweetly.

"Alright, Rufus," I said, snatching the can from him. "Why don't you go back and hang out with the other guides. We're busy."

"No," he laughed. "I like her. I want her not to drink. She is nice lady. I want her marry me."

The poor woman almost choked on her food.

"Rufus, go! Now!" I said through gritted teeth, pointing toward the tent's opening. He got up and scurried over to his ~~crush~~ victim.

"I can have dinner with you?" he asked, trying to put his arm around her. Food was flying as we tried to keep him from the hapless woman.

One of the guys stood up, put his arm around Rufus and escorted him away.

"Ok, I don't think he'll bother us again," the guy said, returning to the group.

But how wrong we were...Later that night, we were sitting beside a camp fire as a group of men performed traditional Sand Landian music and dances. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Rufus sitting a few meters away screwing around on his mobile phone.

Rather than making a scene, I pretended to ignore him. After a few minutes, when my attention was wholly focused on the performers, someone tapped me on the shoulder. I caught a whiff of stale beer as I turned my head. Rufus was peering down at me.

"I not bother you. I have just question," he said defensively.

"What?" I asked glaring at him.

"Have look at this," he said, handing me his mobile.

As I took it, he asked "Whose feet are these?"

I looked at the screen for a second and recognized my silver nail polish.

"They're my feet," I said, starting to hand the phone back and shooing him away.

"Hey, wait, what the hell are you doing taking pictures of my feet, you creepy-ass freak?!" I screamed, ripping the mobile out of his hand. I deleted the picture of my feet...and the one of his prospective bride's feet...and the one of Mr. Adventures' feet and hurled the mobile phone into the darkness.

The Off-Site Part 1: "Look that, a animal!"

2010-12-17T18:53:00.001+04:00

Awhile back, my company played host to a corporate delegation from abroad. The small group was in town to check out Sand Land and assess the possibility of entering the local market. When I got word that our visitors would be in town over the weekend, I decided to organize a desert excursion for them. What's the point of coming to Sand Land if you can't get your "Lawrence of Arabia" thang on, right?

Sand Landian tour operators are, in the words of Forrest Gump, 'like a box of chocolates - you never know what you're gonna get." Some guides are amazing and others make the clowns I write about look half-way competent. I called up a company that I'd had luck with in the past and told them I wanted to: (1) take my guests to one of the "five-star" desert camps; and (2) I wanted to meet/approve the guide beforehand. The next day, "Dave" a polite, well-spoken guide with a degree in Middle Eastern history was in my office planning out the trip with me.

But things pretty much went to hell in a hand basket from there...

On the morning of the trip, I got a call from the tour operator. Dave was down with the flu. Not to worry, they were rustling up a replacement. 45 minutes later, a disheveled man named "Rufus" screeched into Fuckwittery, Inc.'s parking lot at the helm of an ancient Land Cruiser.

I could waste your time by painting a detailed picture of Rufus, but suffice it to say, if they ever make "Deliverance Part II: Sand Land," Rufus could aptly portray Mr. Squeal Like a Pig's Sand Landian alter ego. Back in elementary school, my friends and I would have gleefully labelled him an inhabitant of "Weirdo Town."

"Good morning, touristers!" he called, hopping out of his rust bucket. He proceeded to greet each person and spent an uncomfortable amount of time shaking the ladies' hands while his eyes were fixed on our chests.

"All you go to car now," Rufus instructed.

"Hey guys," I said as the visitors started for the SUV, "Why don't I call the tour company and see if they've got a better - uhhh - vehicle?"

"It's no biggie," one guy said. "We've already wasted an hour waiting around. Let's just get going."

"No, really," I said, glancing sideways at Rufus. "We don't want to ummmmm...break down in the middle of nowhere."

But the visitors insisted it was cool. They were bored and antsy from waiting around and just wanted to get to the Desert Fantasy Wonderland Resort.

So we hopped in the Land Cruiser and set off for the dunes. Rufus didn't speak enough English to answer the visitors' questions about Sand Landian history, but he made up for it by singing to us. The visitors stared out the windows in uncomfortable silence as a "this guy is a creepy freak" klaxon alarm rang in my head.

After an hour we stopped in an old farming town to stretch our legs. As the visitors snapped pictures of the abandoned mud brick houses, Rufus got into tour guide mode by helpfully explaining, "Look that, a animal!" as a solitary goat walked by. And with that, the guided tour of the town started and ended.

A Animal!

We piled back in the SUV and continued on our way to the camp. When he was finally hoarse from singing to us, Rufus asked us if we'd like to listen to "his favorite music." Sure we said, thinking we'd get to savour some traditional Sand Landian melodies as we snaked through a series of farms and villages. He fished around in the glove compartment for a cassette.

"Yay! I love Middle Eastern music," one of the girls said, as she gazed out at some villagers walking beside the road.

Rufus popped in a tape and cranked up the volume. Static crackled from the speakers for a few seconds, and then...

"Just BEAT IT! BEAT IT!!!!!! No one wants to be defeated,"shrieked Michael Jackson.

At this point, things were simply a "we'll be laughing about this over beers tonight" weird. But when we stopped for lunch, things took a turn for the cringe-inducing bizarre. As he chewed on his chicken shwarma, Rufus looked intently at the chest of one of the female visitors.

"Do you have babies?" he asked, his mouth full of food.

"No," she replied.

"Oh, I think you should have baby," he said, pointing to her chest. "You should breast feed."

I stared at him in slack-jawed horror. How in the hell did a guy who didn't know the word "goat" know the term "breast feed"?

But Rufus was on a roll. Without missing a beat, while everyone was still staring at him in shell-shocked silence, he pointed to another lady who was half African, half European. "If I no be in sun, I have a more light color than you," he boasted, pointing to his dark skin.

My husband and I exchanged deer-in-the-headlights looks and dragged him to the parking lot as the visitors choked on their food.

"What the hell's wrong with you, you sick pervert?!" I yelled.

"I no say anything to you because husband is here," Rufus countered.

"What the fuck's that supposed to mean?" I screamed, embarking on a tirade that my husband says bore a striking resemblance to the bat shit ravings of Curb Your Enthusiasm's Susie Greene (don't click the "Susie" link while at work, within earshot of your kids or if you are offended by copious deployment of the F-bomb). After a few minutes, my husband stepped in and calmly instructed Rufus not to direct any further comments to the ladies in the group.

As Rufus and Mr. Adventures had their man-to-man chat, I got on the phone with the tour operator. They apologized profusely and said that they'd arrange for another guide to meet us at the camp and take us back the next day. Reluctantly, the group climbed back in the SUV and we headed for the camp.

Five minutes later, my mobile rang. It was the tour company. The Desert Fantasy Wonderland Resort was overbooked and we were being re-routed to something called "The Tourist Camp."

To be continued...

Not Happy With Your Job? Get Your Mommy to Yell at Me!

2010-12-12T00:17:00.000+04:00

Keeping Fuckwittery, Inc.'s reception desks staffed is a perennial problem. The average receptionist's tenure is comparable to the lifespan of a fruit fly. Finding people who communicate effectively, are polite, report to work on-time and are willing to work is a tall order.

For a few fleeting months, I thought this problem was solved after I got a call from a marketing person at one of the local training colleges. Would I be interested in hiring a courteous, punctual, articulate young person who had undergone extensive training in front office tasks?

Before I could finish doing the Happy Dance, the marketing rep was in my office extolling the benefits of the 8 month training program. Each Rockstar Receptionist™ interned at a local hotel for a month - learning in the trenches! If a Rockstar Receptionist™ showed up late to class more than 3 times they were booted from the program! All Rockstar Receptionists™ manned the training college's front desk for a minimum of 200 hours!

"Halle-fuckin-lujah. I'll take ten," I thought, fighting the urge to fall at the marketing rep's feet and kiss the ground she walked on.

