Today's AQI: 350 - Stay Indoors, I Repeat, STAY INDOORS

Today I’m introducing a coworker to you that offers quite a bit of unintentional comic relief for me throughout my time at the office.  I’d like you to meet Farty McFarterson.

Farty is that guy that always talks to you when you don’t want him to, always states the obvious (several times until someone tells him to ‘shut up’) and laughs hysterically at things that aren’t funny, AT ALL.  He’s the guy that says your name and then sings a song about it because somehow the sound of your name triggered a reaction leading to the song “Yellow Polka Dot Bikini” which he then sings every time he sees you.  He’s the creep that uses his grand girth as a means to accidentally grab your butt when walking past because he can’t fit through the space unless his hand makes contact with your @ss.  He’s the guy that you tell something to 50 times and he still doesn't remember.  He’s the guy that everyone wonders how the heck he still has a job.

Farty is also the guy that waddles (and I say waddle because Farty consists of an exceptional amount of mass unlike anything you have ever before perceived with your eyes) past your desk leaving behind a train of gag-reflex inducing odorous emissions. 

I like to call these “Drive By Bombings”. 

I write about this today, because already, and it’s only 10:52am, I have been victim of 3 drive by bombings.  THREE.  The last of which forced me to evacuate the premises until air quality control could sustain itself and the normal, odorless air could return: about 20 minutes overall.

I’m hoping that whatever is happening inside that creeper subsides sometime soon because I have work to get done and if I have to keep vacating the premises to avoid being asphyxiated by toxic fumes, I’ll never get a thing finished.

 It’s hard to explain to Bossman why I’m standing in the hallway alone, not working, “Uh, Farty is releasing toxic emissions into the atmosphere and I was afraid for my life”?  Or perhaps, “Bossman, I cannot work under these hostile conditions. I feel my life is being threatened with every breath I take.  I can feel my brain cells dying.  Is that what you want?  Do you want my brain cells to die? “

Usually all I say is, “Farty is having some intestinal issues today, apparently.”

Bossman says, “Uh, then I guess I’ll be away from my desk a while in case anyone is looking for me.”

I like to refer to this evacuation period as the Fart Fiesta.

*Photo by Louise Daddona - http://louisedaddona.artspan.com/

There's A Storm a Brewin...

Lately, the area in which I reside has been hit with some pretty dreadful and devastating storms.  This past Tuesday was no exception.  Around 5pm a wall cloud raced across the sky as I watched from the 15 foot wall to wall windows that line the exterior wall of the lounge.  It was as if the clouds were literally swallowing every ray of sunshine that forced its way through the atmosphere.  One by one, the beams disappeared until the sky was an ominous shade of bluish gray.  The trees, dazzling the hillside with their brilliant shades of orange and yellow seemed to be casting light from within.  The landscape seemed to take on the properties of a dark cave filled with golden coins from a lost treasure. 

Photo courtesy of WTAE News Pittsburgh

Then the roaring began.  I watched as all those little gold coins blew in bursts off those sparkling trees and got caught in winds blowing in circles, then up into the sky.  The roaring shook the entire building.  It sounded like we were being attacked by some other-worldly creature (think Cloverfield). 

All the while, Bossman, who was supposed to be at a work-related event, was at home.  *Ahem* I do believe God brought this storm on to reveal the fact that the Bossman is a liar.  People get their come-uppins, ya know. 

So Bossman is at home.  Forecasters had been calling out the storm all day.  People were preparing for the worst.  Except for Bossman.  Bossman was  on a ladder fixing a cable line on the second floor roof of his house.

Yes, really.

Cue ominous clouds, roaring winds and then the rain/hail. 

According to Bossman, he was too afraid to climb down the ladder, so he just hung on for dear life.  Attempting to preserve the smidgen of dignity that he thought he had.

Suddenly, a gust of wind pinned him against the ladder, knocking the air out of him and began hurling branches from nearby trees through the air.

One of the kamikaze branches just happened to choose the path of Bossman’s face and quickly and very abruptly made contact with the round empty cranium of his.  He blacked out, of course, still clinging to the ladder.

He managed to climb down after the wind died down a few minutes later, blood trickling down his face.  It was over.

Then the ding dong went and played hockey and managed to get himself smashed into the sideboards head first.

Yesterday, after hours of pain (he eventually showed up at the office around 2pm), Bossman says to me, “I’ve had this headache since last night and I can’t figure out why…”

I, pulling from my wealth of knowledge developed from hours of watching CSI, NCSI, The Mentalist, Grey’s Anatomy and Private Practice, deduced that it was a concussion/contusion due to blunt force trauma.  I diagnosed him and told him he needs to go to the hospital because he could have a subdural hematoma and die suddenly if he doesn’t get it taken care of.  ((hehe))

Later, I hear him on the phone with who I’m assuming was a doctor and he says, “I really think I have that blood force confusion* thing.  I think I need a scan because I don’t want to die of an epidural hemophilia*.”

