PSA

Hey good peeps!

Psychotic Secretary is undergoing maintenance at present - we will be up again in July and available for all. Seriously, we won't even make you take your shoes off to come in!

* "we" = "me"

Today's Grievance

The Uberlord likes lists. He has a serious "thing" for lists. It must be the sexy columns of text in 10pt. Times New Roman that gets his juices flowing. Or maybe it's the grid-free layout or the heavily shaded title columns. The man has a hard-on for lists. And the lists are always changing.

I'm pretty sure any day soon he will request a list of all his lists so he doesn't get confused, at which point I will print out every list on my hard drive, compile them into one mondo-document in a giant 5" plastic binder and beat him over the head with it.

Then I might make him a list of all the local hospitals.

Seriously though, anyone using Times New Roman out of choice should have boiling oil poured on their Netherlands. It's not a sexy font. It's a default, ugly, plain fault. It's like that boring nougat centered chocolate that's always left last in the box. It's the last kid picked for the dodgeball team. I will allow Arial if you MUST, but please. Have some respect. Times New Roman is for losers. Verdana is perfectly acceptable for a plain, everyday fault - clean, sans-serif, pleasing on the eye. Century Gothic works and Tahoma is ok and Trebuchet is pretty for a plain font. If you must have a serif go with Georgia or something. Or get old school freaky with some Courier New just to mess with people's heads. Get a life people! Times New Roman is the Devil's font.

And by "Devil" I totally mean Uberlord.

You know what happens to people who use Times New Roman every day? They end up writing blog entries about fonts. Let this be a lesson.

No, there is no chart today. You are SO demanding!

Attentiones!

I'm still alive. Kind of. Just not inspired! Inspire me, damnit.

* Also, I'm being bad over at the 'Stache today. Come on over! There's free beer. And like...little cocktail sausages on sticks.

Memorial Day

Hey there American peoples! It's Memorial Day (not to be confused with "Mammorial Day" which occurs only in porn). It is a day to not be at work - gets full points right there, really - and remember stuff. I'm not sure what stuff but I think it's to do with wars and servicemen and veterans and people no longer with us and I probably should not make light of it at all, however, since this is me and I don't see a blue moon, I probably will anyway.

Here are some random things I remember:

The time the Evil Queen and myself superglued Mr. Panty Waist's stapler to his desk so he had to staple all day at a really weird angle.

One afternoon spent drinking red, white and blue margaritas on July 4th and having a blue tongue the rest of the day

Hiding from Daleks when I was little.

Driving in a convertible over the Golden Gate Bridge on a sunny day

Living here in lower Manhattan on September 11th 2001

Getting drunk before my band played a show, tripping over a cord and falling off the stage onto my ass (And no, I don't have a donkey)

The first time I got on my moped I accidentally twisted the grip and shot across the road into a fence at the speed of light. Well, OK, 30MPH. It FELT fast. The only thing injured was my dignity. And the framed photo of Bill O'Reilly I carry with me at all times. Well one of those things, anyway.

Would you like a pie for Memorial Day? Your wish is my command. Here's one I just baked especially.

Lady of Leisure

I called in sick to work today and I'm not really sick! What a rebel of society, ladies and gentlemen! I live on the edge, let me tell you.

OK, so technically I do have a headache and cramps too (you don't have to read that part, gentlemen, oh wait, you already did!) so that sort of constitutes being "sick", no? It's also pissing down with rain in New York City and that's reason enough for me. I'd hate to get wet. "I'm melting, I'm meeeeeelting..."

Plus, my good entertainment buddy isn't around today to keep me busy and laughing in an Uberlord-free work day and what am I supposed to do - entertain myself? Pffft! Not damn likely.

What I'm going to do is, go back to bed in about five minutes for a nap, get up, eat lunch (grilled cheese sounds pretty good), do something productive (I haven't decided what yet, ok, I'm working on it.) and maybe have another nap for balance. What a happy, rested and delightfully sane Guv'ner I will be by the day's end at which time I will proceed to procure snacks and alcohol and watch stuff that's been piling up on my DVR since November, while sprawling on the couch. Ah good times. Uberlord free, fancy good times.

Admit it, you're all jealous of my leisurely day aren't you?

I might fit caffeine in somewhere. And possibly beer. You know, at different times...

I'd make a pie chart to demonstrate all this but you know what? I can't be assed. You'll live.

Do Not Fuck With The Guv'ner

I am what you might call "severely awake" today, which is a) scary, b) unusual on a weekday for me (or indeed any day if we're being honest here) and c) is good for me - bad for everyone else, because this means I will get up to no good, attack all your blogs with ridiculous comments and might even attempt some work! Yes, really!

Talking of work, I've been trying to pull this meeting together for weeks that involves ten people all situated in different parts of the world. Naturally, all these people are 'muy importado' and expect the meeting to revolve around their particular needs, forgetting everyone else involved is equally important and absolutely as needy. This always turns into one ginormous clusterfuck of nuclear proportions filled with passive aggressive office politics that makes me want to take everyone out back, line them up against the wall and shoot them in the head. Quite honestly, I'd get more done if they were all lying in a pool of blood in the courtyard. Well let's face it, I wouldn' t have to schedule that meeting for a start.

Ok, I maybe wouldn't kill them but I'd definitely enjoy tasering (tasing?) their genitals.

I'd spare this one guy though. This guy, no matter when I email everyone for information or to give instructions for something - no matter what it is, this one guy always responds promptly with the exact information required. He's like a ninja, with his finger on the pulse. No sooner does my email drop onto his inbox than his finger is on the dial to call me or he fires back a response. That guy is awesome. Or in love with me, I don't know.

Oh wait, I just saw my crazy hair in the mirror and conclude that no, he's definitely just diligent.

He's the only one though. I have to threaten to castrate people or boil their babies to get answers normally. Or people contact me giving totally the wrong information that I didn't ask for.

And of course when people do respond correctly, none of them actually ever AGREE on a date or time or location. So it's pointless. A bit like this blog entry. Well not pointless exactly, there IS a chart:

Not HERE, Over THERE!

