The Acerbic Tongue

Pie Charts

2010-09-30T08:01:00.000-07:00

I just received a Powerpoint presentation for a meeting to discuss a project status (of COURSE the meeting is scheduled for 1 hour). As I was clicking through the slides, desperately searching for some kind of point, I was relieved to see that some thoughtful soul had included a pie chart to illustrate a measure at 100%. Yes. You read that correctly. There was time and effort put into the point of illustrating the concept of "all".

Now I do work with some people who are routinely thwarted by the concept of 'Reply All'. And some of these same people are completely unable to cancel a meeting invitation without sending out 3 modified invitations and then finally just sending out an email to ask everyone to delete the original meeting invite from their calendars. But at the same time, I've met cats who didn't seem to have any difficulty at all with the idea of "all". As in, "I'm going to yack up ALL of my dinner onto your living room carpet."

I'm happy to report, however, that the graph was well-received by the group. At least I -think- those were noises of approval. Sometimes it's hard to hear over the cacophony of ill-conceived projects mutating into lumbering, career-devouring horrors.

An Hour??

2010-04-27T14:16:00.000-07:00

Is there any other place, other than the workplace, where the default time allotted for a topic is one hour? I mean, when all parties are sober at least? What business topic is so utterly pressing that two or more people expect to need an hour to talk through it? Surely it's something complex, with huge market and/or financial implications!! I mean, think about it! An HOUR!! If anyone outside of your workplace approached you and asked for an hour of your time to discuss something I guarantee you:

A) They're trying to sell you something that will require a bank loan
B) They're paid by the hour

And/Or

C) At some point the authorities are going to be involved

Even better is when one of these hour-long clusterfcks has no real goal to speak of.

2:00 - 3:00 -Meeting to Review and Discuss XYZ Document/Report/Presentation

A meeting with that kind of a subject should be grounds for -immediate- termination and a public stoning. Even better is when the document is not disclosed prior to the meeting! THEN, it's like the world's shittiest Christmas EVER. Just a bunch of lunatics that you wouldn't voluntarily interact with, sitting around in a circle and watching one another "review" a document that reads like an instruction manual for ready-to-assemble furniture. Good job, Beaker! I enjoy your utter disregard of complete sentences or punctuation, and your avoidance of the spell-check feature is so brazen that I fear I may swoon. Momus would be so proud!

I've also learned, through trial-and-error, that any requests for edits, recommendations, or feedback are never sincere. Especially not candid feedback like "have you ever considered a career path that doesn't involve you subjecting others to your idea of communication, you talentless fck?"

Accident-Free Cake

2009-07-30T10:10:00.000-07:00

I went down to the work cafeteria for lunch today and they had a sheet cake down there celebrating their 800th accident free day. This cake was free for anyone to take, and there was ONE piece left. As I watched in fascination, 3 different people approached the "last" piece of cake, cut it in half, and then scuttled off with the other half like some kind of sugar-deprived crayfish. So at that point is was nothing more than about 3 frosted cake molecules, but NOBODY took that last piece, dammit. I had a primal urge to throw the last piece of cake on the floor and pray that someone slipped in the frosting. "What happened to you?" "I broke my leg when I slipped and fell in the frosting of the accident-free celebration cake".

I would have baked them a "greatest victim of comic irony EVER" cake.

I also realized something else today - I DO know what despair smells like. Incidentally, it smells just like a man in his mid 40's who has just showered himself in Axe body spray in order to speak to the "eye candy" down on the second floor, apparently in the hopes that the fumes emanating off from his person will render her unable to detect what a total and overwhelming douche he really is as he continues to engage in behavior that would normally be considered "crude", even for a sailor.

I Drove Here for THIS?

2009-07-10T15:04:00.000-07:00

Some time in November or December of last year, the stereo in my car developed an exciting new feature in which any component relating to playing CD's ceased to function. Instead, if I touched ANY of the buttons that pertained to the playing (or ejecting) of CDs, the stereo would respond with a barrage of angry clicks like some kind of deranged electronic beetle. After putting up with nothing but broadcast radio for over half a year, I finally called the dealer and made an appointment to get it fixed. At the time that I made the appointment, I told the person at the dealership that my stereo would neither play nor eject my CDs. They told me at that time "we'll take a look at it, but depending on what we find we may need to just order a new stereo. We don't keep those in stock." Fine, this makes sense.