The next week, she brought a young man named "Felix" to meet me. If I agreed to employ him, his training would be subsidized by the government. Before signing, I asked if I could interview Felix one-on-one. The marketing rep wasn't thrilled, but she eventually consented.

Me: So, how are you doing, Felix?

Felix: I go training for company.

Me: Uh, ok. What work experience do you have?

Felix: I go training for company.

I called the rep back into my office and told her that while I was interested in sponsoring a trainee, it didn't appear that Felix had the communication skills necessary to be a receptionist. Not to worry, I was told. The English language component of the curriculum was so intensive that he would be fluent when he started working with us in 8 months. They all start out like this! So stupid, naive, fresh-off-the boat me took her word for it and signed up to sponsor Felix.

I started to get a bad feeling about 3 months into the program when I was invited to the college for a progress report. A horrific accident snarled traffic that morning and I tried to call the instructor to say I'd be late. But the guy answering the phones hung up on me. I tried a second time with the same result. On the third try, I was placed on hold and subjected to what can only be described as "circus music from hell" before again getting the shaft from the receptionist.

Arriving at the college, I saw none other than my man Felix standing behind the reception desk. Never to worry, I was told. Felix still has alot of training to undergo...blah, blah, blah.

Fast forward five months and Felix - newly minted Rockstar Receptionist™ - is now officially onboard full-time. He graduated from the training college with flying colors, "one of the most talented students in his batch" gushed one instructor. Seeing his esteemed credentials, our office manager placed him at the reception desk. An hour later my mobile was burning up:

"Dude, who the hell is that asshole that keeps hanging up the phone?"

"I asked the receptionist to transfer me to you and he put me on hold for 10 minutes, then transferred me to accounts payable, then hung up on me! I spoke to him in English and Arabic, WTF?"

I called the office manager and Felix into my office to find out what was going on. Felix explained that the callers "weren't talking properly" so he had no choice but to hang up on them. I told the office manager to get him off the phones and give him some photocopying work. I then emailed the training college to figure out what to do with him.

Later that morning, the office manager came by to tell me that Felix was AWOL. "Whatever," I thought as I turned back to my spreadsheet.

An hour later I was told a lady wanted to speak to me about Felix. Thinking it was someone from the training institute I told my assistant to send her in. A large, irate woman lumbered in - brow furrowed, nostrils flaring.

"Are you boss of Felix?" she bellowed.

"Um, I'm not his immediate supervisor, but how can I help you?" I said, sheepishly.

"I mother of Felix!"

"Ok. What's the matter?"

"You should not be mean to Felix! Felix is professional!" Momma Bear snarled, plopping down in a chair.

"I wasn't aware that I had been mean to Felix."

"Felix is professional receptionist! But you not let him answer telephone? You have no right for this. No right!" Momma Bear yelled, wagging her finger at me.

"Well, considering Felix was hanging up on every caller, I certainly do have the right to stop him from answering the phones."

"No you don't, bad woman!! He went training class for telephone. He is professional," she screeched as she banged on my desk. Momma Bear hissed like a snake and pointed her finger at me, "You are bad!"

Momma Bear's on the case:
Kickin' ass, takin' names!

Oh Felix, you pathetic little twit. You spent 8 months studying how to answer telephones, yet emerged unable or unwilling to do so. I kindly gave you a less intellectually taxing assignment, which you decided was not sexy glamorous enough for you. So you literally run home crying to mommy???

BWAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!!

You have got to be kidding me, dude! Sand Cat - my feline sidekick - deals with perceived maltreatment in a more emotionally evolved manner. (Her MO is thumping the offending party on the forehead...hey, at least she's fighting her own battles, playerhaters!)

Sand Cat:
"Come get your thumping!"

Friends, please indulge me while I jump on my soap box for a moment:

Felix, Momma Bear et al, the fact that you attend a training program means nothing to an employer if you are unable to apply anything you've learned. If you cannot put into practice that which you studied, then you may as well have stayed at home all those months playing Grand Theft Auto. One (or one's mother) cannot simply go around pounding his or her chest whilst exclaiming "Training course! Training course! Me went training course!"

Whew, now I feel much better. Hopping off soap box.

The "We're all gonna die" Chain Mail Epidemic

2010-12-07T13:00:00.085+04:00

I'm starting to feel like I've been teleported back to 1997. Fuckwittery, Inc. is in the midst of a full blown chain email epidemic - but we're not talking about cutesy stuff like dancing babies or hamsters. No, ours is an epidemic of fear. As I write, death stalks Fuckwittery, Inc.'s cubicle farm, callously waiting for some unsuspecting schmo to answer their mobile phone, fire up their laptop or pop an over-the-counter pain relief tablet.

Since Sunday, ominous chain emails have swept through the office like a prairie fire, leaving pure, unadulterated terror in their wake. So far this week, we've learned it's virtually certain we'll die from one of the following:

Mouse shit residue on soda cans
Dried rat urine on soda cans
Exploding mobile phone batteries
Mobile phones that incinerate when you answer a call while they're charging
Laptops that spontaneously combust when turned on
Laptops that catch on fire if left sitting on a bed
Panadol and Tylenol, as they are stored as poison in your liver
And, my personal favorite, being electrocuted while taking flash photographs when you happen to be standing on top of a train.

Nightmare on Fuckwittery, Inc.'s cube farm

In the Sand Landian workplace - or, at least, my Sand Landian workplace- the senders of such emails are hailed as life-saving heroes. Back home, people may have been annoyed by such emails, but in Sand Land sending "We're all gonna die" emails is one of the fastest and easiest ways to gain the admiration and adoration of your colleagues. If you wish to raise your profile in the office, firing off one of these emails is pretty much a sure bet.

Here's a quick how-to guide for sending "We're all gonna die" chain email to your Sand Landian co-workers:

#1. Get your hands on a "we're all gonna die" email. This shouldn't be hard as these things are plentiful, but I've attached a sample at the bottom of this post, just in case you're busy or feeling lazy.

#2. Make sure the email will grab your co-workers' attention - this is serious information, afterall. The email should be written in a scare-mongering manner. It should also employ attention grabbers like garish colors, a crap ton of exclamation points, 24+ font size, or ALL CAPS - preferably all of these.

If you don't believe your chain mail is panicky and strident enough, take a few moments to embellish it with some underlines, RED ALL CAPS, etc.

#3. Gather as many email addresses as you can. Sand Landian workplace etiquette dictates that you copy the entire company email directory from MS Outlook and paste it into the "To:" line of your email.

If you really want to be a good Samaritan, try to track down the emails of all your company's customers, suppliers and business partners. I mean, how shitty are you going to feel if, after warning your co-workers about mouse shit residue on soda cans, you come to find out that the accounts manager of your paper products supplier has succumbed after cracking open a Redbull??

#4 Add your own screechy warning at the top of the email. Something along the lines of:

THE PERSON IN THIS EMAIL WAS A FRIEND OF A FRIEND OF MY BROTHER’S WIFE’S COUSIN! THIS IS SERIOUS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! THIS IS REAL!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

#5 Hit Send.

#6 Run! Run for your co-workers' lives!!! Quickly dart from office to office, cube to cube exhorting your co-workers to click "Send/Receive" until your email shows up in their inbox. Tell them to drop what they are doing and read that email - stat!

#7 Do a quick check. As you roam about the cube farm getting people to read your email, take time to make sure no one is engaged in the very behavior you are trying to warn them about. For instance, when the "rat urine on soda cans" email went around, the sender found me sitting in my office happily swigging from my ever-present can of Diet Dr. Pepper.

#8 The Intervention. If you find an employee courting death by doing that which your email warns them against, it is your duty to stop them. Follow the lead of the Rat-Urine-on-Soda-Cans-Whistle-Blower:

RUOSCWB: "Muh - Muh - Muh - Madam! Please stop doing that. Now!!!!"