Happy weekend day of not being at work (I hope!) people! I just popped online to point all you fine people over HERE today, since it's that time of the month again. No, not THAT time of the month, you filthy beast. I mean I'm being typically obnoxious for the Mustache.

Come join in the fun!

Brain Melt

My brain is so fried today that I managed to book a conference call for participants in NY and London for 8:30am London time with the smug knowledge that “With the five hour time difference that’s 1:30pm New York time and everyone will be happy!”

And they were.

Until two hours later when we all remembered that London is actually five hours AHEAD and I’d actually booked the call for 3:30AM in NYC, which caused decidedly LESS hilarity. Ha! Much as it thrills me to think of these hosers having to get out of bed in the middle of the night to talk about brand marketing and other scintillating subjects of that ilk, I think I prefer breathing without a respirator, so I reluctantly changed it to something more reasonable (and boring). Bah.

I also had to edit a presentation which involved me inserting a pie chart. I think you all know my affinity for pie charts by now, although the one I did today was infinitely less fun than the ones I normally produce for this blog. I always think a slice of any pie chart should be reserved for “Who cares?” because they’re always concerned with the most banal facts or figures ever - the sort of thing that if you read it in paragraph form would turn you glassy-eyed and homicidal in moments. My theory is, that’s the only reason anyone uses pie charts at all – to break the monotony of a bunch of typed figures with some pretty colors and gay abandon.

Plus they make you think about warm apple pie and custard which is never a bad thing. Although that might just be me… Mmmmm pie.

The Guv'ner Is Not Insane

Due to a lull in proceedings today I have messed around a lot. I know, it's NOT like me and thanks for noticing.

My Gmail account today had a header at the top of the page with the link to a quiz called "Are You Insane?" I have no idea why they thought to place that there because normally those headers are related to the stuff entering your inbox and your basic personality.

I figure that the thing that enters my inbox most, apart from enticements about making my tallywhacker bigger and 'cease and desist' orders, are comments from you people, hence where the "insane" part comes in. Thanks a lot people! Now I have a reputation at gmail for being slightly south of barking mad. At least it replaced the blurbs about Afroman that were there before. Believe me you don't want to know the reasoning behind that...

Naturally, I had to try this quiz, if only to prove I am clearly not insane in any manner.

Hot damn. This quiz is obviously rigged!!!

I take issue with this quiz, because I answered those stupid questions completely rationally and in a sober, thoughtful manner and seemingly this is the thanks I get.

Plus, I know I passed the test because once I realized they were blackmailing me to sign up for all kinds of nasty offers and shit before they'd give me my score, I tried to close it down and then they got all panicky and were like, "Oh Guv, here is your rating, please don't go, the real quiz was that if you went through all those crazy sign-up pages just to find out if you were insane or not, then clearly YOU ARE VERY INSANE INDEED, PROBABLY MICHAEL JACKSON WARP FACTOR 8, HOWLING AT THE MOON, BATSHIT CRAZY, therefore, we're happy to inform you that you pass as merely 'weirdly unusual'".

Those fuckers.

The End of the World is Nigh

You know that song "Happy Days Are Here Again"? Well happy days just went right up the Swanee because yes, the Dark Uberlord is back in the country and all up in my grill.

He spent the day having meetings, catching up with the state of global affairs with our client and other such noble things, while I spent mine transcribing documents, doing a boatload of expenses and trying not to kill him. Which is harder than it sounds!

I actually accomplished a lot of mundane crap I'd been putting off forever and managed the complicated chore of eating something called a "Big Turk" (yes, his name was Mustafa and he smelled like falafel and anti-American decay) so the day ended on a high note after all. My motto is quite simple: No chocolate, no point.

I do actually alter that motto depending on mood. "No cheese, no point" is another one. "No tequila, no point"? Goes without saying.

"No flow chart, no point" is yet another of my favorites. Which brings me neatly to this piece of crap:

Click click for the big, expanded chart but really, it's not worth it, it's pretty crappy

Remember, I never said this entry would be any good, I'm merely posting or people nag me and are all like "Oh Guv, you haven't posted in DAYS I can't possibly live without you, I might pine away and die, please, please for the love of God and all that is holy, post a new entry so I don't have to cut myself to take my mind off the awful quagmire of doom that is a life without your irreverent observations and sarcastic outbursts. Please make me a flow chart or I will surely die."

It's a sad state of affairs really.

Checking In

I'm getting far too used to this no boss business. In fact, if someone would just pay me NOT to work for a live person I'd be all set because I can seriously handle chair swinging, playing games, chatting online and sitting with my feet on the desk all day, every day. No, I can! It's dirty work but someone has to do it, so you all don't have to. I hope you remember that at Christmas time and compensate me accordingly.

One thing I am not enjoying is the daily slew of needy Uberlord emails asking me to arrange future trips for which, as usual, he sends no real details, his asking me to schedule hair appointments, have cars pick up his wife and have a minion clad with a silk sponge to wipe his arse upon his return. I mean I am NOT HERE TO WORK, Uberlord, are you delusional? This is supposed to be two weeks of you-free time where I get to relax and create mayhem. You are eating into my me-time. Do I call you in Europe every day asking you to send me croissants? No!

I'm having weird memory issues today. I found some stuff I did yesterday (?) and have no recollection of completing, but it is complete therefore, I must've been half asleep and under the impression I was supposed to work. I was quite clearly insane at the time (working when the UL is away? Please.) I was almost as confused as the time at my old job when I switched around several of the keys on Mr. Panty Waist's keyboard after suffering a stupendously unreasonable day with the giant tool. The old assmuncher was in a state of flux for weeks, trying to email people using & instead of @.

Damn, it was awesome.

The Guv'ner Is A Touch Delirious

I woke up this morning still tired. Had a nice, long, therapeutic stretch. Briefly thought, "Wow it's pretty sunny out there today, I don't normally get the sun in here so early!", sat up, glanced at cell phone that I use as a clock, stretched some more, in a dopey, retarded manner, then gasped and did that huge double take thing, like say you'd just noticed your waiter for the evening was Elvis. You know Elvis? The dead guy with the swivelling pelvis that put the devil of lust into the hearts of 1950s' teens everywhere?