SOOOO, fast forward to this morning when I lumber out of my house at the buttcrack of dawn to drive the 20 miles to the dealership in morning rush hour traffic. At least I could listen to my CDs while I . . . ohhh, wait. So, I pulled into the garage with the intention of working on my laptop in the waiting room while a technician looked at my car, attempted to fix the stereo with a coat hanger, and then provided me with an estimate as to how much a new one would cost (a stereo, not a coat hanger). So imagine my DELIGHT when the person I checked in with took my keys, spent approximately 15 seconds sitting in my car, and then proceeded to call the parts department to get a price on a new stereo. He explained to me "we don't even attempt to fix stereos. We just order a new or refurbished one."

W. T. F? I was perplexed, so I asked the silly question. "If you don't fix stereos, then why did someone have me make an appointment to bring my car down here?" Apparently I wasn't able to fully mask the hostility in my voice, as this man backed up a step before replying "well, so we could verify what the problem was."

OK, I will admit, I have girl parts. And I realize that this automatically excludes me from being able to comprehend the "tuck rule" in the NFL or to ever hope to write my name in yellow snow. HOWEVER, somehow I feel that I would have been able to scrape together enough spatial perception to not only LOCATE and DEPRESS the "eject" button on the stereo, but also to actually ascertain whether or not the CD was ejected from the device. I could have even probably called in a favor from a friend and had them verify that I was indeed pressing the correct button and that I had not recently suffered an extreme cranial injury.

First Day with the New Legs?

2009-06-03T07:44:00.000-07:00

So the other day I come home from work early, and the trash can was at the end of the driveway. This is not unusual, as just that morning I had hauled it out to the curb for garbage pickup. Since my car parks in the can, and the trash collector had already been through, I thought I would be nice and drag it up to the house for the hubby. That right there should have been a guarantee that things would go smoothly.

I parked my car at the end of our driveway and towed the green can into the garage, shoving it up against the wall where it belonged. Heading back down the driveway to my car, I could hear the neighbor's wiener dog (Kirby, the mouth with legs) alerting everyone in a 6-block radius that he REALLY should be punted over the fence like a football. I turned my head and yelled at him over my shoulder, which was also my cue to begin an acrobatic performance that can only be described as "hippo, only less elegant". SOMEHOW, over the past 30+ years of my life, I had not yet mastered the art of walking and talking. My right foot landed on a small stick on our pavement driveway, and I went down like a walrus on rollerblades. The worst part was when I suddenly realized "I am going to catch myself with my face!"

I am not a graceful person by any means. I regularly run into the counter in our kitchen with my hips, leaving me to lament just HOW many axe handles across must my azz be for me to not even be able to successfully navigate within 4 feet of walking space without knocking into something. However, that generally happens within the privacy of my own home. As my face hurtled toward the front bumper of my car with frightening velocity, I realized that I was out on a public street and that this was really going to hurt.

My forehead narrowly missed the car and instead hit the pavement, while at the same time I emitted a noise similar to what I would anticipate a constipated buffalo sounds like. After a stunned silence of about 2 seconds (during which our neighbors' bastrd mutt continued to bay like a hound of H3ll), I gingerly rolled to my side and checked to see whether I could see the bones in my hands. Finding no blood there, I pulled off my glasses which had been mashed onto my face by the impact, peering through the lens to see a perfect impression left by the oil on my forehead. I looked around for my dignity unsuccessfully, and then decided that I would be better off trying to find THAT in the house. Cursing LOUDLY to myself, I pushed myself to my feet and climbed into my car. Pulling it into the garage, I shut both garage doors behind me and went in to inspect the damage.