Me [jumping in seat]: "What? What am I doing?"

RUOSCWB: "Drinking out of that...can! Haven't you gotten my email? There's rat urine! Rat uuuurine!! Hit send/receive, hit send/receive! Now!!!!!"

Me [clicking send/receive]: "Oh, um, ok. Rat urine on soda cans, eh? You know, I've been drinking diet Dr. Pepper out of cans all my life. I think I'll be ok."

RUOSCWB [neck muscles straining, eyes popping out of skull]: Noooo!! Please, please stop. Give it to me. I'll put it in a glass for you."

RUOSCWB trots away, holding my soda can at arm's length.

#9 Foment mass hysteria. Once you've gotten everyone in the office to read the email, go to the chattiest, loudest person in the office and start talking in an animated manner about what a miracle it is that neither of you have died from rat urine on soda cans, etc. Your co-workers will be drawn to the two of you like moths to a flame and a collective freak-out will ensue.

#10 Pat yourself on the back. As you stand in a sea of panicking co-workers, give yourself a mental pat on the back. You have saved not only their lives, but the lives of countless others. Once the mass panic dissipates, your coworkers will scuttle back to their desks and spend the remainder of the workday forwarding your email to everyone they know.

At the end of the work day, your co-workers will peel out of the parking lot seatbeatless and hit a fast food drive-thru for the second time that day. On the drive home, they'll tail-gate the car in front of them and run a red light or two...all while basking in the knowledge that they're gonna live to 101 now that they know not to talk on a mobile phone while it's charging.

"We're all gonna die" Chain Email Sample:

Please Do NOT DELETE

BEFORE READING THIS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

This incident happened recently in North Texas . ITS A REAL STORY
A woman went boating one Sunday taking with her some cans of coke which she put into the refrigerator of the boat. On Monday she was taken to the hospital and placed in the Intensive Care Unit. She died on Wednesday.

The autopsy concluded she died of Leptospirosis. This was traced to the can of coke she drank from, not using a glass. Tests showed that the can was infected by dried rat urine and hence the disease Leptospirosis.

Rat urine contains toxic and deathly substances. It is highly recommended to thoroughly wash the upper part of soda cans before drinking out of them. The cans are typically stocked in warehouses and trans ported straight to the shops without being cleaned.

A study at NYCU showed that the tops of soda cans are more contaminated than public toilets (i.e).. full of germs and bacteria. So wash them with water before putting them to the mouth to avoid any kind of fatal accident.

Please forward this message to all the people you care about.
(I JUST DID)

Tales from the Resume Slush Pile: The Skillionaires

2010-12-03T17:41:00.000+04:00

In both school and the work place, I've always motivated myself by keeping in mind that there are many talented people competing with me for the same opportunities. Most of these people are probably smarter than me and a good many are probably more hardworking. So if I want to get into a decent school or be gainfully employed, I'd better work hard and acquire marketable skills.

Perhaps you job hunters here in Sand Land will also find this mind trick useful as you work toward landing that dream job? Well, please allow me to assist you by giving you an idea of what you're up against. Straight from the Resume Slush Pile, I've gleaned a sampling of the skills your competitors are sporting.

A word of caution before we proceed: In all likelihood, you do not currently possess talents comparable to those of the "Skillionaires." In fact, prior to stumbling across this post, you were probably unaware that many of these skills exist. Seeing the stiff competition you face may cause severe anxiety, so it's best to avoid comparing your present self to The Skillionaires. At this stage of the game, simply use The Skillionaires as inspiration - an insight into what might be if you work really really hard and persevere.

In order to avoid feeling depressed or overwhelmed by The Skillionaires, you'll need to get yourself in the right mindset before scrolling any further. Do a few push ups, watch an episode of He-Man, put on the "Rocky" theme or "Eye of the Tiger"...whatever helps you get pumped up. As you behold the prowess of The Skillionaires, keep telling yourself: "I, too, can become a Skillionaire if I exhibit virtue, dedication and courage. I have the POWER! RAAAWWWRRRR!!!!!!!!"

You most certainly do, job hunters of Sand Land.

(1) Expert in the Encoderation of the Desk computer.

(2) Can efficiently communicate with other nationals verbally and in written.

(3) Full license to do international computer driving things.

Ummm...uhhhhh....jiggah what??????

(4) Able to perform any kind of Dancing

Me [lighting cigarette and buzzing secretary like Don Draper]: "Hey Joanie, send in the dancing girls, it's been a loooong day. And get me an Old Fashioned while your at it."

(5) Able to do Pilates, Tae-boo, Aerobics

Darn, we at Fuckwittery, Inc. are only interested in people who can participate in our lunchtime Strippercize and Jazzercize classes.

(6) Academic qualifications can't do it

Yes. This is real - and most probably true based on my experiences with Sand Land's education system.

(7) Excellent ability for pleasuring customers with gratitude

Cheeky, cheeky, cheeky...

(8) I can do the counts and I also can do the multiplix

Wowza! This sounds like complicated shit. I've never even heard of "multiplix" - it must be something you get to after Differential Equations. I didn't have the bandwidth to venture past good ol' Diffy Q...

(9) Always soar the company to better hites assuming the cooption of the work mates!

Fair enough, but what happens when the work mates don't coop with you?

(10) Far reaching knowledge about the day- to day activities of any job

Word up, job hunters! My humble advice is to put this exact phrase on your CV. Front and center. This is pretty much exactly what every employer is looking for.

Hey Mr. Any Job, mind if I clone a mini-army of you? It would really make my life easier...and more fun! To start with, I could take the Resume Slush Pile to the beach tonight, set it aflame, cook s'mores over it and dance around it. Then I could take an extended vacation while you and the gang hold down the fort.

(12) I am always Carving the winning edge for teh Organization

(13) I have the skills of exercising an "executive view" and decision making ability, or so to say, I traffick in operating skills.

You know, it's funny you mention that. When people tell me they're capable of making decisions, I always find myself thinking: "Self, this person must be another one of those 'operating skills traffickers'." Great minds think alike, huh? :)

The Definitive Guide to Submitting Your Resume in Sand Land

2010-11-30T00:17:00.000+04:00

Are you new to Sand Land? Looking for a job? Well, before you unwittingly commit a job search faux pas, allow me to offer a word of caution: The etiquette for submitting your resume to a Sand Landian organization is quite different from the process you might have followed back home. But don't fret, Ms. Adventures is here to help! Today, I'll walk you through the whole process step-by-step. I've even included a real life example for future reference.

Ok, we've got alot to cover, so let's get going:

Step #1: Create a Resume that Gets Noticed:

In all likelihood, you'll need to toss out your existing resume and start anew - the end product will bear no semblance to the resume you used back home.

It is of vital importance that your CV begin with an "infodump" - a list of personal details such as:

marital status
spouse's name
parents' names
religion
gender
passport number

Folks, I simply can't stress enough how important is it that I know you parents' names and your religious beliefs when I'm considering whether to hire you. But please note, it is not considered acceptable to include things like your telephone number and your email. If you must list some contact information, put someone else's...preferably that of a relative or acquaintance working elsewhere in the region. (More on the reasoning behind this later.)

Next, you'll need to elaborate on your previous experience. Lengthy stream-of-conscious paragraphs are preferred. If you really want to stand out, make sure you use a few different fonts and font sizes. In Sand Land, this signifies to the an employer that you are a veritable expert in MS Word - sticking to one font is the hallmark of the novice who is ignorant of the fact that multiple fonts exist. Discerning use of the Comic Sans font is a sure fire way to get yourself noticed.