I leaped out of bed like I was being chased by a fire-breathing dragon. "How can it be TEN O'CLOCK???" I yelled to the cat, who knows a potentially volatile situation when she sees it and therefore went into a sort of Def Con emergency mode and fled under the bed.

I would like to say my alarm didn't bother going off, however as I use my phone as an alarm and I woke up clutching it in my sweaty palm, I'd wager it probably did and I decided to deactivate its noisy ass and go back to sleep. Jesus.

At least there's no Uberlord around this week to know. I am, however, dopey as all hell, feel like I have a major hangover and when I called British Airways upon arrival at work to ask for some information for my less Uberlordian boss, I hung up and realized I didn't understand a single thing they said and had to call them back to ask them again. Oops. This calls for a flow chart:I think the moral here is, "When the Uberlord is away, The Guv'ner will return to a state of undisciplined chaos". And yes, I realize that "undisciplined" in that sentence is redundant, but I'm a grammar rebel so if you don't like it....well you can just come here and say that.

Free To Do What I Want, Any Old Time

There's this joyous reverie when one wakes up and realizes that two weeks of Uberlord-free mayhem awaits them in the workplace. I mean it's like running in several directions at once. What is a person to do first? I'm all giddy with excitement.

- Arrive late with a giant bedraggled bedhead and put my feet on the desk? (ha ha, this doesn't count because I do this every day)

- Play loud music while drinking coffee and playing Spider Solitaire (Four Suits - you ain't dealing with no amateur, foe)?

- Grin at people in a most demonic and (un?)customary manner until someone calls security?

- Make prank calls?

- Blog?

- Make copious amounts of Pie charts about trivial nonsense because why should today be any different?

- Nap on couch (again)?

The world is my oyster for the next couple of weeks and if there's a pearl in it anywhere I aim to find it. For example what does the Uberlord keep in all those cabinets of mystery in his office? Top shelf liquor? A revolver? A ball gag? His Penthouse collection? I'm going to find out!

There is also a pretty fair chance I am going to play racquet ball in there with a whiffle ball set while commentating out loud to imaginary TV audiences about my superior racquet skills as the ball bounces off his $500 framed golfing photo.

Today's Announcement

I've spent a delicious morning being stabbed in the kishkas by little Jezebels with pitchforks and making 20 pages of hand-scrawled-by-a-baboon psychobabble into a PowerPoint presentation.

I think you all know my affinity for PowerPoint by now, although usually I prefer to use it in a decidedly non-corporate manner (yes really!). One thing has been bothering me today however, and feel free to fill me in on the answer to this mystery so I can dutifully ignore you, because I actually don't care:


I have no freaking idea what you do with them so I choose to ignore them and move on with my life and I suggest you do similar.

There was no point at all to this entry but I dedicate it to Gnugs for making me feel guilty about not posting and making the world a better all round place. Thanks Gnugs.

I hope you all have a splendiferous weekend filled with....cake?

The Guv'ner Debates

A Tuesday Conundrum for you:

Again, clicky for large version if you're blind

I'm sleepy. Did anyone get that?

Slice of Sanity Pie

This whole week, with the Dark Uberlordian Entity overseas, you'd think I would be having a pleasant karmic office experience, full of good vibes, kicking back with a drink, a snack, some muzak and an attitude of sweetness and light, no? Because I'm all about sweetness and light as you all know. Right? Hello?

No.

Naturally, instead of this state of bliss, I have had four thousand things to do all of equally annoying status. I have planned, mapped, reserved and procured flights, hotels and excursions up the wazoo only to have to change them all several times as his Royal Highness is flighty and keeps an idea in his head about the same amount of time as it takes Britney to home in on a Twinkie.

If you can't read it you can click for larger version, whiny!

Things I have discovered about myself this week:

1. I hate Switzerland, the neutral, chocolate-loving, Jewish-Money-Taking, "Can't decide what fucking language to speak" bastards.



2. I don't much care anymore if some spoiled prima donna has to change planes in Miami to get back to NYC. They can suck it and at 4am when they're in Miami International Airport and I'm tucked in my warm bed snoring, I'm going to sleep with one middle digit fully extended.



3. No one in the travel department answers the phone anymore when I call. They have caller ID. Even THEY hate the Uberlord. Or wait...maybe they hate ME?



4. .....nah! That's ridiculous, I AM CRAZY-AWESOME.



5. I am invincible and delusional



6. I like cheese sandwiches a hell of a lot (I already knew this actually!)

The little sanity I have left will be spent this evening drinking what's left of the margarita bucket in my fridge. Yes, I said "bucket". You can all just deal with it.

Hope you all have a finger lickin' good weekend, my peeps.

Plug That Bitch

I will no doubt whine a little later, because what's a day without me whining, huh? No day at all.

Until then, today is my day over at The Stash and I'm attempting to teach you heathens something academic and intelligent (and blatantly untrue). Come on over and find out the true story of Joan of Arc. And yes you are correct, I totally forgot it was that time already and had nothing more juicy prepared. Bite me.

Mondays Are Hereby Illegal

I spent all weekend deliberately avoiding my work email, like I do every weekend, because hello, it's the weekend and I refuse to do anything work related no matter how conscientious that might be, at least until someone pays me a shit of a lot more money than I make now or presents me with a truck loaded with gold bullion.

...Although what would you do with that? Is there somewhere you can cash-in bullion for like...dollars, or do you have to melt it down in your garage and trade it to a Mexican druglord named El Jefe, for heroin? Either way it sounds complicated and might involve much money laundering and shenanigans.

I knew however, that I would come in today to a positive influx of Uberlord emails from the other side of the world, demanding I do vague things he can't be bothered explaining or complaining about things I already did that weren't to his liking. And I have to say I was not disappointed.

OK, I WAS disappointed - I'm constantly disappointed - but I was right. A dozen emails featuring instructions to do things that weren't explained in any cohesive manner and emails not written in complete sentences. This is no way to start a week when you've had three hours sleep. I have a good mind to send one email back saying "LA LA LA can't HEAR YOU".

