Where to begin? I made a personal promise to myself that I wouldn�t make today�s entry about television (save for this one little bit here where I celebrate because Omarosa got shitcanned last night on The Apprentice), which leaves me with precious little else to discuss besides that hoary old fallback; work. There�s plenty of that to go around, I assure you.
But I also made it a solemn oath not to dwell too much on my job, because that can start to wear on one as well. Ergo, I will also use only this paragraph to once again attempt a self-exorcism of all the raw, unbridled frustration that has taken up store in my psyche over the daily ins and outs here at Arts-Friendly. It astounds me that anything gets done at all, with most everyone being so willfully ignorant about the way things work. I say �willfully� because I honestly believe it would require physical exertion to so completely avoid the point, the way many of the employees around here do. I�m serious. People around here frequently have to sit down and take breather, having worked up quite a sweat by ducking the issue like a particularly strenuous game of dodge-ball. Take Anna, for instance. A few months back, she faxed us some data to incorporate into a report for a client. Said client recently contacted Anna, claiming some of the information in the report appears inaccurate. Anna then asked me to compare the report against the faxed forms to double-check. I pointed out that she, Anna, has all the original, non-fax-corrupted forms at her very fingertips, which would be a far more reliable source by which to check the possibly erroneous data in the report. So what does she do? She promises to mail me the originals so I can check them. Thanks, Anna. That thing whipping past your head? Nothing to worry about. It�s just THE POINT.
Okay, that was a long paragraph. But enough about work! Let�s talk about lunch. Or, more specifically, lunchtime etiquette, which specifically dictates that you keep your damn hands off somebody else�s fucking french fries unless you ask first. I don�t see why this little rule is such a problem for people. It�s not like it causes some kind of visceral discomfort to say the words, "Can I have some?" It�s just common courtesy, and yet people seems to consider it beneath them, and actually act offended if you imply in any way that you�re not okay with them just reaching over and helping themselves to your shit without so much as a by your leave. I�m affronted by proxy, in this particular situation, having seen this occur between two of my co-workers at lunch today. "Please" doesn�t cost you a pound of flesh, people.
I�m sorry, can we go back for a moment? It turns out that Anna didn�t come up with that brilliant plan on her own; she actually appears to have discussed it with their data entry guy, Davy, first. Two heads had to be put together to think out that strategy. I�d love to have been in the room for that conversation.
Anna: Dr. No needs to check all these forms, but his copies are all messed up.Davy: Well, then, let�s re-fax the forms!
Anna: No, you buffoon, that�s part of the problem! The fax corrupted the data. We�ll need to�to mail the originals, yes!
Davy: It�s genius! But, wait --- what if we need them for some as yet unforeseen reason? What if we have to check them for something, someday?
Anna: You�re right. Curses!
Davy: Hmm�
Anna: Perhaps we could�no. Never mind. I thought I had it, but�[frustrated sigh]
Davy: Wait a minute! What if we copy all the forms, so we have them on file, just in case, and then mail them all the originals!
Anna: Why�that�s brilliant!
Davy: Foolproof!
Anna: Amazing. Sir, let me shake your hand.
Marissa: Aieee! Halp! It�s a bear!
That�s how it goes in my head, anyway.Someone Got Here By Searching For: undead world domination And: M+Ladies videotape I�m Watching: The Apprentice. Sayonara, Assorama! And: Without a Trace. It�s just like CSI, except it�s on an hour later.