Several times over the past few months, my boss has instructed me to attend meetings on his behalf. One may be tempted to think that he is starting to entrust me with greater responsibility, but this conclusion would only be half right.
You see, the meetings in question have all arisen as a result of some project-related calamity and I’ve been sent as the designated company shit sponge. The thing that clued me in was the fact that I hadn’t actually worked on any of these jobs.
You know that unfortunate idiot that your typical customer service department trots out whenever an irate complainant demands to speak to the manager? Yup, that would be me.
Hand me the antiseptic, please.
Every year our marketing department circulates a memo encouraging the peons to augment their wardrobes with ghastly new corporate-branded clothing. It’s a rather heavy-handed way of telling us to conform or else.
It wouldn’t be so bad if there was something in the catalogue that I could actually bring myself to wear, but the company “look” essentially involves beige chinos and pale blue polycotton shirts – i.e. the uniform of dead souls.
I don’t think the office is ready for the magnificence of my dragon onesie just yet.
You really expect me remember some random detail from a project we archived over ten years ago? I find your abundance of faith disturbing.
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.