Anyway, he pissed me off enough to make an Uberlordian Venn Diagram:
I feel so much better now.

A Quick Pointless Vent

It has come to my attention that when someone tells you they will be in Friday morning but must leave at 1pm, then proceed to still be here at 4:15pm, that I get quite cranky. Especially when said Uberlordian entity is all frazzled and insane (no change there) and demanding in a way that makes me want to test the solidity of his head with a plank. I knew today would be insane but urgh.

1) No I cannot demand Delta fly into a totally different airport in Moscow

2) I can not find you a first class seat when there is no first class even ON the flight

3) I have no fucking idea what the problem is with Hong Kong

4) If the Russians will not allow anyone through security to help you through customs I CAN NOT MAKE THEM. Besides they have like...kalishnikovs. And they'd totally use them

5) If you have to wait in line for an hour at their customs and immigration then you have to do it. I can't change their damn commie rules or slip a wad in someone's pocket on your behalf

6) When you force the adapter into the port on your Blackberry, the wrong way up and destroying the little wires inside, rendering the Blackberry completely useless, the Telecom guys will laugh at you and call you a schmuck, there is no way around this, it's a fact of life.

Drinking at work should be legal just for days like this.

Yeah vent over. How are you guys anyway?

Back On The Chain Gang

Well you'll all be thrilled to know I am back at work. No graphs today or anything fun like that, however, my day so far has been like this:

1) Got in an hour late because I could.

2) Sent an urgent fax to someone 1600 miles away suggesting they hand deliver me a soda in return for a giant Guv'ner sized hug in the off-chance my sweet talking actually can control people and give me ideas for future world domination.

3) Changed some travel arrangements to Rio that were previously to Sao Paulo when the Uberlord realized that Rio and Sao Paulo are actually different places and Brazil is not one big city.

4) Realized I'd left all my money on the dresser at home and had to buy coffee with nickels. Again.

5) Received email from faxee calling me an "ass".

6) Talked to several severely surly people about spreadsheets.

7) Commenced slacking.

8) Lunch.

I know, you're delighted I told you this. Well you are WELCOME.

The Guv'ner Is Not At Work

I feel it only fair to mention that today, with the Uberlordian entity being in Asia, I have the day off. Yes, I am not at work. I am home, in my pajamas, on the couch, drinking coffee and not being at work. I just thought I'd mention it in the off chance that YOU are at work because I am NOT at work.

Did I mention it's raining out? And I'm not at work? What? I'm thinking of you all, I promise! You know...being at work.

Today's Tragedy

The Uberlord is heading to Asia at the weekend for a trip we've planned for months. Naturally I'm in a state of excitement at him being half way around the world from me and in a completely unworkable time zone.

Today I found out, while trying to have the hotel arrange a car for him, that he has no reservation there, which is a little alarming since I watched our travel department book it in person last week and because everyone else on the trip is staying there. Oops! He's going to love that.

Turns out the travel people forgot to confirm the booking and now the poor man has to stay at some other 5 star hotel a whole mile away for the first night of the trip as the original hotel is sold out. Oh the humanity. He will suffer greatly and probably catch the cooties in the process.

I've been schmoozing with the people in Hong Kong all morning trying to sort something out but there's not enough coffee invented to prevent me getting medieval on our travel department slowly with a sharp, burning object. I have Scottish blood. And you know how the Scots like a good scrap! Ask Sugartits Gibson.

What will happen when the Uberlord finds out about this?

Basically, he can suck it up. I hear they have these new fangled things called "cabs" now anyway.

Russian Pie

This morning I got to the Russian Consulate at 8:45 a.m. to wait in a big line with people talking in tongues, to get the Uberlord a Russian visa. The Russians, I have to point out, are in no rush whatsoever. Years of communist queuing for just about everything has rendered them line-lovers. They love to stand in a line and will happily do it all day long.

Well ok, maybe "happily" is not the right word. "Grouchily" that might be the word. Or "begrudgingly".

People kept asking me things in Russian and since the only Russian I know involves Boris and Natasha going to the opera and a smattering of ways to tell someone their mother fucks pigs, I was a little stuck for conversation.

The guy directly in front of me in line was hugely tall, wearing a fur hat and smoking a cigarette. From every orifice! He was probably named "Boris" or "Vladimir" and worked in a chemical plant. He was like the guy you'd draw in a cartoon to represent a stereotypical Russian, minus a great big sickle on his hat. If he had a bottle of vodka in his inside pocket it would be spot on. In fact, I'm pretty sure he did. I think it's illegal not to for Russians or something.

The guy behind me was excitable and elderly - a formidable combination in any language. He was muttering in Russian at the speed of light. I have no idea what he was on about. He might have been drunk off his ass or high for all I know. "I like fairies! You are a doughnut! I am an multidextrous octopus!" Who the hell knows? I'm pretty sure at one point he said the word "womanator" which was slightly alarming, but I could be mistaken. Maybe he just doesn't like the ladies? Either way, I steered well clear of that guy. Womanator indeed.

The officials inside, when I eventually got past the door, were surly as all hell. Maybe they all had partaken in a touch too much Stoli last night? The woman who processed my claim was like a Russian fembot with no facial muscles. She looked like she ate Americans for dinner with a side order of spite. Phew! Lucky I'm European, huh!

I hate to bring everything back to pies, but this is my breakdown of Russians in a nutshell. Or a pie, to be more exact.
You can totally quote me on that in any official capacity you please.

What's So "Good" About Monday?

I have spent the entire morning making an org chart in PowerPoint that makes no sense to me whatsoever. For a start, the Uberlord presented me with a hand scrawled version of what he wanted first thing before I'd inhaled any sort of caffeinated product to calm my nerves and judging by the fact it looks like it may possibly have been written by a skittish monkey with the DT's I'm not at all sure he's going to get what he is expecting. It took me half an hour to realize that the rather awesome category of "North American Pies" was actually "North American Pres." meaning "president". My version is always better. I was completely disappointed to discover that there are no pies being represented on the chart at all. I've reviewed the situation, however, and I think I'll live.