Above all, do not use concise bullet points to summarize your work experience. This is too sparse for the Sand Landian employer's aesthetic. Should you have any trouble at all coming up with verbose paragraphs detailing your experience, simply hop on the internet and use the old "control c/control v" trick. Nothing screams "I'm an honest, upstanding employee" like a sprinkle of plagiarism.

(Note: This "control c/control v" technique also proves extremely handy should you need to claim experience that you don't actually possess.)

If you find that there are hyperlinks embedded in the text you've lifted from Wikipedia, by all means, leave them in. The underlines will help draw the recruiter's attention to key words and phrases that are sure land you the coveted interview.

Ok, so next up are the all important hobbies - or as some Sand Landian job hunters say, "hobbs." Much like your religious beliefs and your parents' names, these are a critical piece of the puzzle for the Sand Landian employer. You may even want to consider placing them directly below the infodump and above your work experience. We prospective employers have unlimited time to pour over your resume and you definitely want us to ~~waste~~ use some of that time learning what you like do when you're not at work.

A final word of advice on creating a killer Sand Land-style resume: DO NOT proofread or spellcheck your creation. Little typos here and there lend an air of whimsy to your resume.

Step #2: Save Your Resume:

When saving your resume, be sure to label it something vague like "CV" or "resume" or "want job." Avoid including your name or any indication of the post to which you are applying. This sounds counter intuitive, but trust me - much like omitting your email and telephone number from the resume, there's a very good reason for this that I'll get to later.

Step #3: Print Your Resume:

When you find a job for which you want to apply, you might be tempted to simply email your resume to the point of contract listed in the classified ad. But, no, no, no, my friend. That's not the way we kick it here in Sand Land. You should print your resume and proceed directly to Step #4.

Step #4: Allow Your Printed Resume to Age Nicely, Like a Premium Cut of Beef or a Fine Wine:

As soon as you're done printing your resume, put it on your kitchen counter for a few days. If you spill tea or coffee on it, all the better! Your prospective employer is likely to be a caffeine junkie, too. The presence of a coffee or tea stain signals to them that not only are they getting a new employee, they're also gaining a coffee break buddy - who can resist a twofer? Not me.

Step #5: Fold Your Resume:

After aging your resume, fold it in two places, much like you would fold a letter that you intend to put in an envelope. But don't put your resume in an envelop or any other protective cover.

Step #6: The Hand Off:

Give your folded resume to your spouse (or parent, or friend or neighbor) and ask them to take it to work with them. Specify that you want them to put it in their back pocket or shirt pocket until lunchtime. This will give your resume a rumpled appearance that is much prized amongst Sand Landian employers.

Step #7: Lunchtime:

Instruct the person in possession of your resume to eat lunch over it. Fresh food stains will signify that you're a discerning foodie who is capable of making delectable contributions to the company potluck.

Step #8: Scanning and Upload:

After lunch, your resume's caretaker should proceed with scanning the document. It is best to do this one page at a time and to upload each page separately - do not combine the pages into a single file!! If this seems illogical to you, think back to your childhood. Did you want one present or *many* presents for your birthday/Christmas/whatever-holiday-you-celebrated? If you were like me (a greedy little shit) you wanted boatloads of presents. Garner some goodwill from your prospective employer by turning your resume into the gift that keeps on giving.

Tell the person that, when they save your resume, they should employ the same vague naming technique you used in Step #2. "CV1" "CV2" "CV3", etc.

And if you really want to spice things up, make sure some pages are scanned in a different direction. It shows that you were one of those rebel kids who colored outside the lines (and who generally grow up to be kickass happy hour companions).

Step #9: Hitting Send:

Now it's time for your spouse/friend/neighbor to send your resume. Remind them not to include your contact information. From the employer's perspective it is preferable for this person to include either their own contact information or none at all. Allow me to elaborate:

Remember how I told you to avoid putting contact details in your resume? And how I warned you not to name your resume anything specific that might tell me who you are and what job you want? The dirty little secret is that we prospective employers have nothing to do besides sift through the resume slush pile. Until your friend sends me your resume, I'm sitting around staring at the walls, twiddling my thumbs and generally bored off my ass.

But all that monotony dissipates when I get your resume! Finally I have something awesome to do: Put my amateur sleuth skills to the test and figure out who you are, what you're qualified to do and how I can get in touch with you. Suddenly, I'm the protagonist in a Nancy Drew or Hardy Boys novel. Sweet!

Always keep in mind that prospective employers love the thrill of the chase. It is called a job hunt, afterall...as in I'm hunting for you! Recruiters are like the male suitor in a relationship. Most of the fun is in the pursuit. Hard to get = Better! So be coy, be sly, and above all be unreachable.

Now, I know your head must be spinning after all these tips. But take heart, you can always refer to the example below in case you need to double check that you've gotten it right. Happy job hunting!

The Punishment File Chronicles: You consumed "alcoholic drugs"

2010-11-28T01:08:00.000+04:00

This installment of the "Punishment File Chronicles" features the exploits of "Chuckles," a former employee at my company. (For those of you who are new to my blog, please see this post for the backstory on the Punishment File.)

Chuckles was an affable fellow. He always had a grin on his face and was well liked by his colleagues. But Chuckles' downfall was booze. The man just couldn't resist the demon water's siren song...even when it called his name an hour before work. Throughout his tenure with us, Chuckles' battle with the bottle landed him in the Punishment File a couple of times. Here's a transcription of his first brush with Mr. By Order:

Dear Mr. Chuckles,

It had been observed by the management than you had took the alcoholic drug and came to duty and fallen down unconsciously which created a bad impression to our organization and staffs. Furth to the above matter above the Management herby has decided to suspend you for a period of 10 days starting from 15/8/20XX afternoon to 30/8/20XX morning.

This is first and final warn to you and if this naughty misbehavior is repeated you will be deported without any benefits and to the expense of yours only.

By Order,

The Adminitater

Adminitater? Now I'm picturing Mr. Potato Head penning these letters. Oh, Mr. By Order, whatever you lack in writing abilities, you surely compensate for it with your whiz bang counting skills...

Ok, I know what you're wondering: What pray tell are "alcoholic drugs" and where can I score some? Why am I dicking around with a nightly vodka on the rocks when I could be enjoying alcoholic drugs? Well, from what my sources tell me, Chuckles' beverage of choice was "toddy" a homemade firewater distilled from the sap of coconut trees. I'll keep my eyes peeled next time I'm cruising through the duty-free and let y'all know if I spot some. :)

Alright, so back to Chuckles' infraction. Chuckles staggered into the office one morning, his eyes bloodshot and his clothes reeking of alcohol. He stood still in the middle of the lobby for a couple minutes and looked around in complete confusion. Then he fell backwards, crashed into a potted plant and lay on the floor unconscious.

But Chuckles took his 10 (or 15) day suspension in stride and came back to work. He was doing ok for a few months, but then the demon reared its ugly head again, as evidenced by yet another citation in the Punishment File:

Dear Mr. Chuckles,

The management had noted that you did again some disbehavior because of consuming the alcoholic drug. The management herby demands that you submit full explanation in the hand written from why you had gone to [a furniture store] and made intimindations to the browsers then done the vomting and sleeped off at that premises.

You did mischief that caused some shame to us colleagues that had to collect you and this shame is also on the company. Again you shall be under suspension on 10 days and this is last warning. The management warns you to put full stop to this mischief.

By Order,

The Administrator

Yeah, I know, this letter's not quite as crystal clear as the last one. I had to do some digging to get to the bottom of this one. Here goes:

After several weeks of sobriety, Chuckles fell off the wagon and failed to turn up at work one morning. Shortly before noon, Mr. By Order got a phone call from a furniture store across the street. Chuckles, it seems, had reported to work there. (Now, if you've ever seen my office, you would realize that in order for Chuckles to confuse our office with a furniture store, he would most definitely have had to be on alcoholic drugs with powerful hallucinogenic properties. Being plastered on conventional alcohol alone would not explain that sort of mix up. The tattered pea-green furniture we used to have in our lobby looked like some kid's microbiology science project.)