As it turns out, the only place where I actually broke the skin was the top of my "index" toe on my right foot (I was wearing sandals). I caught most of my weight (no small feat) on my right knee, scraping it up a little bit but not even tearing a hole in my khakis. I also managed to shave off the top of the toe on my brand new sandals, scrape up my right forearm, mildly sprain my pinky finger, and of course scrape my forehead. Once I had triaged my injuries, I immediately set about the task of berating myself in my best outside voice. "What the fck?? Who the fck falls down on dry pavement and catches themself with their face?? Honestly! How fcking retarded are you to fall down like that? And how the fck did you hit your face?"

Finally realizing that this was, at the very least, comic gold, I finally finished my barrage of self-profanity and picked up the phone. This was a story worth sharing! I ended up calling both my husband and my parents, and also as an afterthought sent an instant message to my boss just in case I came into the office with a black eye the next day.

The AXE Effect

2009-05-07T08:54:00.000-07:00

Cox [2:19 PM]:Does Lowflow know we're not gay?

milly [2:20 PM]:You act as though this is some kind of unambiguous fact.

Cox [2:20 PM]:It better be....Cox [2:20 PM]:We (both SS and I) were contacted by Lowflow ...

milly [2:21 PM]:*listening*

Cox [2:21 PM]:...to vote for Steve Wozniak on "Dancing With The Stars" this evening

milly [2:21 PM]:*snickers*

Cox [2:22 PM]:I have an entire episode of 24 that I am watching during that time

milly [2:22 PM]:I shouldn't laugh, but I sat through the most painful handoff with him earlier today, so I'm glad someone else is being annoyed
milly [2:23 PM]:OMG, now they're discussing it here
milly [2:23 PM]:Out loud

Cox [2:23 PM]:Fantastic.
Cox [2:23 PM]:HA HA!

milly [2:23 PM]:Want me to bridge you in? You can listen

Cox [2:23 PM]:YesCox [2:23 PM]:Phone #

milly [2:23 PM]:Some day I should just dial you in and leave my phone on speaker
milly [2:24 PM]:So you can listen to the banter that happens here

Cox [2:24 PM]:lol!

milly [2:24 PM]:However, for the full effect, you should get a slab of bacon, steep it in Axe Body Spray for 2 days, and put it on a potpouri warmer at your desk

Cox [2:25 PM]:That's horrible

milly [2:25 PM]:Smells like prom, being held at the Oscar Meyer farms

Cox [2:25 PM]:Nice visual and olfactory reference though - We are getting the full effect

milly [2:25 PM]:I'm glad to hear it
milly [2:26 PM]:You really have to live the experience to understand just how out of control it can be here some days
milly [2:26 PM]:My eyes were running for the first 2 hours after Buzzcut (old boss) arrived
milly [2:27 PM]:Like the Enola Gay flew over, filled with Axe
milly [2:27 PM]:And just blasted the place

Cox [2:27 PM]:Didn't get the Axe effect?

milly [2:27 PM]:I hope that the effect was seeing me in my skivvies. And I pray that what has been seen, cannot be unseen
milly [2:28 PM]:And if the "Axe Effect" was the one with the tiny little man in his banana hammock, I'll pass
milly [2:28 PM]:I ran into the kitchen for a butter knife to gouge out my eyes after seeing that little runt

Cox [2:28 PM]:Dude...You are giving me visual reference overload here
Cox [2:29 PM]:You gotta STOP!!

milly [2:29 PM]:OK, fine. Puppies and kittens, puppies and kittens

Cox [2:31 PM]:You got airplanes from WWII, banana hammocks, skivies, a scene from a slasher flick...c'mon give me a break

milly [2:33 PM]:Amateur
milly [2:33 PM]:Spend a day in my head, once.

Moving Day

2009-05-07T08:45:00.000-07:00

OMG, we moved into a new area. The old, evil milly is very alive and very well. Someone printed out a 1,200 page document on the printer. (YES, I AM FREAKIN SERIOUS!!!!) And at my very core, I wanted to take the stack of papers, THROW them into the air, and then shuffle them back together and leave them on top of the printer. It would have been PRICELESS!! WHAT does one do with a 1,200 page document?? Line the bottoms of all of the parrot cages at the MN Zoo?????