He also gave me a bio with his photo on that I am sorely tempted to Photoshop in a ludicrous manner and post, however I am evil but I am not stupid. Usually. Well now and then. OK most days, actually.

Anyway, I had a rather emotionally crazy weekend at the Animal Hospital with my cat and now think I deserve a stiff shot of tequila.

Well this was nice and brief wasn't it?

Easter Means Chocolate

Happy pre-Easter, if Christianity's your thing!

However, if you're a Godless heathen like me you appreciate the wonderful miracle that is chocolate eggs. Cadbury's Creme Eggs in particular. When Mr. Cadbury or whoever, invented those little pebbles of sheer joy, someone should have immediately presented him with a medal of honor or something equally appreciative. The same goes for Cadbury's Caramel Eggs - AKA "the caramel orgasm". I'm overjoyed you can get both these Easter items in the United States fairly easily these days, because this eases my mind and pent-up aggression greatly. Now I just have to find a Cadbury's Mini Eggs provider in NYC and I might become very happy indeed! A chocolated Guv'ner is a happy Guv'ner, this is something to never forget, because one day it could save your life.

What the significance of chocolate eggs is at Easter, I have no earthly idea. Maybe it was a giant chocolate egg that blocked the door to the cave where they buried Jesus? Maybe Jesus, awoken from death and a bit hungry and cranky at being locked in a dark cavern, ate his way through the chocolate to freedom? Even if this isn't exactly how the resurrection occurred, I am prepared to stand behind the theory as "credible" purely because I like it. Besides, wouldn't that just be a much more awesome story?

Someone should absolutely combine commercialism and religion and market a solid chocolate Jesus. I'd be all over that.

This just in: The Dark Uberlord is senile. He asked me for a bunch of details yesterday which I not only went over with him, but also printed out a copy and gave it to him. Today he has no recollection of either of those things. And somehow I am not at all surprised.

Crappy Saint Pat's

Since most of the world likes to get all up in my business on a regular basis, I expect it is just sitting back, waiting for a moment to spring forth, big kazoo in hand, and wish me a happy St. Patrick's Day while spilling Guinness all over my t-shirt.

You see, every year at work, some over smiley entity will corner me in the elevator, slap me on the back with a knowing wink and say "I bet you're excited, huh! St. Patrick's Day? I bet you'll be celebrating tonight?" and every year I clear my throat and yell, "For the last fucking time, Dialtone, I AM NOT IRISH!"

Ah yes, tradition, you have to love it. Scotland....Ireland. Two different countries with different accents and an entire sea between them, yet no one can ever tell the difference.

We Scots have Saint Andrew. Sure he's more the "Eat haggis, wear a kilt and dance the Gay Gordons." kindly uncle kind of guy, who wants to bounce you on his knee after a few drams of Glenfiddoch and less of a "Drink yourself into a coma or until you keel over and die!" type of saint, but he has his place. He likes a "wee dram" of malt whisky and he might flash his twig and berries during a particularly exuberant waltz, but he's mainly composed. Unlike St. Paddy and his followers.

I'll tell you one thing though. Not even the real Irish in Ireland celebrate St. Patrick's Day like you drunken American types and for that I'm sure they're eternally thankful. Every year I dodge that damn parade full of patriotic people who've never actually set foot in Ireland and who couldn't find it on a map, dressed head to toe in kelly green and liquored up to the eyeballs, screeching and making giant asses of themselves. Every year I'm walking home, down Fifth Avenue and get cornered by some rubberized, uncoordinated office minion in a disheveled suit and a ridiculous, huge green hat the IRA probably once used as a safe house - a hat that would make even a leprechaun look sane - informing me it is my duty to kiss him in the name of St. Patrick. No, minion, it is not. The Guv'ner protests!

from some wannabe Irish twat's FlickR page

I think the moral of this post is, I hate St. Patrick's Day. Bah humbug. That would be all.

Mind Reading Part Two

Today I get in to a note on my desk that says "Please book my wife and I on flights using the company's companion ticket policy for..." and he gave two sets of dates. And that's all it said. I'm thinking since he couldn't be bothered specifying a destination I'd get him flights to Siberia and rent him an igloo and a sled. He can sit in the sled while his wife dons the reins to pulls it while he whips her and yells "Giddy Up Bitch!". What a fine image. That should get me through the day, I believe.

That was it, I just wanted to vent.

Talking of fine images, I will leave you with this high-larious photo of John Travolta without his weave. Hee!

Dedicated to Beckeye
He's totally gay you know

Can You Hear Me Now?

The Überlord comes into my office today and says, “Did you get me those urgent available dates from the London crew for the follow-up meeting next week?”

I looked at him the way a cat regards a bug, scurrying around on the floor before going in for the kill.

“Dates?” I asked him, cautiously. I hate when someone asks about something that immediately rings no bells, except for alarm bells signifying that I might have dropped the ball.

“London crew? Follow up Meeting? Que?”

He looked anxious. “The dates I asked about yesterday!” he said. “I sent an email to the crew for dates and said you’d follow up with them about it today? It’s urgent. I need to know today.”

Oh. I get it. I know exactly what he is talking about now. He is talking about my psychic abilities again.

“Did you happen to…you know…cc me on that email?” I inquired, knowing full well the answer.

He frowned. “I don’t think so…” he said. “I think I just sent it to the London team.”

I tried to think of words in response that weren’t illegal in some parts of the world.

“I can’t actually see those emails unless you send them to me…” I said, sporting a fixed smile that I like to call “My Donnie Darko”. “Therefore, I was unaware you wanted me to do anything. Therefore, I do not have the dates you are requesting.” This is pretty much verbatim of what I said.

What I was THINKING, however, was, “For the love of all that is good, Fucknuts, do I look like Miss Fucking Cleo to you? For the 300th time, I DO NOT READ MINDS.”

Later in the morning, he asked me about his travel plans for the week of the 24th, provoking the slightly alarmed response, “Travel plans? You’re going somewhere that week?” He then looked at his feet and admitted he was indeed going back to Europe but had neglected to mention it to me – the person who makes his travel arrangements.

Yup.

