As I shambled into the office today--O happy Monday--I was called into the Bosslady's office. Uh oh, I thought, she's going to shiv me. It's my baseline reaction, always anticipating some violent rebuke to whatever fresh example of shining incompetence I have demonstrated. I waited for her to brandish a sharpened toothbrush, because, like all sensible people, I think of my workplace as basically jail.

But she stared at me briefly, and I could tell that she was savoring the moment, so I knew that whatever awful payload she was delivering was going to be only verbal. I was right. She said: "Well, you know next week is the group meeting." I did. This is the biennial traveling horror show that consists of three-quarters of the office packing up for some alien terrain to attend deathless, soul-eating meetings about cancer. This time it's in New Orleans, but I'm on the home team for this one, so I get to wait breathlessly for exotic fucking Kansas City in October. "Sure," I replied. "Well," she said, twinkling, "believe it or not, you're the senior staff who's staying home. You're going to be in charge next week."

This was so unbelievably horrifying to hear, I did the only logical thing, and screamed like a boiled mink. "WHAT?" I screeched. "That's the stupidest fucking thing I've ever heard!" (The Bosslady--well, the entire office--is by now totally inured to my penchant for enthusiastic profanity. I was once disciplined--years ago--for screaming "fuck" so loud that it reached the office of the Biggest Cheese. Now nobody blinks unless I uncork something really horrific, like "cooze-bruise" or "piss demon.")

The Bosslady, anyway, agreed with my assessment. "Yeah, it's pretty funny. But the reality is, out of the people who are staying home, you have seniority. Don't worry too much. We've also got [Former Bosslady, now on an ancillary project] to cover your back. If you get into hot water, ask Former Bosslady." This was truly disastrous. A couple years ago, I wrote a fake AP story about Former Bosslady being arrested in Mexico due to prodigious margarita intake--something about jacking ambulances and running amuck--and distributed it to our staff, resulting in much hilarity and Former Bosslady's avowed future vengeance. I figured this was coming back on me.

Indeed. I shall have to watch my ass. My first strategy: I must be as unhelpful as humanly possible, discouraging any and all later requests for help. I am aided in this endeavor by my already-existing reputation around the office as an unhinged, snarling misanthrope. I will bolster these perceptions by basically responding to any desperate pleas for advice as if I were the Human Magic 8-Ball of Work Advice.

"Skot! I have a CRA who is having a real problem registering a patient!"

"ASK AGAIN LATER."

"What? Seriously, she's got someone who's waiting to be randomized to treatment. Can you help me out?"

"OUTLOOK NOT GOOD."

"Come on. I don't have time for this. Should I ask Former Bosslady or what?"

"ASK AGAIN LATER."

"You are a gigantic asshole. Is it going to be like this all week?"

"ALL SIGNS POINT TO YES."