Anyway, Chuckles walked into the furniture store and sat down at one of the kitchen tables. He opened his brief case and started bantering to customers, whom he mistook for his co-workers. The store proprietor tried to shuffle him out, but Chuckles got belligerent. This was his place of business, dammit! He had a job to do!

At some point in the altercation with the store's floor staff, Chuckles stood up and vomited all over a nearby couch. Fortunately for them (and for us since we got stuck with the cleaning bill) it was leather. He then fell over and passed out in a reprise of his previous infraction. At this point, the store manager fished out Chuckles' wallet and tracked down his employer. Mr. By Order and his posse were dispatched to collect Chuckles.

You might think that Mr. By Order would have driven Chuckles straight to the airport and sent him home. However, Mr. By Order's ominous letters were but empty threats. While Chuckles was under his second suspension, his brother contacted Mr. By Order. The brother had recently moved to Sand Land and suggested that Chuckles vacate his "bachelor accommodation" and move in with the brother and his family. The brother vowed to keep Chuckles on the straight and narrow by taking him to nightly Bible studies and prayer meetings at his Pentecostal church. Yeah, I know. Poor Chuckles, no one deserves punishment like that...

A few years went by and Chuckles managed to keep it together. He performed his job well and remained popular with his co-workers. But things fell apart when his brother moved away from Sand Land. No longer in the clutches of the Pentecostals, Chuckles once again gave in to the toddy's siren song. His eyes became blood shot, he answered every question with a giggle and disappeared from work for several days.

When he returned to the office after his multi-day bender, he had the misfortune of riding the elevator with me. I smelled the fumes and looked at his pink eyes. "Dude! Chuckles, are you drunk?" I demanded.

"He he he. Ha ha!" he responded.

I took him to my office, shut the door and sat down. "Look, Chuckles, you're completely intoxicated and I'm going to have to let you go," I said.

Chuckles snorted and smiled broadly.

"Chuckles, do you understand what I'm saying? I'm terminating you and I'm going to send you back home."

"Ha Ha Haaaaaaaaa" Chuckles said as he shook his head and slapped his knee.

"Well, at least I've made someone happy. Can't say that most days," I sighed as I dialed up the HR guy to get the termination process started.

Later that day a "Save Chuckles" petition materialized on my desk. I called the supplicants into my office and explained that we couldn't employ people with substance abuse problems under any circumstances.

In a show of solidarity, the employees then launched a "Chuckles Aid 2010" drive to collect money to send him to rehab. It was a touching gesture but seeing as they handed the cash over to him, I'm willing to bet it's now sitting in the cash box of the toddy stand nearest the airport.

Stop calling me "Madam," I'm not running a Texas whorehouse!

2010-11-24T17:11:00.000+04:00

The offices of Sand Land are hierarchical places. But it's a very different type of hierarchy than I've encountered elsewhere. Sand Landian hierarchy isn't heavy on organization charts, clearly defined responsibilities or well-delineated chains of command. But what it lacks in organization, it makes up for in subservient groveling and courtly posturing.

I’m accustomed to a work environment where you address your superiors by their first name rather than calling them “sir” or “madam”, you don’t jump to your feet and stand at attention when your boss enters the room and you don’t fetch his/her coffee. Despite the lack of formality, it’s still understood that your boss calls the shots. When they ask you to do something, you do it to the best of your abilities, assuming their instructions aren’t illegal or completely insane.

But the Sand Landian work environment is the antithesis of what I’ve described above – at least in my company. From my first day in the office, everyone has addressed me as “Madam.” In those early days, each time someone called me this, I’d say “Please call me [my first name].” The person’s smile would instantly change to a look of horrific discomfort, as if I’d demanded that they punch me in the face as hard as they could. They’d look up at me with Bambi-eyes as they shook their head and whispered “No, Madam.”

The salutations in emails were even more bizarre. Everyone started emails by saying something like:

“Dear Respected Madam”
“Your Most Esteemed Madam”
“Most cherished Madam”
“Gracious and kind Madam” (a raise-seeker, natch)

And it didn’t stop with the salutation; the bodies of the emails were just as ridiculous:

“I most humbly request to meet with your Esteemed person”
“Your excellent self will be please to know…”
“I WILL THANK U WONDERFUL MADAM EVERYDAY OF MY LIFE” (raise-seeker from above)

Ok, folks. Enough with the “madam” shtick. I’m not running a Texas whorehouse. The term “Madam” makes me feel skeevy and gross – like I should be smoking opium in a red velvet-upholstered boudoir and cutting deals with johns.

A typical day at the office

Weeks of telling people over and over again not to call me madam got me nowhere. So I sent around an email saying something to the effect of “we’re all co-workers and I’d really appreciate if you’d address me by my first name. There’s no need for formalities. I'll be really, really, really happy if you call me [my first name].”

Ten minutes after I sent the email, my phone rang. I answered and the caller said “Hello, Madam. You ask me to call you?”

“Uh, no. I don’t remember doing that,” I replied.

“Oh, Madam, I just got an email from you saying you’d be really happy if I called you.”

I hung up the phone and banged my head against the desk. Mission "A Madam No More" Not Accomplished.

After a few months of continuously telling people how much I hate the term “Madam” only two people in the whole office are addressing me by my first name. A few of the others have started calling me “Ma’am” - which makes me feel 87,000 years old. I’m no spring chicken, but I like to flatter myself by thinking I'm too young to be a “ma’am.”

The vast majority of my co-workers are still calling me “madam” and groveling about me like I’m the Golden Calf. It makes me wonder what their former supervisors have done to them. A couple of the people in the office are so nervous and fidgety whenever I speak with them that I’m always scared they’re going to pee in their pants, even though I’ve never said an unkind word to them.

But the groveling shouldn’t be taken as a sign of sincere devotion to oneself or the company. From my experience, you could regress a variable entitled “Likelihood to steal petty cash/Propensity to download MP3’s all day/Inclination to misappropriate office supplies” against another variable entitled “Prolific usage of Madam and superfluous supporting adjectives” and you’d come up with a statistically significant relationship.

I've been looking and looking for a white lady!

2010-11-23T02:23:00.000+04:00

Since moving to Sand Land, I've learned the hard way that sarcasm and facetious remarks will get you no where. Actually, that's not correct. Sarcasm, sass and snark will get you somewhere - they'll land you in all kinds of misunderstandings and will lead most of Sand Land's residents to believe that you are a danger to yourself and/or the public at large. I'm a snarky smart-ass by nature, so depriving myself of these forms of artistic expression is pretty much equivalent to Monet chucking out his water colors.

But the sarcasm's got to go. At first, the misunderstandings seemed harmless enough. For example, my grandmotherly administrative assistant asked to speak to me in private one day.

"I'm concerned that you're not adjusting well to this place," she whispered.

"Oh, really? Why is that?" I asked, bracing myself for some constructive criticism.

"Well, I just want you to know that nothing, nothing should ever make you want to stab your eyes out with a pen," she explained, referring to a remark I'd made when she showed me the proposed rent increase for one of our employee's accommodation.

I looked at her in stunned silence, trying not to laugh.

"Even if for some reason, you would get some small, small satisfaction from stabbing your eyes - don't you think you'd regret it later?"

I attempted to explain that it was a figure of speech, not something to be taken literally. But I'm pretty sure she left the room convinced I wasn't playing with a full deck...and perhaps she's right.

While these little "lost in translation" moments might be par for the course in Sand Land, I did not expect to pick up a stalker as a result of my sarcastic quips. Nor did I anticipate explaining to my boss that I'm not a pimp.

