The Christian Taliban

This is my nickname for my most favorite colleague.

I swear to you he is a 6' 7", monster belt buckle (its a giant BEAR), snake-skin cowboy boot, and tight ass black jeans wearing freak of nature. He LOVES Jesus. He DIPS at work. Okay you say, dips at work, i know people that dip at work -- I WORK IN AN OFFICE. Plus his choice of spit cup which he keeps ON HIS DESK is a 7-11 Special -- the BIG GULP of spittons. DID YOU understand what I just said --- he has a SPIT CUP on his desk. Further, he happens to favor the repositioning of his willie in my presence. Nothing turns tradebabe on like watching a GIANT hulk of a human-being, one whose penis happens to be even with her face, adjust himself at the office. If you aren't completely turned on at this point, there is MORE. He is from TEXAS. If you have ANY Northeastern sensibilities - you immediately understand the horror of this Texas mutant. He has covered his desk with a thin layer of Texas quarters. How do you write if you have a layer of quarters on your desk? Well, this man has managed to do absolutely NOTHING the entire course of his employment at the Asylum so I doubt the quarters are slowing his productivity.

Christmas Card to my Co-workers

Jesus Loves You...

Everyone else thinks you're an asshole.

Fat and Angry

Do you work with surly secretaries? Are they over 300 lbs? I think that might be a requirement for the administrative staff at the Asylum. Just my mere presence in the office offends them. Not that I actual ask them to DO anything. I think that the possibility that I might may send them over the edge. I am all for the disenchanted worker, but tradebabe at least pretends to play along with power that be. These mean old ladies don't even make an attempt to play nice. Let me set the scene for you. First off, the secretaries sit BY THE DOOR. Yes, I know that you are already HORRIFIED by the mistreatment they have received. Some JERK at the Asylum has place the secretaries by the DOOR where people come into the office. Well, the secretaries (known as the coven in future references). Well, the coven has decided that the opening of the door makes TOO MUCH NOISE, so if you are so stupid as to actually ENTER your office THROUGH this DOOR - you are totally SCREWED! You will be given the evil eye and a hex will be placed upon you. Instead, tradebabe has been instructed to enter her office through ANOTHER WAY. YES, I CANNOT USE THE DOOR BY MY OFFICE. Wait. Stop. I am not entirely sure that was clear - I CANNOT enter my office through the DOOR to my office suite. So, tradebabe must go down the hall to another office suite and come up one of the back halls in order to get to her office.

Old Men in Orange Hats

There is something happening at my work that no human with a modicum of humor should miss. It is entitled "The Fire Drill." My first experience with "The Fire Drill" occurred during my grammar school days. Tradebabe would line up with her line partner, and "QUIETLY" exit the building escorted by a frumpy teacher cursing the disturbance under her breath. Said teacher would "count heads," and the gym teacher would check the building to ensure safe departure of all students. Fire drills sucked in school cause tradebabe was usually partners with some sniffly kid named Matt and would frequently get yelled at for stopping at the water fountain during the parade down the hall to the Fire Exit. (You would think that the habitual use of water would be encouraged during a fire emergency). Not too soon thereafter came college, where forgotten popcorn in the microwave and drunk freshmen boys set off a nightly ritual of assembling outside Murphy Hall and stealing 4 am cigarettes from random teary-eyed girls. Upon my graduation and entrance into the "real world," tradebabe was surprised to learn that she had not graduated from the ritual of "The Fire Drill." In fact, "The Fire Drill" takes on added signifigance when managed by older colleagues who proudly prop orange mesh caps onto their heads, stuff themselves into bright orange mesh vests, and carry outdated walkie talkies to ensure my safe departure from the building. Yes, we have "Fire Marshals." The sorriest job of the "Fire Marshal" is to erratically wave little orange flags on a flexible pole to indicate to me where I should stand as my workplace burns to the ground. There is nothing that builds respect for a colleague like watching him in an orange hat waving a little flag while saying "is the East hall clear?" into the equivalent of a black suitcase. At least in grammar school, the gym teacher timed us.

P.S. I work DIRECTLY across from a FIRE STATION. Yes, I swear the FIRE STATION is across the street.

Worst job of the Day

Larry's of the World

I read somewhere that Wayne was the most common name for a criminal. I think that it was from News of the Weird or something. However, I seem to have a problem with men named Larry. If you've had issues with men named Larry, please tell me your story. Maybe we can start a club or something.

Women in the Workplace

I have decided to spend my last moments on the first day my blog detailing the insightful and helpful comments that my colleagues have decided to share with me during my employ at the Asylum. So, in no particular order, here is selection of the most excellent advice provided by my delightful colleagues.

• "Ladies shouldn't chew gum."
• "Your legs look like you are black."
• "It gives a man something to grab onto."
• "Billy Graham says that I shouldn't share an office with a single female. It would lead me to have impure thoughts."
• "You are going to get AIDS from your gay dentist and die." (GASP!)
  
• "You are too pretty for your own good."

I will sure go far in my career with such words of wisdom.

Shelter in Place

Ever since 9/11 my workplace has developed the mind-numbing concept of "Shelter in Place." If there should ever be perceived threat to our safety as employees, we have been trained to quickly retire to our "Shelter" within our building, which happens to be a large conference room on the first floor, and stay put until we receive further instructions. I swear to you now, if Armegeaddon is ever upon us, I will run like hell. I prefer to die in the streets than spend my last moments on earth stuffed into a conference room with 300 people that I can barely tolerate on a good day. There is NO WAY I am spending my last moments in a room with old men that have expressed a desire to lick my feet.

Do not throw your computer out the window.

Now that I have gotten my "first post" out of the way, I can move on to the business at hand. My first hand account of the complete Asylum at which I work. First off, let me establish the depths to which my office place has sunk. Yes, it is true -- as part of my oh so necessary yearly ethics training, I have learned that it is violation of company policy to throw my computer out the window. Yes, you read that correctly, tradebabe has provided you with this key information for employment success -- one must not pitch your computer out the window. What good use of company time and effort to enlighten me to such an important rule! Now, I must also mention that there is absolutely no possibility that the windows in my giant white box of a building might actually open, so therefore, tradebabe would have to pitch her computer through a 6-inch thick pane of glass.

Not saying I am not tempted.

My First Post

on my first blog.