Ah, Friday. Here at work, the office is abuzz with anything other than work. I just took a leisurely stroll around to casually violate people's privacy. This is a report on my suck-ass goldbricking coworkers who make me feel better about my own flagrant nonwork. Names have been changed to mean-spirited denigrations to protect their privacy and to amuse me.

Bosslady: Eating candy, staring at pictures of cute dogs on the net. Okay.

Nearly Life-Sized Administrative Girl and Flailing New Guy: Improbably, they are having a lively discussion about square roots. I'm not kidding. This creeps me the fuck out, so I hurry along before I can hear more.

She Who Is Why We Cannot Cure Cancer: The less said here the better. She and Caftan Guy (see earlier entry) fight a pitched battle on some nameless astral plane for possession of the One True Tarnished Tin Crown of Celestial Idiocy. Anyway, she's doing a crossword puzzle on the web. Well, sort of. She has two entries completed, and looks haggard from the effort.

Former Bosslady: Actually working. This is intolerable. So I perform one of my favorite office stunts and pretend to pass out in her office. I simply walk in and then roll my eyes up in my head and collapse bonelessly on the floor. She giggles, but ignores me, as she's seen this trick before. I lie there for two whole fucking minutes waiting for a better reaction, which I finally get from Hippie Throwback Gal, who is passing by. "Is Skot okay?" she asks Former Bosslady. "He's an asshole," replies FB.

Hippie Throwback Gal: When not busy inquiring about my medical condition with what I must say was a rather mild unconcern, HTG was visiting Former Bosslady to ask if she had seen some "adorable" dog pictures on the net. Yes, the same site that Bosslady was looking at. I feel like there is invisible machinery all around.

Sleepy Gay Fellow: I admire people who don't even pretend to work. His monitor is off and his feet are on his desk; this is the defining Jesus Christ Pose of the modern office worker. He's on the phone with a friend; this is the only snippet of conversation I heard: " . . . just get plowed tonight . . . "

Caftan Guy: Depressingly, but totally unsurprisingly, not at his desk. So, of course, not working, for which cancer patients everywhere should breathe a prayer of thanks. He is almost certainly in the bathroom loudly delivering a fresh payload of gut-bombs. I shudder, and hurry past his cubicle, feeling like a kid walking past Crazy Mrs. MacNutter's haunted mansion.

Tall Girl Who Likes Horses, And That Is My Sum Total Knowledge of Her: Leaving. Me: "Have a good weekend, Jenny!" Her: "Jeannie." Well done, Skot.

Nice Girl Whose Last Name Has An Onomatopoeic Ring Not Unlike A Rubber Boot Sinking Into A Mudbank: She's instant messengering mash notes to someone (I see the phrases "thats so hot" and "mmm"), hopefully her husband of one month. If so, Awwwwwww! If not, Ewwwwwww.

Bosslady of Other People: Staring at an email and idly fingering a brightly-colored frog toy. I briefly think, "I work with a bunch of goddamn nutfucks!" but then recall that I enjoy pretending to faint in other peoples' offices. Move on.

Woman Reminiscent of Elsa Lanchester: Internet dogs. What the fuck? Flee.

Caftan Guy update! He's back at his desk. Whoop, to get his coat. No, he's leaving. I guess the bathroom has been sufficiently napalmed. He flashes me a peace sign and I bare my canines.

Girl Who Is Constructed of Only Elbows: Just returning from getting coffee, and I almost run into her. She backs up, waving her elbows and apologizing. I pass by, and she returns to her cubicle and sits down on her elbows, vibrating in some vague way. She kills me.

Newish Woman: Actually working. She's new, and wants to make a good impression. She'll learn the ropes.

Me: Typing up this crap. Learned the ropes long ago. Clearly: not working. Happy Friday.