skot AT izzlepfaff DOT com
Wednesday, 11 August
So Very Special
Since I took last Friday off to not do the show that evening, I naturally had a lot to do this week at work. With this in mind, I scampered into the office on Monday and promptly did nothing. Come on! Monday. Please. Nobody does anything on Monday. I confirmed this by taking a quick tour of the office. Of the four people who actually showed up, three were betting on ferret legging, and the other one was, horribly, actually doing work. But she's the stereotypical office Type A, and presumably does work while sleeping. You know the type. "I have color documents for everyone . . . thank God I have a laser printer next to my bed. Goodness, I was up until midnight!" The rest of the staff shifts uncomfortably as they stare at the brightly colored eight-page document, remembering that at midnight last, they were drinking Long Island iced teas and placing bets on illicit potbelly pig racing.
Mondays are, then, worthless, and as a result, horribly long, because you try vainly to fill your day with hopeless webclicking and pushing shit around on your desk. You really drink the shit out of your coffee, including tilting your head back 90+ degrees and tapping the bottom of your cup, encouraging the silt to run down your throat. You idly fuck with your stapler, seeing how much pressure your finger can take before you break skin. Mondays are when you create a new email folder called "SO DUMB" that is just for the office moron, who emails A LOT, but hopefully you also set a reminder for the end of the day to prompt you to rename "SO DUMB" to "SPECIAL PROJECTS" before you leave, just in case the guy makes a surprise appearance and sees it later. This awful person can appear at any time to tell you about last night's turkey recipe, after all. You don't want him to see "SO DUMB" and start asking questions. That would be awkward. You instead want him to see "SPECIAL PROJECTS," which is so depressing that even Captain Delicious Turkey will want to edge away nervously.
"Special Projects," you see, is a phrase that carries its own terrible freight. "Special Projects" is simply shorthand for "Mind-eating crap that nobody else wants to do." When I was promoted to
Another "Special Project" came my way today, forcing me to figure out which miserable bastard I was going to have to unload it on, since I knew it wouldn't be me. I don't know. I figure it can wait until next Monday.
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you bet on illicit potbelly pig racing? Wow.
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