Also, within easy earshot are “Racecar” and “Lowflow”. OMG, I’m going to be found, broken, under a window ledge outside of this building. Racecar feels that I need to meet EVERYONE who I may EVER talk to, in person. And he has made it his life’s mission to make sure that happens. Just today I had the pleasure of meeting yet another person who I didn’t need to shake hands with (cold, very wet hands. It was like fondling a 5-headed eel). And this guy had the same look on his face – why am I being introduced to this person? But Racecar was just as happy as a pig in poo and was wagging his curly little tail in glee. Enter Lowflow. Lowflow was an only-child, and it is PAINFULLY obvious. He has one topic of conversation that he has decided is interesting – himself. And as he is CLEARLY an expert on previously mentioned topic, he feels the need to share with the rest of us. Ad nauseum. It's worse than John Madden's boycrush on Brett Favre. If I don’t hear about his last job, his Roomba, and Star Trek at LEAST 4 times a day, then I know he’s out of the office. And he is also oblivious to the rules of conversation – if the person you are speaking to has turned their back to you and is moving away from you like a terrified rabbit, the conversation should be considered over. This guy had been edging away for upwards of 10 minutes, trying to escape the barrage of comments beginning with “me” and “I”. So once eel-hands finally escaped, Lowflow and Racecar look at one another. And their eyes meet. And OH MY GOD THEY START TALKING TO ONE ANOTHER!!!! Work hubby and I immediately raced out into the parking lot to have a smoke. (He has filtered nicotine, and I get mine second-hand. To heighten the effect, today we sat in his car. The weather is possibly colder than my heart. Possibly. The jury is still out)

That Looks Good

2008-12-09T11:10:00.000-08:00

I learned something about myself today. I can't stand having someone stop by my desk and make a visual assessment of my lunch. Lowflow stopped by, captivated by the sight of my cafeteria fare. "Oh, that looks nice!" he gushed about my French Dip and onion rings. Thank you, you bacon-eating glutton. I've now been validated in my cafeteria selection - may I eat in peace?? Mind you, this is the same person who ON A DAILY BASIS gags on their lunch because they are eating it too fast. I'm not sure that I have to tell you just how repulsive it is to attempt to eat while someone 5 feet away is dry-heaving over their trash can.

Honestly, the obsession about food in this office is disturbing. Not a day goes by that I don't hear yet ANOTHER of LowFlow's disgusting tales of quantitative eating. You have never truly been charmed until you have listened to another person tell you that they have eaten so much pork that they're "moisturizing their skin from the inside out." It puts the lotion in the basket.

Todd the Cyst

2008-11-21T06:56:00.000-08:00

I have a confession. At one time in my life, I had a cyst on my azz named "Todd". It all began with some swelling next to my tailbone, which soon blossomed into some kind of H3llish lump the size of a grape along side my butcrack. Driving into work one morning, the pain got to be too much and I decided to go and see a doctor. It was also a good excuse to get out of the office for a few hours.

I don't have a steady relationship with any one doctor - I've never seen the point. It's not like they're going to remember me anyway. So I've always been kind of a clinical trollop, traipsing through doctor offices all over the midwest. This time was no different - I carefully selected my physician by Googling the closest clinic and calling for an appointment. Thankfully, I was able to get in right away, and within 45 minutes I was showing my lily white azz to a total stranger.

After thoughtfully taking a 2-second glance at my crack, the Doctor concluded that I had a pilonidal cyst (which he proudly announced to be "a textbook example", as if this were something that I had carefully cultivated like some kind of azzhole cyst topiary). He explained that the cysts are caused when a bed of hair folicles becomes ingrown and infected and they are fairly common in men with hairy azzes. Thanks, Doc, you fcking hearless pr1ck. I appreciate you throwing that in there for my plummeting self esteem.

Unfortunately, while he we very adept at crushing my feelings of self-worth, this particuar physician was deficient in actually being able to practice useful medicine. So he bundled up both my cyst and I and sent us on to a specialist about 20 minutes away. And here's where it starts to get weird.

All my life, I've technically been a female. This means that the concept of a procto table has never even entered into the realm of possibilities. So I innocently walked into this office, not suspecting a thing, even when the Doctor had me kneel next to the examining table instead of laying on it like I was used to. The men reading this are already familiar with what I'm going to explain next. Ladies, I am not fcking kidding you here, this particular type of table pivots forward and suddenly your azz is hoisted skyward until you are in the perfect position to share an intimate moment in prison. I will also note that this is a poor time to realize that you need to use the restroom.