Lame Excuses

Someone needs to tell the Dark Uberlord that Monday morning means you ease into the week slowly and gently with much nurturing and care. You don't show up and dump three months worth of crapola on my desk and want all of it now. Not if you value your life and the use of your limbs.

Anyway, while I snarl, complain and delve into this pile of paper madness, it's my day over at the Mustache, so get your ass over there and help me slander the evil cosmos that is '80s music. Yes I did go there. And you know I'm right.

Just Chillin'

I'm all kind of mellow today, peeps. Mellow because I've had nothing to do but be wicked, troll the internetz for all sorts of objectionable fodder, send a trillion offensive emails and annoy the woman in the office next door with my music. It's like the last, poignant day of summer, before you have to give up freedom and return to school. Tomorrow the Uberlord is back from Europe toting boring old expenses that need taking care of and other things of equal joy and interest.

Being bored doesn't make for good entries though, so hey, you can't have everything.

But...

Remember the X-Files? That was a great show. In fact, that was my favorite show. UFOs, scary stuff, sizzling chemistry between the leads, people speaking in hushed monotones - fantastic. Well, I have a secret. I have a special, unaired episode of the X-files. It has everything - sex, intrigue, aliens, people getting it on in the morgue, Clangers, a little fat dude sporting a banana... Seriously, come on over to Buckle Up! and check it out.

It's because you're special. Yes, you are.

The Guv'ner Gives You An (Anti) Climax

If you want my body
And you think I'm sexy
Come on sugar let me know!

Eff you Rod Stewart, you short, pointy-haired man whore. Get out of my head. I'm letting you know right here, right now, that sexy is not on any list of adjectives or phrases I'd ever use to describe you. "Decrepit" is on that list. So is "tangerine, wrinkled sperm vessel" and "uber annoying ass monkey" but "sexy" not so much. Take your "Hot Legs" and shove them up your tiny, leather-clad ass.

And you're not Scottish either, so quit sullying our good name.


That is the end of this public service announcement.

So...before Rod Stewart burned his incessant, poppy nastiness deep into my brain, earlier this afternoon, I was sitting at work, twiddling my thumbs, basking in the warmth of certain Uberlords being overseas again and having nothing to do but cause lots of trouble, when I heard this sound coming from the elusive corner office. I may have mentioned this office before - it's like a black hole in the middle of office land. It's also about two doors from my office. Stuff happens in that office but no one seems to know what or who is responsible for said happenings. In the past I have heard clucking like a chicken emanating from that particular room and even singing, but the door is always closed. It's my theory that the CIA use it for clandestine beatings and top secret classified experiments. Possibly involving the ghost of Bing Crosby.

Today, while passing it en route to the fax machine, I heard...well...sounds. From behind that door. Sounds of, how can I put this delicately...ladies who enjoy being filmed having foreign objects inserted in their various orifices by oiled up men with mullets, mustaches and the IQ of a fishtank. Or at least that's what I've heard.

I bent down to tie my shoe so I could listen some more to see if I was really hearing what I was hearing when suddenly the door opened and two geezers in suits walked out, carrying a waste paper basket.

In case you're wondering right about now what the exciting end to this story is, can I just say, don't get your hopes set too high. The geezers took that waste basket and headed for the elevators and that's the last I saw of them.

I like to think that waste paper basket contained proof of extra terrestrial life or the launch codes for all the U.S.'s nuclear weapons or something secret and important like that and don't want to consider it might contain soggy Kleenex and the stench of old man desperation.

So, if anyone has any idea what any of this is about, please tell me.

Now back to your regularly scheduled program...

A Psychotic Break

Sorry for the delay in service, but the Guv’ner is busy saving the world one Excel spreadsheet at a time, ladies and genitals!

Yes, today has been declared “Have The Guv’ner Make YOU a Spreadsheet” day, but all orders are now taken so don’t even think of asking and incurring my almighty wrath. I have constructed charts, graphs, calculations and tables for various people and even made one in my head to demonstrate the pain scale involved in the various excruciating torture methods available to me in wreaking my havoc on the asses of these requestors.

I am now on a psychotic break where I am engrossed in constructing a very lifelike scale model of Bill Gates that I can hang in a noose from my light fixture. I haven’t yet decided if I should fill it with candy and incorporate this idea into a sort of Bill Gates torture piňata. Candy and violence, what more could a person want on a cold, Thursday afternoon?

" This is for Excel you speccy butt-pirate!” I'd proclaim loudly, wielding my big stick in my hand and in return for a good, satisfying whack at his geek head, I get a Snickers. I think I like this idea more and more…

In other news, THIS warms my old, psychotic cockles.

Well This is Boring

I got in this morning full of the joys of...well...nothing, quite frankly, since I got a hellish night's sleep due to two cats reenacting the Battle of Hastings on my bed, to find a note pushed under my office door that said, "Guv'ner - please deal with the pile of stuff on my couch."

One thing The Guv'ner does not like to find first thing in the morning, before the procurement of caffeine and the customary 2 hours winding down and waking up period, is a note wanting me to do things with "piles" of "stuff". It's like the man thinks I come here to work, for heaven's sake.

I cautiously surveyed this pile in case it included explosives. I was sort of hoping to find a chocolate cake, a keg of something icy and refreshing, Javier Bardem (minus the "No Country..." haircut, of course!), a burrito, an X-Files box set, instructions on torturing bosses, a waffle iron, a ticket to the Bahamas, a tub of Wet Ones, a lb of cheddar, a note telling me I had the next two weeks off and a shotgun.

However a Guv'ner's life is a disappointing affair and the pile contained only a shitload (this is the proper metric term for "quite a lot") of expenses from the last two foreign trips the Dark Uberlord took, some stuff on a Dictaphone tape that needed transcribing and some instructions that made no sense at all and that, on closer inspection, looked like they were possibly in Swahili. This is most unsatisfactory.

Anyway, I took care of business, scanned some things to email to vendors, cleaned my desk for the first time in about six months and to cap it all off, I somehow stapled my index finger so badly the staple was flat against my finger. You don't even want to know how I managed that. I should just suggest that you don't ever try it yourselves, kids, it will end badly and you'll get blood on your bloomers. It hurt so much that it brought tears to my jaded old eyes and I had to do laps of my office to give my body something else to think about.

