Tuesday, December 28, 2010

Excel Spearhead Sheets

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."

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.

Monday, December 20, 2010

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

(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.

Friday, December 17, 2010

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

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...

Sunday, December 12, 2010

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

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???


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.

Tuesday, December 7, 2010

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

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:

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.

Friday, December 3, 2010

Tales from the Resume Slush Pile: The Skillionaires

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? :)