*Blood Force Confusion – Blunt force trauma / contusion

*Epidural Hemophilia – Subdural Hematoma

Today, he isn’t here.  Maybe his blood force confusion made him think it was Saturday?

Techknincalodgically Stupid...

There's one thing that causes me to lose respect for someone more than anything and that is poor grammar/vocabulary/spelling skills.

Unfortunately for Bossman, he lacks refinement in all 3 of these areas.  This has only one outcome: my complete and utter lack of respect for him. 

It's horrible, right?  He's my superior, he deserves  demands respect because of his title.  Well, I'm one of those that believe a person should earn respect, title or no title.  Certain qualities must be proven in order to gain respect from those beneath you. 

When working with Bossman I am often reminded of Dan Quayle and the potato debacle.  Bossman is continually correcting spelling of words already spelled correctly.  If I correct his so-called correction, he corrects the correction of his correction and we end up spelling it wrong twice over in the end. 

Recently, I was handed a report that needed the correction of a typo made.  In red ink at the top of the report was written the following:  (actual scan of report... yes, I saved it because it was THAT GOOD.)

TECHKNOLEDGY.

What. the. heck.

At first sight, I yelped... an unsuccessful attempt to restrain the laughter billowing up inside my gut.  Luckily, Bossman had walked away right after handing me the report.

I couldn't keep this to myself. Hecks no!  I jumped up on my 4 1/2 inch stilettos with report in hand and ran to reception so someone else could share in the euphoria of basking in someone else's mistakes that I was experiencing at that moment. 

After spreading the love, I stuffed his doodled-on report in my purse to archive in the Bossman is a Ding Dong file I keep at the homestead.

I completed the revisions he asked for, omitting his spelling correction, of course, and laid the completed version on his desk.  Minutes later the report was back on my desk, scribbled on again in red ink, with the same exact correction to be made.  So, I made the correction and gave it back to him.  Again.  But, this time I actually typed in "Techknoledgy".

Later that afternoon, with a puzzled expression, Bossman was back at my desk with the report in his hand.  This stupid report, back and forth, back and forth, over one word that I was pretty sure, up until that point, was a pretty common word to know how to spell.  I guess the word "common" is relative, though, subjective. 

Bossman - "I'm thinking 'techknoledgy' is spelled wrong."
Punching Bag - "Really?"
Bossman - "Yeah, you should have used spellcheck before printing this out."
Punching Bag - **silence**  Cue inner monologue, "Are you FREAKING KIDDING ME?  I gave you the correct spelling and you un-corrected it!  Remember, you hired me because you're too stupid to do this stuff yourself.  But, I guess you're too stupid to remember that."
Bossman - "Can you spellcheck this right now?  I don't know why, but it doesn't look right."

I turn around to face my computer and open a Word document accompanied by the biggest eye roll in the history of eye rolls.  (He only saw the back of my head.)

I type: techknoledgy.
Word gives the red squiggly line indicating definite folly.
Bossman - "What does that thing mean?"
Punching Bag - "It means it's spelled wrong."
I right click, select the correct spelling.  Technology.
Bossman - "Wow, I can't believe we spelled it THAT wrong!"

By this time I was fed up with the association of stupidity he was giving me with himself and out of my mouth flew, "Uh, WE didn't spell it wrong, you did that all on your own." 

Then I felt guilty, mean, rude.
So I followed it with, "But that's a really hard word to spell, I can totally see how someone would get confused and think there's a 'd' in there.  I mean, the word EDGY has a 'd' in it."

Bossman, "Exactly!"  And he walked away.

Moron.

I Spy With My Little Eyes...

Everyday, without fail, Bossman says to me, “I gotta run out to my truck.” 

“Okay”, I say, indifferently.  However, the wheels in my noggin start cranking as I attempt to come up with an explanation as to what he could possibly be doing out there at numerous points of everyday.

Drugs?  No, he’s too coherent.  And definitely not emaciated enough for that.

Twinkies, perhaps?  His fiancée is a weight nazi that happened to lose ginormous amounts of her exceptional girth recently and has demanded the same of him.  He could have a stash in his truck to satiate his inner twink-fiend. 

Phone calls to a secret someone?  Certainly possible.  But who would be hopeless enough to spend time having meaningful conversations with him? (If there is such a thing.) His mother, possibly?

Motivational CDs?  It has to be.  The kind that you record your own name and it then inserts it into key parts of the motivational shpeel so as to make one believe that Tony Robbins is speaking directly to oneself…  “It’s a great day to be **The Punching Bag**.  **The Punching Bag** can succeed in all things!  You are awesome, **The Punching Bag**.”   Nah, he’s too miserable and beastly for that.

Being ever so desperate to uncover the truth of the truck time, I even approached security and attempted to enlist their help in watching over surveillance cameras in the parking lot to see what exactly takes place when he’s gotta run to his truck.  They said no.  Some kind of violation of privacy or crap like that.

