Write me:
skot AT izzlepfaff DOT com

Tuesday, 09 November
The Big Weep

Since my promotion earlier this year at the office from Easily Ignored Functionary to Ineffectual Supervisory Flailer, I've been very cautious about writing of the Job. I guess part of me is still waiting for the part where they reveal I've been on a reality show for months now: FOX'S Fake Promotions: When Dumb People Think They've Fallen Up. But I suppose if I am cautious, I can reveal certain tales.

Friday last started out innocuously enough--I sat wearily in my office for a half hour in the morning, drinking coffee, checking emails--something about cancer, I guess--and otherwise diddling around.

Then a coworker appeared at my door. She was visibly agitated, shaking really, and clearly very close to tears. I'll stop here to mention quickly that this person is not one of my supervisees, but rather someone whom earlier in the week we--that is, "my team," a phrase which makes me think of cackling FOX execs-- had helped out with on a project. The woman then began stammering out what was apparently an apology for dragging "my team" into things and had been dressed down by someone else in the office and she felt horrible and so forth and then she was crying but good.

As a man, my first reaction was predictable: How can I get this crying woman out of my office? Because I am, as you all know, a real hero. I sprang into action, saying, "Gosh, hold on one second!" and then swiftly took out my whisky bottle and poured us each a shot. "Okay, continue!" I commanded, as she nervelessly accepted the whiskey. She looked uncertain, and my bowels were churning feverishly; I audibly farted, rapidly, three times in succession, causing her to start in her chair. "Riverboats," I calmly explained, and she stared nervously out the window, presumably looking for a river, but finding only I-5.

A short while later, after some more reassurances on my part that I bore her no ill will, she left the office, seeming somewhat comforted. And I didn't bear her any ill will. I hardly knew what the fuck she was talking about. This, you should note, is a hallmark of my Management Style.

Then later, me still in my office, sweet whiskey stowed back in my desk, another vision of misery appeared at my door. This person--also NOT ONE OF MY SUPERVISEES--stood before me asking if we could talk. She was, oh yes, totally freaked out and on the verge of tears. This was the woman who allegedly dressed down the previous woman, and she needed to apologize to me for dragging me into this whole mess, and more horribly, explain every little thing that happened--which as I just mentioned, violates everything I believe in when it comes to management.

"Please don't tell me anything!" I begged, "I prefer to not understand!" She was having none of it, though, so again I hauled out the whiskey and farted mournfully, drawing more unwelcome stares. This was getting out of hand, so I shifted tactics. "You should get your guts looked at," I said with some concern. "You sound like an old bagpipe." Her eyes widened. "I didn't do that! You did!" she shrieked shrilly. I shot back confidently, "You must be an insane person. I have the asshole of a ninja." I leaned forward. "Probably related to your drinking problem," I intoned, and took her whiskey away. She stood up stiffly and tottered out the door uncertainly, and I called after her, "I'm glad we talked!"

In truth, I was anything but confident. Every fresh encounter with distressed coworkers threatened my equilibrium, and I needed them to stop. So I called R. who is actually the two coworkers' supervisor. She picked right up. "R.!" I howled, "What the fuck is going on? My office keeps getting invaded by crying women! And not incidentally, they have some pretty awful gastrointestinal problems!" There was a moment's silence as R. digested this; I assumed she was extracting a whiskey bottle from her desk drawer.

"They're crying, you say?" she asked.

"Yes!" I cried. "And farting!"

"Jesus, what did you do to them?"

I stared in horror at the phone receiver. What was she implying? I didn't know what to say. So I took a leap of faith; I told the truth.

"R. I have no idea what the fuck they're talking about. I just sat here like a moron. I think I might have psychologically damaged one of them with certain accusations about flatulence."

There was a pause, and when R. spoke, she sounded cheerful.

"You're learning," she said. "I'm coming over to your office to talk."

I felt clammy for a moment. "If you come over here and cry at me," I told her, "I'm going to chop off your feet and feed them to mental patients."

She laughed. "Are you kidding? I'm bringing over whiskey. It'll look like we're having a serious meeting, so nobody will bother us, but really, we're just gonna get loaded."

I guess I'm starting to get the hang of this after all.

Note: Comments are closed on old entries.


Fuck. I never get promoted. Now I understand the rules. Pay less attention, drink more whiskey, fart more often.

I'll put it on a sign and hang it in my cube.

Comment number: 005256   Posted by: i, squub on November 9, 2004 05:27 AM from IP:

With posts like that, I am beginning to cheer up. Go you good ratbag, you..

Comment number: 005257   Posted by: David Tiley on November 9, 2004 06:11 PM from IP:

Thank you. I needed just about 87 fart jokes to lift me out of this funk, and you pushed it over the top.

Comment number: 005258   Posted by: mournful farter on November 10, 2004 12:40 AM from IP:

man, MY boss never pulls out whiskey OR farts.

Comment number: 005259   Posted by: julie on November 10, 2004 05:55 AM from IP:

Nothing makes me beam more effulgently than a volley of fart jokes. I salute you, sir.

Comment number: 005260   Posted by: stavrosthewonderchicken on November 15, 2004 04:40 PM from IP:

Post a comment