So there I was, draped over a procto table with my azz in the air, contemplating my new-found respect for all men over 40. The Doctor informed me that he would be numbing the area, then "lancing it to release the pressure". The proceedure itself is mostly a blurr, mainly because I may have passed out when the Doctor gave me a shot of anasthesia in the azz. However, I did come to in time to realize that the crackling sound I was hearing from behind me was the sound of my own buttflesh being seared like a palid T-bone on a white-hot grill. My body, in an attempt to seize this opportunity for a complete coup, commanded every pore to simultaneously dump their contents all over the table. I'm not kidding, I soaked through my shirt in a matter of seconds while I lay there gasping like a carnival goldfish.

(to be continued)

Iron Chef America - a COOKING game???

2008-10-10T13:41:00.000-07:00

In an unfortunate waste of my time and attention today, I had a coworker point out that he was eagerly awaiting the release of the "Iron Chef game for the Wii". When someone tells you something like this, it's natural to remain speechless for a moment or two, to allow for the gravity of the situation to fully sink in. This person is A). an adult male who B). claims to date women C). is not currently married and D). is eagerly awaiting the arrival of a cooking game. Also, there is, in fact, a cooking game.

Now don't get me wrong, as a woman there's nothing that I'd rather do than cook, sort socks, and do laundry. However, in MY kitchen, once I'm done slicing, chopping, mixing, sauteing, and stirring I have something to actually show for my work. What kind of brain trust comes up with sht like this??? "Hey, guys, I have this GREAT idea for a new game! It will be like the pretend cooking that you stopped doing when you were old enough to quit eating your own boogers. Only we're adding all kinds of graphics, so that will make it cool again!" And I want to know if the game makers go through the effort of making it seem realistic? Where you're half way through preparing the meal, and you realize that your husband has once again put the milk carton back in the fridge without enough milk in it to even fill a thimble. Or it turns out that the last box of elbow macaroni that you own is the one that just puked its contents all over the kitchen floor when the cat jumped up onto the counter to demand yet another feeding. Or after the meal is consumed you are faced with the task of doing a week's worth of dishes covered with what appears to be either dried on eggs or . . . well let's just hope it's eggs.

So along the lines of domestic gaming, I think that the folks at Black Lantern Studios would snap up this shovelware gem . I haven't worked out all of the details yet (like a catchy title), but players would face challenges of increasing difficulty in the laundry room. From sorting socks to removing sht stains from your husband's tighty whities, players of all ages could bring the magic of the laundry room into their very own living room. And isn't that what video games are all about?

Casting for "The Corporation"

2008-10-09T07:01:00.000-07:00

I am now fairly certain that I am part of some elaborate network television series concept test. It's not possible that this team of azzhats could have made it through any kind of interview process. I'm not sure that some of these people could even get a job at McDonald's. So I want to see if I can get ahead of the game and predict who they will be casting where.

Corky, aka Lowflow will be played by Steven Wright. However, this is purely to capture his look. Mr. Wright will be challenged with refraining from saying anything funny while making everyone else on the cast uncomfortable with his complete lack of social skills. His understudy will be Michael Jackson.

Racecar (so nicknamed because I'm pretty sure that he still sleeps in a red racecar bed in his mom's basement) will be played by Jason Alexander. More accurately, he should be played by Frank Caliendo doing his impression of George Costanza. Racecar spends much of his time on the telephone, and he prides himself in how many names he can drop in just one phone call.

Ideally, our boss would be played by Coach Buzzcut, but I doubt that Mike Judge would agree to such an attrocity. Therefore, he'll probably be played by Brad Childress as I can't think of anyone more uninspiring.

Late to Work

2008-08-25T14:57:00.000-07:00

I have come to realize that there are few moments in life which are more troubling than realizing just how lazy the people working in your immediate area really are. Or maybe they're apathetic. I'm too tired to care about the difference.

