10-26-01 - CooCoo for Chicken Stumps

Sometimes when I see a crazy person on the street, talking or muttering or yelling to him or herself, I think:  How did they get that way?  Was it gradual?  Did it happen all of the sudden?  Didn't they notice they were going crazy?

I mention this because I talk to myself, and I'm getting to the point where I'm doing it more and more often, I'm doing it louder and louder, and, worst of all, I'm doing it when I'm not really alone.

Case in point:  Today, after work, I decided to walk over to KFC and get some Honey Barbeque Wings, because there simply is no greater delicacy on earth that is within a block of my apartment.

After buying twenty wings, I stood at the street corner waiting for the traffic light, holding the bag in one hand.  It says something about your job, and perhaps your life, when the prospect of dining upon twenty Honey Barbeque Wings in the near future actually brightens your day.  More than brightens;  it is actually the high point of your day.  I actually felt the best I had all week, standing there on the corner, with my bag of sticky, dismembered chicken limbs.

So, I stood there, waiting for the light, and I started singing a little song about my Honey Barbeque Wings, because I was, relatively speaking, deliriously happy.  My song went like this:

"Got my honnnnnnnnnney barrrrrrrbeque wiiiiiiiiings.... gonna eeeeeeeeeaaat-'em-up, eeeeeeeeat-'em-up, allllllll for meeeeeee...."

As I stood there singing this song, I started swinging my upper body from side to side, arms out slightly, like a little kid might do.  As I swung in one direction, the bag would loop around and hit the back of my knee, and the I'd reverse directions and it would thump against my other leg.

"Got my honnnnnnnnnney barrrrrrrbeque wiiiiiiiiings.... gonna eeeeeeeee-OH JESUS CHRIST I'm sorry.  I'm very sorry."

I had swung the bag into someone I hadn't noticed was there.  A woman had come up and stood beside me to wait for the light, no doubt listening to my song in puzzlement, at least until I hit her, yes, hit her, in the crotch, yes, the crotch, with my bag 'o' glazed chicken parts.  She was short, see, and I was on the backswing, and, well... whomp.

When the light changed, she ran across the street away from me.  She was wearing athletic gear, so I guessed she was a jogger, although I may just be trying to make myself feel better.

At any rate, I was certainly in my own little world, a world where singing a song about chicken while swinging it around made perfect sense.  It took this woman's crotch to pull me out of it.  If not for her and her private region, I might still be on that street corner, singing and swinging, for the rest of my life, fully descended in the madness.

Oh, and yes, the chicken was delicious.  I ate it up.  All for me.

e-mail: temp@notmydesk.com 

10-25-01 - Now How Much Would You Cry?

Wow!  This is a fine looking crowd!  Say, who out their in our audience loves irony, but doesn't want to go through the hassle and bother of creating it themselves?

I know, I know, irony is a pain.  The mess, the time, the filthy pots and pans... if only there was an easier way of whipping up some delicious, nutritious irony...

Well, now there is!  By simply reading this site today, you can get your maximum daily allowance of irony!  Let's find out how!

Ahem.  Adding to the already uber-ridiculous nature of my current assignment, there's been a new twist.  Let's say the company I'm working for is called HyperLame, Inc.  Let's also say there's another company in the vicinity called HyperSuck.  Let's also say HyperSuck is currently hiring.  And, let's also say I have developed an almost uncontrollable physical attraction to Anne Robinson of The Weakest Link.  No, wait, let's not say that.

Anyway, HyperSuck places ads in the local newspapers, stating that they're hiring.  Instead of putting their own phone number in these ads, they list the phone number for the company I'm working for, HyperLame.

HyperLame begins getting tons of calls from people inquiring about employment with HyperSuck.  Say, on average, about thirty calls a day.  The temp, let's call him 'I', is forced to answer these calls in addition to his normal duties, which include other pointless and retarded things such as answering an intercom that serves no purpose and doesn't work properly.

But wait, there's more!