You see, our office has a small clinic staffed with a GP doctor. A few of the companies near us send their employees for minor ailments and to get sick leave. Sand Land's sick leave policies are fairly strict. Unlike the U.S., you're not allotted a certain number of sick days per year to use as you see fit. If you fall sick here, you've got to go to the doctor and get a permission slip which states that you're to be excused from work for a certain number of days.

At the beginning of the month, this guy from a neighboring company burst into my office in a rage. He'd sprained his wrist and our doctor had given him sick leave for three days. But this was no good, he wanted 10 days of sick leave. The following week, he was supposed to report for duty to a camp in the interior. I failed to understand why this was a problem, so he enlightened me:

"Look," he said, scowling at me as if I was dense. "Eid holidays will fall the week after next and if I get 10 days sick leave, then I can have three weeks of vacation here and not go to the interior."

"Our doctor can't give you 10 days of sick leave if you don't truly need them. Your company may get angry if we're giving people unnecessary sick leave."

"Well, what am I to do then?" he demanded as he picked up one of my business cards.

"Um, go back to work like you're supposed to - or see the doctor again if your wrist is still bothering you after three days?"

He rolled his eyes and stood up without saying another word. When he was halfway to the door, he spun around, a saccharine sweet smile plastered across his face. "Would you like to uhhh....you know, go have coffee with me tonight?"

"I'm sorry, but no." I said as he sat back down.

"Why not?" his face clouding.

"Because I'm married."

"Oh," he chuckled. "That's no problem - wait, do you have kids?"

"No."

"Ok, then. So no problem."

"I think it would be a problem for my husband," I said, starting to sound annoyed.

He clicked his tongue and ran a hand through his hair. Then he looked me in the eye and leveled with me: "I have been looking and looking for some British lady or Russian lady to...you know, have coffee with."

"Well, I'm not going to solve your problem because I'm neither British nor Russian."

"You know what I mean. I'm looking for a white lady. Can you help me?"

"You want me to help you find some white lady to go out with?" I asked, starting to laugh.

"Yeah."

"And any white lady do?" I asked snidely.

"Yeah!"

"Oh. Well then, I'm totally on the case. One white lady coming up," I said, my voice dripping with a mix of sarcasm and contempt. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got to get back to work."

He gave me a big smile and shuffled out of my office.

"Jackass," I muttered under my breath after he left.

I didn't give the exchange anymore thought...till I started receiving a steady stream of text messages from my buddy asking for a status update on the white lady he'd ordered from me. I did the passive aggressive thing and ignored them. But then he started calling 6 - 7 times a day. Thankfully, I'd labeled him as "Creepy Bastard" in my mobile and ignored those, too.

After a couple days, there was silence. But then one day, as I was heading out to a meeting with the company's founder, Creepy Bastard accosted me in the parking lot. What progress had I made in finding him a white lady? When could he expect to get coffee with her? Had I found many ladies for him or only one?

I stared at my bewildered, socially conservative boss and wished I could sink through the pavement and die. So there you have it, an episode of epic fuckwittery from yours truly. I'd seen the writing on the wall. I knew that snide, sarcastic remarks are usually taken at literal, face value over here. But did I do the smart thing and mend my ways? Nope!

The Punishment File Chronicles: No "hot drinks" for you!

2010-11-20T15:06:00.000+04:00

As I've previously mentioned, we're in the middle of a hiring blitz for our new branch. The other day, I asked the HR manager to clear out some of the old file cabinets so we could organize all the applications we've received over the last few days. Before tossing the old files, he brought them to my office so I could make sure we weren't throwing out anything important.

Buried in the pile of old papers was a tattered manila folder ominously labeled "PUNISHMENT." I rubbed my palms together and cackled devilishly. Then I grabbed a fresh cup of coffee and locked my door so I could savor the contents undisturbed.

The Punishment File has proved to be a veritable treasure trove of stories about bad employees gone worse, recreational drug use gone awry and workplace assault. Discovering the Punishment File has badly hampered my productivity over the last few days. You see, the Punishment File is a tease. Her contents coyly hint at stories of epic misbehavior, but the letters of reprimand (penned by a former administrator) are so badly written that you can't quite make out what the hell happened from reading them alone - but there's usually enough detail to jog the old timers' memories.

Today's installment of the Punishment Chronicles features the story of "Skylar." Here's a verbatim transcription of the administrator's investigation of Skylar's infraction:

Dear Skylar,

The management herby needs a full detailed explanation for the misbehavior which you had done at the annual staff meet on 9/1/20XX at the owner's Residence. You had done this misbehavior because the best accounts staff award was not awarded to your brother. You had made bulling, ranged telephone and shouted at the conductors with the local bad words and hitting some employees of our organization.

We need your explanation within 30 minutes in the hand written.

By Order,

The Administrator

Ok, got that? Yeah, me neither. So, here's the straight dope on Skylar in plainer English:

Skylar worked as an administrative assistant, while his brother was a junior accountant. During the annual holiday party at the company owner's house, awards were conferred on high performing employees from various departments. This awards ceremony took place late in the evening, by which time Skylar was shit faced off of screwdrivers [which at our company parties are made of Tang and vodka]. Skylar was confident that his brother would win the best accountant award, but his hopes were dashed when it was given to a more senior member of the department.

Skylar and his (equally drunk) lady friend decided there was a conspiracy against his brother because the brother was away on annual leave. As the best accountant winner accepted his award, Skylar rushed the podium and slapped the award out of his hands. He then grabbed the microphone Kanye-style and launched into a profanity laced diatribe about how his brother had been hosed. As he was shit-faced, this diatribe was given in his mother tongue - which left the majority of party goers baffled as to what was going on.

Upon finishing his speech, Skylar threw his Tang screwdriver in the winner's face and got on his mobile to tell his brother about the perceived slight. The facility manager stepped in and attempted to escort him out of the party. Skylar removed a ball point pen from his pocket and stabbed the man's thigh before escaping to the owner's back garden where he proceeded to rip up petunias and marigolds from the flower bed in retaliation for his brother's slighting.

Eventually, Skylar was overpowered by several men from the office - but not before he'd given out a few black eyes and busted lips.

So, let's get to the punishment. Now what do you think would be an appropriate punishment for such actions? Maybe you'd fire Skylar? Bar him from coming to the office with immediate effect so as to not expose your employees to an unstable lunatic? See to it that he's deported so that you, the sponsor, aren't liable for any bar brawls or assaults he might commit?

Well, if you agreed with any of that, you'd be wrong. Straight from the punishment file, here is the official verdict of the ever articulate administrator:

Dear Skylar,

As a disciplinary action taken by the management you are under suspension from 10/1/20XX (Saturday) to 24/1/20XX (Saturday) a total number of 15 days. During these period you should be in work and salary will not be paid to you for these 15 days.

Also this memo states that you should not drink any hot drinks* in any of our party or in company premises.

If found in any of the occassions stated above or any misbehavior or breech the rules of the company you will be handed over to the police and deported within 24 hours time without excuse.

By Order,

The Administrator

*Hot drinks = A south Asian term for "alcoholic beverages"....not coffee and tea.

Tales from my inbox: You better consider my application favourably

2010-11-20T11:17:00.000+04:00

20 / 11 / 2010.
To,
The CEO / The Director,

Eid Mubarak.......

Dear sir,
I reminding to you which I submitted an application for your established Institution. Do you not remember I applied for any suitable post like Administrative assistant or Business development manager, or accounts man?

I am a man with qualities. I think you better consider my application favourably. Awaiting your positive reply.

Thanks and regards,

Tony Soprano
Phone : XXXXXXXXX
e mail : XXXXXXXXX

The Grinch who stole Eid

2010-11-16T13:04:00.000+04:00

The workers of Sand Land are furious! FUR-I-OUS! Ever since Eid #1 back in September, there's been intense speculation that the government would declare 10 to 14 days of holidays for Eid #2, which falls this week. Even though the Sand Landian workforce normally gets 5 or 6 days for Eid #2, this Eid was supposed to be different...it's gonna be Eid-zilla, the mother lode of all holidays! YESSS!!!!