One of my idiot coworkers - let's just call him Lowflow (like the toilets, which *seem* like a good idea on paper . . . ) - arrived over an hour late this morning. When my boss asked Lowflow where he had been, he responded “FedEx delivered my new TV this morning, and I had to take it out of the box and watch it for an hour”. I truly wish that this were the low part of the story, and that I could now recount to you the story of Lowflow's tearful last 5 minutes in the office, but I can't. Instead, apparently in some kind of bizarre, sad way, my boss (Coach Buzzcut) has this strange kinship with Lowflow and he just nodded and walked away, like he understood perfectly well why this would be a rite of passage. So tomorrow, I'm not coming in at all. And when I finally DO come back to the office, I'm telling my boss that I had my new bed delivered.

A language of their own

2008-05-29T09:07:00.000-07:00

J and I developed our own language while working together. The purpose was mainly to be able to still swear expressively via IM without being fired. To keep this blog NC-17, and hopefully to prevent it from being filtered too harshly, I'll retain most of our acronyms. So expect to see plenty of creative spellings of sht, fck, azz, pr0n0grafy, secks, and h3ll. Clearly we would fool only the most retarded filter, but as neither of us have been fired yet, it appears to be working. For now.

I also wish to take this opportunity to introduce the single greatest phrase ever coined by my father, which is "fckstick". I have gotten more mileage out of that word than Larry the Cable Guy has with the phrase "git 'er done". So feel free to add this word to your vocabulary - I'm certain he would feel honored.

Under control?

2008-05-28T07:29:00.001-07:00

There is a person in my office, let's just call him Corky, who uses this completely and utterly retarded 2-word question: "under control?" I mean, to the point that the Smurfs would even say, enough already!! And it isn't something with a nice segue, either. A lot of the time it's almost used as a greeting, you know, where normal people might say "hello". And no matter who he asks, the answer is invariably "yes".

I finally figured out WHY he does this. Corky is: lazy, socially inept, and gifted in the art of looking busy (he's also got some other crazy stuff going on, which I'll cover on a different day). This little phrase is his way of cornering people into giving him the green light to screw off at work, since if everything is "under control", then they can't possibly be waiting for anything from him. It's rather ingenious, really. So, I make it my personal mission to poke holes in this little scheme.

I absolutly refuse to answer this insane pseudo-question with a "yes". I'll either say no, or request to know which area in my life specifically he'd like to know is truly "under control". And the best part is - IT'S WORKING!! My replies are met with either the wet, fishlike noise of his lips working while his brain struggles to catch up, or a look so full of confusion and social angst that I feel like I'm at prom again. Either way, it makes me feel warm inside.

The email that started it all

2008-05-23T07:35:00.000-07:00

Here it is. My review from the annual Mud Bogs near my home town in WI.

We're in a field, approximately as secluded as the site for the Minnesota Renaissance Festival. There are two 100 yard 'lanes' of dirt being disked by a tractor (like a big garden tiller). Once disked, these two lanes are watered down to make mud (about a foot of it). Modified pickup trucks, Broncos, and even some cars are raced along these mud lanes. The local fire department is on site (to wash off the cars - I am not making this up! They would probably also attempt to put out a burning car, but mainly their purpose is cosmetic) and there is also a small fleet of EMT's in case someone chokes on a plug of Skoal. There are of course: country music and porta-potties. I literally expected Yosemite Sam to start firing his revolvers into the air to kick the whole thing off, but instead we all stood while the national anthem was played over the loudspeakers. Thankfully I did not see any cowboy hats. But there were plenty of pickup trucks, 4-wheelers, and baseball caps advertising local bars. They even had the Red/Yellow/Green light to start them off, and there was a woman calling the races over a loudspeaker. Some of the trucks had mud paddle tires (purpose: toss more mud at the crowd), and some of them were running on nitrous (purpose: ensure all accidents are fatal) (OK, it IS cool to see a truck skipping over mud at 50 - 60 MPH). One of the drivers had no arms, but he was driving his truck with his one prosthetic arm (I am NOT kidding!! He was steering with a suicide (Brodie) knob). And to end a final comedic ending, I managed to become a genuine redneck by actually sunburning my neck, foehead, and even the PART IN MY HAIR!!