I finally ask an errant caller what sort of job posting he is responding to.  He tells me HyperSuck is looking for phone operators.  I find this amusing, because, hey, they obviously don't need phone operators over at HyperSuck, because their phones are all stonily silent due to their screw-up.  My amusement doesn't last long, I assure you.

How much would you pay now?  Don't answer yet!

The same person calls me back three times about the job posting.  I grow angry, telling him that this is definitely not the right number, and he says that Information, that's 4-1-1, has given them this number, in addition to the ad that prompted his first call.  So, not only does HyperSuck not know their own number, neither does Information.  It's kooky!

Still not convinced?  Order now and you get this tidbit at no extra cost!

I ask another caller what HyperSuck actually does.  Like, what sort of company is this that is hiring phone operators.

As it turns out, HyperSuck IS INFORMATION.  HyperSuck is actually, truly, 4-1-1.

That's them.  They're Information.  Not only do they NOT KNOW THEIR OWN NUMBER, and have ERRONEOUSLY PRINTED IT, and INFORMATION IS GIVING IT OUT WRONG, BUT THEY ARE INFORMATION.   THEY ARE INFORMATION AND THEY'VE GOT THEIR OWN NUMBER WRONG AND THEY'RE GIVING IT OUT.

WHEN PEOPLE CALL 4-1-1 TO FIND OUT THE ACTUAL NUMBER FOR 4-1-1, THEY'RE GIVEN THE WRONG NUMBER.  BY INFORMATION.  THE PEOPLE WHO CALL ARE TALKING TO PEOPLE WHO ARE DOING THE JOBS THAT THE PEOPLE CALLING WANT TO DO, AND THEY'RE GETTING THE WRONG NUMBER TO CALL BY THE PEOPLE DOING THE JOBS THEY WANT TO DO AND WHO WANT TO HIRE THEM TO DO THE JOBS.

WRONG.  THEY'RE GIVING IT OUT WRONG.

THEY ACTUALLY

*ARE*

INFORMATION.

Order now!

Or don't!

Supplies are definitely not limited.

e-mail: temp@notmydesk.com 

10-18-01 - Temp Chat!

I realized today that, for someone who runs a temping website, I don't even really know that many temps.  In fact, I don't know any temps.  So, I decided to go out and meet some!

Well, not out as much as on.  I jumped online, connected to DALnet on IRC (a chat program), and started poking my virtual head into different channels (or rooms), in search of some temps to become friends (or buddies) with.

Shockingly, it didn't go well.

I've posted some partial chat transcripts below.  In them, I appear as <notmydesk>, and you can see how hard I tried to assimilate myself into these foreign environments, to make friends, and to find temps, all to no avail.

-----

*** Now talking in #cyberteens

<RiPeR^fRoM^hElL> lol

<notmydesk> Howdy, folks!

<notmydesk> Say, can I 'rap' with you 'cyberteens' a bit? Nothing 'heavy', just want to 'get jiggy' with you 'peeps'!

<JeLLie^FeLi> thx

<notmydesk> No, thank you!

<notmydesk> Hey, kids, what are your thoughts about temping? You know, dat dope thizzang known as Temporary Employment?  Werd!

-----

*** Now talking in #vampirepub

<notmydesk> Hi!

<Leo_Smyth_Thompson> "Then allow me." he says. A hand rising to gently touch beneath the catch of her chin.. lifting her cheek until he can place a light kiss upon it..."Alas no...I'll be home waiting for Gordon to arrive."

<notmydesk> bleah! bleah! I vant to suck your blood!

<notmydesk> Ha ha!  Just kidding.

<notmydesk> Say, can I ask you fine folks a few questions about temping?

-----

Sometimes, people were nice enough to not kick me out.  In fact, some people would actually talk to me, but this just presented a new problem... they had no idea what temps were.  Can you believe it?

-----

*** Now talking in #beefcake

<notmydesk> Hi, beefy bohunks!

<Hyperion> hi

<Hunter103> hi notmydesk

<notmydesk> Say, any hot beefy temps in here?