Eid-zilla was the primary topic of water cooler conversations and smoke breaks for the past two months: Dude, maybe we'll have more days off in November than working days! Book your two week sexcapade to Thailand now while the prices are low - Eid-zilla's a totally sure bet, my cousin's friend's brother works in the Ministry and he says it's in the bag.

But, alas, it was not to be. A few days ago, when the new moon was sighted, the government proclaimed a measly holiday of 3 to 4 days, depending on which sector you work in.

As they straggled into work on Saturday and Sunday before the start of our 4 day holiday, the employees at my company looked more crestfallen than the Whos in Whoville after the Grinch stole Christmas. They were jipped - JIPPED!

Throughout the day, one mournful soul after another walked into my office asking me to grant them a longer holiday (with pay, of course) since they'd fallen victim to those vicious rumors about Eid-zilla and booked a 10 day vacation to Bali/Singapore/Kenya/Thailand. My suggestion that they cover the remainder of their vacation with some of their annual leave (which ranges from 30 - 45 working days per year) was just salt in the wounds.

By 11:00 a.m. on Saturday, a continuous stream of sick leave requests was landing on my desk. Everyone, it seemed, suddenly had the flu/a headache/diarrhea and would have to be out for the remainder of our two-day work week. The few workers who soldiered on bucked one another up by discussing the possibility that more holidays would be declared later in November....Eid-zilla would come to fruition, there would just be a Part 1 and a Part 2. Yeah, that's right. That makes total sense.

Hope, if not reason, remains alive...

My husband's business is failing, give me a raise.

2010-11-14T19:10:00.000+04:00

Have you ever decided to ask your boss for a pay raise? What exactly made you feel that an increase was in order? Perhaps you acquired new skills that provided value to your employer? Maybe you became more proficient at your job and took on added responsibilities? Perhaps you were a long-serving employee whose compensation had fallen behind market rates for similarly qualified people?

You probably thought long and hard about whether you truly deserved a raise. You probably worked extra hard to prove your worth. After deciding that you would in fact ask for a raise, you probably spent some of your free time coming up with a rational justification and/or an enticing value proposition for your employer.

To which the workers of Sand Land say: Suckaaaaaah!

Why in the hell would you put forth any more than the minimum effort at work when you could be smoking in the lobby or texting your friends using the company's mobile phone? Why in god's name would you waste your precious free time coming up with logical talking points about why you should get a raise when you could be watching old episodes of My Super Sweet Sixteen on MTV Arabia?

Live and learn, fools. Next time your paycheck ain't cuttin' it, email (or hand write) one of these handy dandy, oh-so-compelling entreaties:

1. I kindly request a raise because my husband's business is failing. And it is difficult for me to come to work on Thursday, so you please also give me Thursdays off.

2. IF YOU GRANT ME AN INCREMENT TO MY SALARY I WILL PRAY FOR YOU EVERYDAY FOR THE REST OF MY LIFE THAT JESUS CHRIST WILL BLESS YOU.

3. I humbly ask you, Dear Respected Madam, to give me a raise because my wedding expenses are becoming too much. My fiance's family had asked my parents to book a new marriage hall so they can invite more relatives. I require your help to meet the expenses.

4. I moved to an apartment far away and now my transport expenses have increased, so I will be needing additional pay to cover this burden.

5. I am getting married, so you need to increase my basic salary and give me more housing allowance.

6. My wife is expecting our sixth child so I will be needing a salary increment.

7. I need to do my shopping for Eid holiday. I hereby request that you pay me double my salary for November. Government employees are getting two salaries for November, so please give this to me as well because I am a good worker. I also need you to give me all of my November pay by 9 November so I have time to do my shopping.

Please don't make us wear seatbelts, we hate them

2010-11-13T17:25:00.000+04:00

Before I moved to Sand Land, I traveled and studied in many developing countries. I've gotten around Southeast Asia on motorbikes with no helmet. I've taken bus trips in the Himalayas where we were in perpetual danger of plunging down the side of a mountain. Many a time in India, I've dodged cows and elephants and cars driving on the wrong side of the road. But nothing scares me quite like taking to the roads of Sand Land.

In the U.S., we'll hook ourselves up to ventilators and live out our last days in nursing homes - all to stay alive even when our quality of life is abysmal. But the residents of Sand Land are different. Much like the Viking warrior who sought death on the battlefield knowing he'd be welcomed to Valhalla or the kamikaze pilot plunging into the side of an aircraft carrier in hopes of eternal glory, the Sand Landian aspires to go out in a blaze of glory...and by blaze of glory I mean at the helm of their SUV while simultaneously talking on their mobile, balancing an infant on their lap and eating KFC.

This phenomenon is by no means confined to native Sand Landians. Once the expat has passed the road test, they will adapt to their new environment by tail-gating, driving without their headlights, overtaking cars on a hairpin turn and generally using the horn in place of the brakes. It's quite the opposite of what you'd expect because Sand Land's road test is a real bitch. From my informal and non-scientific polls, it seems to take people an average of 8 attempts at the road test before they get a pass.

[Luckily, American drivers are exempted from taking the road test. All I had to do to get my license was read an eye chart while the attending police officer texted on his mobile. Had I been required to take the road test, I have no doubt I'd be on my 13th or 14th attempt considering that when I took my driver's test in the U.S. I couldn't parallel park and I almost ran over a trick-or-treater]

Recently, I was driving to a meeting with a few co-workers and I noticed that none of them put a seat belt on. I said, "Guys, what the hell is wrong with you? Buckle up!" They laughed at my eccentricity and reluctantly snapped their seat beats into place. As we drove to the meeting, we were tail-gated the whole way despite driving 10 km over the speed limit and we passed car after car filled with children jumping around in the back seat, people driving while listening to their iPods and people merging into lanes without looking or indicating...in other words, a typical day on Sand Land's roads.

When I got back to the office, I issued a memo advising everyone to wear a seatbeat at all times while traveling in company transport. Later that day at a staff meeting, I reminded the attendees that I was serious about people buckling up. People looked around in horrified bafflement as if I'd told them all to get naked and slather themselves with peanut butter.

As I got up to leave, one of the ladies raised her hand. "Excuse me, Ms. Adventures," she said pleadingly, her eyes a tad misty. "Please don't make us wear seatbelts. We hate them."

Despite their apparent disgust for seatbelts, neither she nor anyone else present could articulate what exactly was the problem. I guess it just runs counter to the suicidally brave, badass ethos that embodies the drivers of Sand Land.

And below, for your viewing pleasure, are a couple of videos that aptly capture the "here today, gone tomorrow" spirit of the Sand Landian driver:

We hate seatbelts: Exhibit #1

2010-11-13T15:55:00.000+04:00

We hate seatbelts: Exhibit #2

2010-11-13T15:52:00.000+04:00

Tales from the Resume Slush Pile: I will exploit myself for you

2010-11-11T17:04:00.000+04:00

The company I work for is opening a new branch soon and, in preparation, we've put out the cattle call for several dozen vacancies. Today is Day 4 of our 7 day classified ad extravaganza and the resumes, CVs and "biodatas" continue to roll in by the truckload.

One interesting trend I've noticed is that the vast majority of applicants here don't include a cover letter (or any text at all) when emailing their resume. Virtually everyone simply forwards you an email they sent to all the other companies that they've applied to in the course of their career. That people in Sand Land spend much of their work day trolling for new jobs is evidenced by the fact that these emails are longer than the chain letters you'd receive back in 1997 claiming Bill Gates would give everyone on the email string $10,000.

