I spent a good part of my weekend wading through raw sleaze. In other words, I went looking for a replacement for the shitmobile.
I didn’t really mind the 50-sievert dose artificial smiles, the frightening rustbuckets on offer, or the lies that would make even Silvio Berlusconi blush. Those things go with the territory. The thing that got up my nose the most (both literally and figuratively), was the Geneva Convention-violating cologne.
Is there some kind of law that dictates that all used-car salespeople have to wear the most offensive aftershave on the market? Then again, I suppose it’s fitting that they exude the cloying, sweet stench of corruption.
I had to take a shower and wash my clothes when I returned home, but I can still smell them.
I am working on a project proposal at the moment. It’s a bit like a marriage proposal, but with less chance for regret down the line.
It’s a rather hefty undertaking and the person leading the team is one of your stereotypical pie-chart wielding financial experts – although I use the term “expert” rather loosely here. Actually, “leading” also requires some poetic license.
Midway through the process, he instructed us all to use the same template to format our input to the proposal document. This seemed entirely sensible until we discovered that the “document” we had to use was actually a PowerPoint presentation.
I’m just going to let that sink in for a bit.
Once our ghasts stopped flabbering, we made repeated requests to Mr Experty the expert to switch to a more appropriate format. Clearly the man went to the Grumpycat School of Management, because all we got was a whole bag of no. Even when we prepared a Word document that duplicated the look and feel of his PowerPoint template exactly, he wouldn’t budge. We finally had to bite the bullet and commence with the unutterably laborious process of cut ‘n’ paste to shoehorn roughly a hundred pages of information into a series of slightly misaligned text boxes.
I’m guessing that Mr Experty has spent his entire working life making bullet-pointed lists and isn’t prepared to admit that he is confounded by the intricacies of other business software. Also, he is an imbecile.
Ja, so I’m in an abusive relationship with my car.
I know I should just walk away, but I can’t. I don’t have the right shoes.
Our quality manager is a special individual.
A quick look at his CV confirms that the only thing standing between him and unemployment is nepotism. Before he joined the company, our quality system was a bloated behemoth of ball-achingly tedious paperwork. Nevertheless, it was easy to follow and it worked, after a fashion. Sadly, our current “improved” system is a Gordian knot of utter incomprehensibility that even a psychotic weaver bird with a spaghetti fetish would find terrifying.
I have a theory that he constructs elaborate sculptures out of his own faeces and converts these into quality procedures via some bizarre topological algorithm. This may not be the case, but he is definitely full of shit.
Of course, it doesn’t help that he chooses to interact with the rest of us in the most abrasive manner possible. For example, at two minutes to five on Friday afternoon, I received a blank email with an attached document and the words, “Please check” in the subject line.
At five past eight on Monday morning, I received another email (copied to the MD, naturally) containing the following: “I have not received ANY response to the memo I sent out last week!!!!! I assume the lack of comment means that everyone agrees with the propsed (sic) proceedure (sic) revisions so these will now be implemented immediately at once.”
I was mildly disappointed that there weren’t any exclamation marks at the end of the second sentence.
Fortunately, the first two cleared up before I exploded, or I would have ended up being the world’s most horrifying biological weapon.
The Dire Bee Tease is more of a long-term thing. Basically, I can eat turnips and very small rocks. I’m also allowed the occasional tomato, but only if I scourge myself with a cat o’ nine tails afterwards.
I don’t think my dietician likes me very much.