<Hyperion> what?

<notmydesk> temps!

<notmydesk> I'm looking for a few good temps!

<Hunter103> huh?

<Hunter103> eh?

<notmydesk> Do you know what 'temps' are?

<BombaySapphire> we got no temps, but we got a few truck farmers

<notmydesk> Hm. Beefy ones?

-----

*** Now talking in #Catgirls

e-mail: temp@notmydesk.com 

Backwards Day -10-17-01

Man, what a fantastic day!

Some days you know are just going to be great from the start.  I woke up nice and early this morning, to give myself plenty of time to get to work.  I bounced out of bed, really, just ready to tackle the day!  What's that, Mr. Alarm Clock?  Time to get up?  Oh, boy!  Keep the snooze button for the sleepy-heads!

A hearty, healthy breakfast is the best thing to keep my good mood just rolling along!  This morning, I had juice, a bagel, a bowl of cereal, and an apple.  Also, there's nothing like a cup of coffee (decaf, natch) to put the topper on a great morning meal.  But just one cup!  Don't want to stain my teeth or anything!  I can't believe some people actually skip breakfast, can you?

I left myself plenty of time to get to the bus stop, I mean, I wouldn't enjoy having to run to catch the bus.  I wouldn't want to get all sweaty first thing in the morning, especially if I had forgotten to put on my deodorant.  (Which I hadn't, of course, who could forget a thing like deodorant?)

The bus was right on time dropping me off at work.  There definitely wasn't a guy with two broken legs in wheelchair who needed to be loaded onto the bus through an awkward process that would take a full fifteen minutes, thus delaying my arrival.  Nope!  That didn't happen, which is good, because I imagine if it did happen, the guy would be really bad at wheeling himself into the special spot for wheelchairs, since he just had broken legs and wasn't use to being in the chair, and when the bus lurched he'd slide out of the spot and into the other passengers, painfully crushing their perfectly normal unbroken legs.  That would be annoying, but it didn't happen, so why am I even talking about it?

Anyway, I got to work right on time, and settled into some exciting and challenging work!  It can be tempting to slack off for a few hours in the morning, chatting on IRC or checking e-mail or even napping, but not for this kid.  Bring on the spreadsheets, I always say!  Just try to stop me from updating that corporate contact sheet!  I live for it.

Whoops!  Is that the gentle tone of the intercom?  You bet it is, which means I get to go downstairs to let people into the building.  Running up and down the stairs all day is a great workout.  Keeps the heart fit and the legs moving, which is important for good health.  (And, like I said before, I definitely didn't forget my deodorant, so I'm not horribly smelly despite all the exercise.)  Besides, I just like going downstairs to meet new and interesting people!  Of course, a lot of times it's just employees who have forgotten their access cards.  That's okay!  I use the time we spend in the elevator to get to know them better.

As much as I hate taking time away from work for lunch, it has to be done, so I usually nosh on lots of vegetables and low-sodium foods that can be purchased at the many wonderful and inexpensive restaurants in the area.  Mmm!  None of that greasy fast-food for me.  And the best part of lunch is when a fellow employee spots me sitting alone somewhere, reading and listening to my walkman, and invites me to sit with them!  I'm pleased they realize that I absolutely hate reading and would much rather sit at their table and listen to them talk about work.  (I don't understand a lot of what they say due to the technical nature of their conversations, but it sure sounds interesting!)

The afternoon simply flies by, what with answering the intercom and taking care of filing, my favorite task!  And then it's off to a wonderful dinner (charged to my special temp expense account), followed by a great party with lots of friends, and then back to my spacious apartment for the evening!

Gosh, what a rewarding day! 

e-mail: temp@notmydesk.com 

10-16-01 - Connect the Yachts

The whole area I'm currently working in just doesn't suit me.  It's too rich.  