I can hardly blame them. I remember how much I hated customizing and proofreading cover letters when I was hunting for jobs. But as much as tailoring cover letters sucks, I can safely say that, after shifting through the slush pile these last few days, enclosing a decent cover letter is perhaps the most important thing you can do to up your chances of being noticed - especially when you're responding to an ad.

In honor of the 10% of applicants who did bother to produce a cover letter, I give you the following highlights...or lowlights, really. They still deserve a shout out, because at least they had the pride to try. So, I give you excerpts from the cover letters of the few, the proud, the misguided and/or pervy:

If you give me a position in your organization, I will exploit myself for you.

Hi, I would like to teleport my job again to your filed and i believe this must be a good chance for me as i have noticed your add in the newspaper.

I am a much qualified technition and I will work 4 ur esteemed company if u give me gud job.

To rap up my viewpoint, my vision is to empower your imagination so that the impossible becomes nothing - that is to say, the magic of big thinking.

I am an expert in "DELIGHT MANAGEMENT" - this Result's in your customers service experience being enhanced PLUS your employee's focus on servicing your customers will be renewed with passion and zeal.

I believe I am well suited to the position. Kindly do the needful and let me know when I can be cumming for an interivew.

I think you are require any H.R. man or Assistant or Business Development Manager. Suppose these veccancies are still veccant, then pleace consider my application for the same post.

I didn't steal the money, I took it

2010-11-10T17:57:00.000+04:00

When Sand Land's expat workers leave the salt mines and get together for drinks, it generally takes less than 14 seconds for the conversation to turn to the weird and wacky happenings in our places of business. Besides finding most of these stories genuinely hilarious, I also find them comforting because they confirm that Sand Land is a deeply weird place to work and you're not alone, insane or completely incompetent...

The following comes courtesy of the Managing Director at a local hospital:

I got a call from the night-shift administrator at 6:00 a.m. this morning. He was in a complete panic because the cash collection was $675.00 less than the automated report generated by our billing software. "Bobby", our night cashier had left at some point during his shift without clocking out and without turning over his collection for verification.

So we called Bobby. Silly me, I thought I'd hear some vehement denial, but he was quite up front.

"I didn't steal the money, sir," Bobby explained patiently over the phone. "I took it."

"Well, Bobby. I don't see how it isn't theft - you walked out of the hospital with $675.00 that didn't belong to you," the Managing Director countered.

"Look, sir. I am a mullah and I am trying to collect enough money to build a house for my family. I cannot take a loan from the bank because it is haram*."

"I understand you want to build a house, Bobby. But you can't steal money from your employer to do it."

"Stop saying I stole it. I just took it. Since you have asked for it, I'll bring the money back to you tomorrow."

"Please do, Bobby," said the Managing Director. "And please understand that you can't "take" money from us anymore. If you do, we'll have to call the police and file a complaint."

"Here is what I suggest, sir. I will only take money if I need it for something important - like my house. But if you ask me to return the money, I will bring it back the following day, inshallah**."

* haram = verboten! according to the rules of Islam.

** inshallah = "if God wills it" In the work place, inshallah is commonly used as wiggle room when someone doesn't have any intention in hell of doing something. For example: "I know the deadline for these reports is tomorrow, and I'll have them done on-time, inshallah."

I Study About Hoomin Resource, Not HR!

2010-11-09T00:05:00.000+04:00

Like most countries in the region, Sand Land requires private sector companies to hire a certain number of nationals. Cultivating a skilled, productive citizenry is a laudable goal. Let's face it, the oil isn't going to last forever and people here have grown accustomed to a cushy lifestyle.

The "Sand Landization" policy dictates that: (1) your company's payroll consist of a certain percentage of Sand Landians, and (2) you can hire only Sand Landians for certain positions (like receptionists, drivers and cashiers). Over the past few years, many of the academically suspect for-profit "universities" have started offering "diplomas" in fields like HR, marketing and accounting.

As you might expect, these operations are out to make a buck and don't want to develop a reputation for failing poor students - if the kids think you're hard, they might plunk down their tuition money at one of your competitors. But these institutions also need to demonstrate to would-be ~~customers~~ students that professional glory and riches await at the end of a course of study that, in reality, makes Sally Struthers' home study course on TV/VCR repair look like a neurologically taxing endeavor. Enter the immigration department - which is now making it harder to hire foreign workers with backgrounds in HR, marketing and accounting.

When my long-serving HR manager moved back to India a few months ago, the immigration authorities predictably refused to re-issue her visa so I could hire another expat. Not to worry, I was told, there are many, many well qualified Sand Landians in need of gainful employment.

So I called the leading local institution of higher learning and asked them about recruiting alumni and before long, I found myself interviewing "Jim", who had graduated near the top of his class. The following is a faithful transcription of our interview:

Me: So Jim, congratulations on completing your HR degree.

Jim (furrowing brows, jerking head back indignantly): I study about hoomin resource, not this HR!

Me (looking from side to side): Um, aren't HR and human resources the same thing...you know, "H" for human, "R" for -

Jim (shaking head vehemently): No! Hoomin resource and HR are different. I study hoomin resource, not this HR. (flicks hand dismissively)

Me: Okaaay, I see. So tell me, what is human resources to you?

Jim: It's working in an office, typing in the computer, talking on the phone.

Me: I suppose you're right. Most HR people I've known have done those sorts of things in the course of a normal day. So Jim, what made you want to work in human resources."

Jim (suavely raising one eye brow and shrugging shoulders): To make the kesh.

Me (hoping my phone will ring): Yup, human resources is without a doubt one of the higher paying corporate disciplines.

Tales from the Resume Slush Pile: Insanely Ambitious Objective Statement = Craptastic Candidate

2010-11-07T21:16:00.000+04:00

In preparation for the opening of a new branch, we recently put out the cattle call for a host of new employees. Today was Day #1 of a 7-day classified ad extravaganza in the local newspapers. By 8:00 a.m. my inbox was awash with a veritable tsunami of badly formatted, grammatically unintelligible single page upload .jpg attachments. (To give you an idea of just how shallow the talent pool can be, I get hopeful when I see that someone's attached a resume in MS Word or PDF format.)

As I culled through the deluge of resumes, I started feeling rather inadequate as I read one ballsy, shooting-for-the-moon objective statement after the other. I consider myself an ambitious, Type A kinda gal. But never was I so daring as to claim that my career objective was to "alleviate suffering humanity" or "make myself useful to mankind."

Now, if I'd just arrived in Sand Land, I might be starry eyed enough to think that behind every hard charging objective statement there was an equally impressive candidate....but I'm older now and a bit jaded. I now know that it's pretty much guaranteed these candidates are the inverse of their objective statement. So without further ado, here are today's awesomely bad objective statements....drumroll please...(grammar/punctuation/random capitalization's are the candidates' own):

1. "I want to work in an Extreme company"

Dude, are you sure you wanna settle for basic, garden variety "Extreme" when you could go for a MAXXXTREME company?

2. "To get an appropriate, responsible position in a professional & growing organization which offer’s mettlesome and challenging assignments supplementing a prolific work environment for achieving greater heights of glory for personal and professional."

wooooo.... you want mettlesome assignments and greater heights of glory...all I want is my first cup of coffee

3. "To dedicate my sincere service to suffering humanity and to update my knowledge level for better."

4. "capable of adapting to any given environment of the latest technologies in the professional area"

5. "Targeting towards remarkable achievements in the field of XXXXXXX, using my Strengths, Interpersonal Skills, & Team Effort."

6. "To achieve a senior position in the field of XXXXXXX and to do research and ensure my usefulness of to mankind."

After reading these, you might be under the impression that I'm working at "Superheroes, Inc." or "Kick Ass n' Take Names Secret Agents, LLC"...alas, you'd be wrong.