So in summary, this morning the Guv'ner, a) Worked like a little bitch, and b) injured herself with a stapler. I'm accomplished I guess.

The Guv'ner Does The Mail

Dear Sir,

While I am flattered and downright thrilled by your kind offer to send me a free, six-month subscription to “Meetings Weekly”, I am afraid I have to decline your very generous offer. While I am quite sure you are correct when you say it will “…greatly enrich and enhance my conference experience” with its myriad of business jargon, corporate accessories and interesting tips on making your PowerPoint presentations “pop”, I think I would much rather dip my toes in ketchup, gnaw them off and spit them at a small child. Please, never send me this publication unless you, in turn, would like me to show up at the offices of your swanky magazine with a sawn-off shotgun and malice in my heart, to bring you all some surprise tiny, metal gifts and a ten second start.

Yours MOST Sincerely,

The Guv’ner

Dear People at Brand Week,

Thank you very much indeed for continuing to make my day, every day. In fact, if I can let you into a little secret, there are days I feel quite sad and I just don’t want to get out of bed, however it is the promise of your daily subscription reminders that forces back the sheets and lets me greet the day with sunshiney enthusiasm. One reminder a day is exactly the right number I need to remember to re-subscribe to a publication I haven’t actually subscribed to in three years, but thank you for reminding me! Truly! In fact, I love your magazine so much, I may take each and every one of those sub cards up on the offer of $149 for a whole year of Brand Week joy at your special subsidized rate. I mean look a gift horse in the noggin? Not I Sir! It’s a bargain at half the price. I would never for one second suggest you take all those notifications you keep mailing me and shove them up your ass sideways and that I hope they paper-cut the entire inside of your poop chute till you cry like a peeled baby rubbed with salt.

Die In A Fire,
The Guv'ner

Dear Readers’ Digest,

NO!

Sincerely,

The Guv’ner

Dear Sir,

Why yes, I surely would love to enroll in some classes at Harvard, thanks so much for asking me yet again. I assume since you are courting me so heavily, that you will be paying? I’m in New York, however, would I be compensated for the daily commute to Cambridge and back? I feel, under the circumstances it’s the least you could do.

I am particularly interested in your course on "How To Dispose Of Bodies Without Detection" and its sister class on "Flesh Eating Acids".

There are many fine Ivy League establishments trying to snare me, you know, you have to work for this ticket, pal. I feel I have to accept your offer, however, because you are obviously keen to get me judging by the invitation I receive every single Monday, enticing me to enroll. God bless you and your stalker mentality. I would however, ask that from here on in, you refer to me in all correspondence as "Professor Guv'ner" and I would like it known that I am not above accepting bribes.

The Guv’ner

All My Heroes Are Gay or Cowboys

The first email in my in-box this morning was from that giant stench of decaying matter, the Dark you know who, asking me to “download this picture and send to me”. The email subject contained a link directly to the picture in question and he is blissfully ignorant to the fact you can click this. I pasted it into the body of another email and sent it back to him. I’m constantly amazed the man can tie his shoes. In fact, I’m not convinced he doesn’t wear loafers for this very reason. Not “loafers” as in the tremendously flaming, George Michael, white-loafers-and-no-socks sense, although what he does at home is anyone’s guess (my guess is it involves standing in just his tightie whities, gut overhanging spectacularly, swinging a shiny golf club in front of a mirror and pouting a lot - think Ben Stiller in "Zoolander" - and next time he's irritating the baby jeebus out of me, I intend to visualize that scene for my own amusement.)

I spent an hour making hotel reservations for his upcoming round the world business extravaganza. We are a big company and we therefore have special rates at hotels like the Westin, but the Westin does not meet the Dark Überlord’s lofty standards so he has me book Grand Hyatts and the like instead. The travel department then laugh in my face, I convince them that even though they’re way more expensive than we’re allowed, the Überlord is a “very important man” who will take care of the difference if there is a problem, then sit back and watch the great big tool try to convince the CFO that he is special enough to warrant a $500 a night room. It’s better than TV. The Überlord is entitled, damnit.

I am sleepy today due to an abundance of bizarre dreams involving me fleeing some enormous arachnids. I blame this squarely on the fact my friend Maria came round last night to hang out and eat chocolate and we ended up watching a bunch of those disturbing travel/food shows where that little, rotund, bald guy goes around the world eating disgustingly unappetizing, and just plain wrong, things. We sat there horrified as he gnawed on fried tarantulas on a stick, battered worms and goose intestines and our particular favorite - “teriyaki cockroaches” – a large nasty roach, injected with teriyaki sauce and skewered like a kebab. Nom nom nom! They looked just as lovely as they sound I can assure you. And if you heard a giant wail of distress around 10pm last night, that was just my soul dying. Seriously, what traumatic event happens to a person in their life, so dreadful that they wake up one day and go, “You know what? Screw that mashed potato and gravy, I think what I want is a fried cockroach!”

Well I seemed to have eradicated that giant hunger I had five minutes ago, how about you? Having trouble sticking to your diet? Call the Guv’ner!

And no, the title had nothing to do with the post. I'm mysterious damn it.

Give The Guv'ner Strength

Sorry to have yet another whiny entry about the deficiencies of the stupid Überlord but he’s so full of fodder I can’t seem to help myself.

One thing he’s really bad with is names. He’ll have a person’s name in his head and he will proceed to get one name right and the other name will be totally off. Or else he’ll get a surname completely wrong. Or the spelling will be ridiculous.

“Get me the number for Fred Fitzsimmons at such and such a company.” he’ll say. Numerous searches and head scratching will pull up nothing until I accidentally find a Frank FitzGerald.

“I don’t suppose that by Fred Fitzsimmons you meant Frank Fitzgerald?” I'd ask him suspiciously.

“Oh. Yeah. That’s him! I need his number.” He will reply, as though it were blatantly obvious.

Grrr.