Next to the building I work in, there is a yacht sales office.  Next to that is another yacht sales office.  Directly next to that: a place where you can rent yachts.  Adjacent to that, a yacht sales office.  And finally, next to that, a deli.  Well, actually, it's another yacht sales office, but I like to walk in there and order a club sandwich every day at lunchtime, just to make a point.

The best way to actually get a sandwich around here, it seems, would be to buy (or rent) a yacht, and sail it to some less-snooty part of town.

The people I work for and with are all very rich.  They dress well, have perfect looks, perfect tans, and drive expensive cars.  Hallway conversations between them are either about condos in Malibu or golf.  Their DNA is so advanced that their cell-phones and bottles of imported spring water simply grow out of their hands when needed.  You've seen those old toothpaste commercials where the actor smiles, and a little white gleaming star appears at the edge of one of their teeth, and the little "ding!" noise sounds... when these people smile, this actually happens.

Most of them are unbearable jerks, which is fine, that's the way you want these people to be, so we normal people can feel superior to them in some small way.  The only thing worse than a rich, intelligent, incredibly good-looking jerk is a rich, intelligent, incredibly good-looking nice person.  Luckily, there's only one of those in my office, and I try to avoid him.

Still, sometimes he manages to get me into a conversation, usually by asking me something nice, like how I'm doing, or how my weekend was.  And he, like, pays attention when I answer him.  Sheesh.  Despite my best efforts to hate him, he's friendly and funny and a pretty cool guy.  It sucks.  He's rich and has your classic example of movie star looks.  Why does he have to screw it up by being cool?  Jerk.  

A-ha!  Now I have something to hate him for!  I already feel better.

e-mail: temp@notmydesk.com 

10-15-01 - Ook.

Yeah.  I think this pretty much sums it up.

I'll probably spend this week explaining why this is going to be my last temp job ever.  I'll throw some tidbits your way, such as conversations like the one I had on Friday:

Supervisor:  Todd is looking for a copy of the contract for site number 106.  Do you have it?

Me:  No, I put it on his desk.

Supervisor:  Well, he needs a copy of it.

Me:  Okay... I... put a copy on his desk.  Is it not there?

Supervisor:  I'll go ask him.

Me:  'Kay.

Supervisor (returning with contract in hand):  It was on his desk.  He needs a copy.

Me:  Okay.

Supervisor:  You always need to get him a copy of the contracts as they come in.

Me:  Oh, okay.  He needs two copies?  I thought he only needed one.

Supervisor:  No, he needs only one copy.  Every time you get a contract, put a copy on his desk.

Me:  I... did.  Isn't... that... I... huh?

Supervisor (waving copy of contract):  He needs a copy of this.

Me:  Okay, and... where did you get that?

Supervisor:  It was on his desk.

Me:  Well, that's his copy.

Supervisor:  Yes, he needs a copy of it.

Me:  So, two copies.  Total.

Supervisor:  No, one.

Me:  One more than he already had?

Supervisor:  He only needs one.

Me:  He needs one copy of the contract on his desk.

Supervisor:  Yes!

Me (holding up contract she brought me from his desk):  So, I should just go put this back on his desk?

Supervisor:  No, make a copy of it.

Me:  And put the copy on his desk.

Supervisor:  Yes!

Me (holding copy of contract):  And what do I do with this?

Supervisor:  That's Todd's!

Me:  So... he needs both copies?

Supervisor:  No!  He only needs one!

Me:  If you don't start making sense I'm going to jump onto this table and start breaking things whilst hooting like a monkey.

Supervisor:  Look, it's simple.  Just--

Me (jumping onto table and smashing things):  Oook ooook ook OOK OOK ACK ACK ACCCKKKK!

Intercom:  BZZZZZZZZZ.

Me:  Oh, don't you start.

---

Diversions:  Mahjongg, which was sent in by Amy, and Fling the Cow (requires Flash), which was sent in by Debi, who also proposed to me.  Thanks, you two.  Links are on the sidebar, the wedding is in April, and oook ook OOOK.

Last Week on Not My Desk

e-mail: temp@notmydesk.com