The dropped ball

It would be great if I turned into the Hulk every time I lost my shit.  Unfortunately, I'm the sort of monster who does psychological damage, not physical
I recently discovered that I had issued the wrong revision of a construction drawing to site. The contractor has already built the affected portion of work, so there will be delays and additional costs while he fixes the cock-up.

The actual amount is negligible – it’s about 0.2% of the total project cost – but when I told the client about it, he started behaving as though he’d caught me enjoying carnal intimacy with his dog in the master bedroom (Hah! As if I would ever get caught!).

I was tasked with compiling the necessary facts and figures relating to “the case”, so that he can – I don’t know – brandish it threateningly and foam at the mouth some more.

There is no doubt that he’s justified in being pissed off, but it seems a tad sadistic to demand that I provide him with the very stick he intends to beat me with.

The Shawshank Reflection

Nhurhurhur.  You said wood.
It’s that time of year at my company when invitations to sit at the high table are extended to select members of the rabble. In other words: promotions.

Or, in my case: crickets chirping.

This is hardly surprising if you consider my poor people skills and mutant ability to annoy members of management at fifty paces, but I still have mixed feelings about it. When I joined Hell Inc. all those years ago, I had high hopes of being Peter Principled into a senior position where I could truly serve the gods of chaos. Sadly, it seems that it was nothing more than a pipe dream. Engineers often dream about pipes, so the irony is not entirely lost on me.

The part that troubles me the most is that I haven’t actually been “passed over” for advancement. That would imply that the promotees were somehow less deserving than I. Unlike me, most of them are driven, dynamic A-types who like to face the unknown head-on. My mother always said that people like that should be beaten with a stick. I suspect that my mother wouldn’t be a good fit for the modern corporate environment. Anyway, to return to the point, the situation underscores what I’ve known for quite some time: I’ve become institutionalised.

I suppose I could always rustle up a poster of Raquel Welch and crawl through a sewer, but that isn’t vastly different to an average day at the office.

Wait, I know – I’ll complain about it on the internet!

Digital snipe hunting

I would make an excellent genie
The trouble with my boss is that he sometimes confuses the concept of “initiative” with “the ability to read minds”.

He erroneously assumes that my colleagues and I possess the eldritch ability to navigate his profoundly non-linear filing system. I’m sure it makes perfect sense if you have the right kind of brain lesions, but I freely confess that it’s beyond my ken.

I only wish I was joking:
It burns!

Ankle deep

Some old jokes are based on fact

Returning to the office after an extended break isn’t easy. It seems a great many people were waiting for my return. I think I finally understand why Godot stayed away. My post-vacation tranquility lasted about thirty minutes before it started to unravel.

I suspect the sheer volume of messages gumming up my inbox has enabled the mail server to achieve sentience. Save yourselves while you can!