 I tried following him once, but apparently whatever he does out there makes him unbelievably paranoid and he saw me, so I was forced to act as if I was going to my own car to get something. 

The truck was not always the choice for his escape, however.  Last summer, as I took a jaunt around the parking lot during my lunch, I happened to see someone standing in a shed in the back of the field set far behind the parking lot.  Upon further straining of my neck and eyes, I discovered it was Bossman.  I continued my afternoon stroll and parked it at my desk, anxiously awaiting his return so I could put him on the spot.

He walked past me and I said, staring at my computer as I typed an email, “Saw you out in the shed Bossman, is that your secret clubhouse or something?”

Guilty as charged.  Like a deer in headlights.  His beady little eyes inside his sunken in face bulged out like Large Marge (@ left).

Stumbling over a few indistinct syllables, he finally said, “What were you doing in the parking lot?”  Sure, try to deflect your guilt on me.  I shrugged off the questions, knowing he wouldn’t want to pursue the conversation. 

I happened to mention this to the head of maintenance, not realizing what an upset it was going to be…

The next week on my afternoon frolic, the shed was gone.  Like, there was just a giant grass-less square in the field where a shed once stood.

That’s when the truck time commenced.  What HAPPENED in that shed??  The horrors!!.. I can’t even imagine.  If it was that bad that it had to be torn down??  **chills**

A mystery to this day, my investigation continues.

Maybe he just needs to fart a lot.  In that case, I’m grateful for truck time. 

The Biggest Booger of Them All

Something that occupies quite a large portion of my time, but that I rarely write about (on the other blog with my name on it… this must remain anonymous so I don’t get fired. OBVIOUSLY) is work.  I have a job.  I have a job that leaves me feeling frustrated and trampled on at the end of each day.  Who'd think that being an assistant would be so emotionally taxing?  Well, it is.  One thing my employers failed to mention upon hiring me was the clause in my job description that deemed me as "the office punching bag a.k.a. the office doormat".

Think of an office as a social hierarchy.  I loosely refer to Gossip Girl when painting this mental image.  In the world of Serena Van Der Woodsens and Blair Waldorfs, I am the Jenny Humphrey.  Sure, I have a lot going for me and I probably have more potential than 98% of the people I work with, but simply because I am an assistant, I have been cast to the very bottom of the office totem pole.

Fortunately for me, this position is temporary.  A means to an end. 

A typical day for me is not much different from that of Pam from The Office.  I deal with a boss who truly believes he is the most compelling man in existence and laughter at his jokes is a requirement to maintain the balance of joy/misery for the day.  If one fails to respond to his banter with devastatingly joyful laughter, you can be sure that the next 8 hours will be met with acute micromanagement.  Not to mention the absurd degree of ungratefulness resonating from every pore of his being.  When I was first hired, he informed me that he will not say "please" or "thank you" to me, that I should always assume it is implied.

Implied?  IMPLIED?

So when you come to my desk with a report, slam it in front of me and bellow, "YOU NEED TO DO THIS NOW", I should presuppose that what you really intended to say was, "I was wondering if you could please find some time in your busy schedule to complete this report for me.  I would really really appreciate it.  Thank you." ???

Something seems lost in translation here. 

Last week, in an attempt to conciliate a very discouraged team, the Bossman bought us all lunch.  Feeling obligated to do so, we all ate lunch with him in the lounge.  First thing out of his mouth was, "I read this in a management book." 

Feeling too at ease with the situation, I inadvertently blurted out, "What? To force your employees to spend time with you by buying us food?  Great management skills."

Immediately after "skills..." left my lips I realized what I had just said.  Did I really just debase the most egocentric person I know in front of his entire team?

Yep.  Yep I did.  I gave myself an imaginary pat on the back for finally speaking my mind. 

Fortunately, everyone laughed and so did he.  I thought for a moment that I was turning over a new leaf... not taking anyone's crap anymore.  My plan boomeranged.  The outcome was worse than I expected. 

The Bossman felt as if we bonded.  I expect he felt that since I was at ease enough to slight him it meant that we were friends.

The rest of the afternoon was spent flaughing (fake laughing) with at him.  I'm not very good at it, but I think I'm getting better.. lots of practice, ya know.  I listened to stories about hockey and pumpkin carving.  I listened to stories about him fighting girls off with a stick (which I imagined in my head to be more like the blind guy, Blinkin, from Men In Tights when he was sword fighting with the wooden pole).  Then I tried to stare at his chin as he talked and in a failed attempt to ignore the giant booger hanging out of his shnoz.  I accidentally let out a little gagging sound and had to pretend I was having a coughing spasm. 

I’m not afraid to say it. I hate boogers.

With that I leave you.

The Bossman called in sick today which means I need to go do his job for him. Oh wait, I do that even when he’s here.