The Door-to-Door Job Hunt

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!!

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

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?"

(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!"

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!

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

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)