Yesterday he said to me:

“I need the number for a man in Latin America named Luis Garcia. I’m not sure who he works for but I think he’s in Venezuela or it might be Colombia.”

Thanks a bunch Überlord. I mean there won’t be several thousand of those in those countries at all. Every second man you meet in the street will be called Luis Garcia, their sons will be Luis Garcia and their fathers will be Luis Garcia, you stammering buffoon. Nevertheless, I conduct a search through various fields and come up with several possible candidates with that name, in related fields to us. The Überlord frowns when surveying the list.

“I don’t think this is right…” he says.

“You are sure his name is Luis Garcia?” I ask, because really, I’ve been down this road before.

“I think so.” replies the Überlord. “I mean, I’m pretty certain. And now I think about it, I think he works for [company]”

I track down that company, do some more digging and come up with no one named Luis Garcia. There is, however, a Jorge Garcia Martinez. And he’s in Brazil.

“Um…I don’t suppose that by Luis Garcia in Venezuela you actually meant Jorge Garcia Martinez in Brazil?” I ask, getting some severe déjà vu.

“Yes!” he exclaims. “That’s the guy!”

So I picked up my industrial 3-hole punch and beat him to death with it.

Damn Überlords

The Dark Überlord has a really, intensely irritating laugh. If you took a loud, boorish society matron and mated her with a horse, then tickled the ass of the resulting spawn, with a feather, that’s exactly the sound you’d get.

He also overuses this obscene guffaw in his many quests to be “one of the guys”. He’s in his 50s but likes to think he’s still a frat boy with his curse words, his schmoozing, his corporate lunches with clients where he tells appalling jokes and laughs at them with that laugh.

Yesterday, while walking out of his office, he ripped a giant fart then had a jolly good wheeze at it. I mean, I know farts are funny. I laugh at mine all the time – they are high-fucking-larious, but really, not in an office environment. Not in the corridor where several people can bear witness to your gassy bowels. He also lets out these enormous belches fairly frequently and mutters to himself. Once I heard him joking with his son on the phone about whether or not his son was “getting some”. I doubt they were talking about chocolate. It’s bizarre to me because people are always saying to me “Oh you work for The Dark Überlord, he’s so nice!”

No. No he isn’t. He’s only nice if you don’t know him. He’s a schmoozer. He’s phony. He’s a faux nice guy. He’s a player. With a loud, witchy laugh.

Therefore, it’s some sort of divine intervention when he waltzes out of his office all smarmy and cocky, trips over his shoelace, does an unintentionally fine rendition of a seven year old girl at a ballet recital and flies arse-over-tit onto the floor.

I laughed and laughed. See, THAT, Dark Überlord, is appropriate office humor!

I just got through a whole entry without mentioning V-Day. I deserve an award.

Hell In Excel

Yesterday, I received via email, an Excel spreadsheet that could only have been created by Satan himself, while high on amphetamines. It was the sort of document that was so text heavy, full of unnecessary vertical page breaks, and had about forty sheets contained within all so full of gibberish, that you wondered why the person didn’t just create it in Word like a normal, rational human being (you know, like ME), negating the need for me to curse like a sailor and threaten people’s grandmas. And write ginormous sentences like that one up there.

I briefly entertained the notion of inserting random formulas that would bring up cells saying "DIE YOU C*CKS*CKER!" but sadly this function doesn't seem to have been invented yet.

Naturally, the Dark Überlord insisted on having a print out of this mammoth document because his retinas would melt and ooze onto the floor if he was forced to look at something on a screen. All the more reason to do it, I say.

The problem was Satan had cunningly incorporated more text than a cell can hold into many areas of the spreadsheet which meant you had to click the cell to get a pop up of the contents, making it virtually unprintable. Trying to paste said contents into various other cells didn't work either and I ended up with this page that looked like something a dyslexic spider had woven. Now I’m quite familiar with Excel in its basic form, can work with data bases and write formulas, etc., but this text heavy nonsense is making me insane. This means today I get to spend all day working out how to reformat this beast and recreate the excess contents so the Überlord can have a hard copy. This should take me oh….the rest of my natural (and unnatural) life.

The man’s in Canada today (a lucky feat of fortune or else he’d have a spear in his eye) and I was planning a sort of office “spa” day – music, feet up, snacks, blog reading, all very ambient and lovely. Instead, it’s Hell in Excel for me, so please send food/vibes/gun/hunky man with cake/news on how to print this mofo of a document in order to save the Guv’ner’s sanity. Thank you!

Please donate cocktails!

Psychotic Secretary Will Kill You

The headache I have today makes me think I know exactly how Lizzie Borden’s victims felt. You know, right before it all went black.

Things briefly improved when, while running an errand downstairs, I ran into this girl who was as excited and flustered as a ten year old at a Hannah Montana concert. This made me momentarily happy that the upper echelons of power must have given us the whole of next week off and a giant raise, but it turned out she was just happy because she heard a rumor there was a cake shaped like a skyscraper in the cafeteria and that we were all entitled to eat it. Fair enough little chick, that would get my heart-a-fluttering too. I went down there and sure enough – skyscraper cake. Who knew! I figured all that cake might place too heavy a load on the flimsy little table they had it on so I volunteered to eat a giant slab of it, thus making it lighter and saving the day. Go me.

I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking, “Thank God there is someone to take over where Mother Theresa left off, Guv!” Well, you are welcome.

I’ve also been slogging through a slew of complicated work crap and now I feel slightly insane, which, as you know, is a new sensation for me. I sent out emails to all corners (?) of the world demanding certain pieces of information that would prevent me overheating and having to take hostages, but so far no response. I will try not to be offended by this as I know people in Sydney and in India are entitled to sleep once in a while, even if I happen to be awake and demanding things. I mean ideally the whole world would stand to attention every hour I’m awake, ready to spring into action at my command, however, for now I have no choice but to let it be.

On the equally annoying side, I have had to start a dedicated notebook just for the travel stuff I’m doing. This book is already hilarious. It’s filled with flights I need to get, information I need, hotel stuff and due to the constant changes, it has more lines through it than a WalMart store. One day I’m going to take a photo of this book so you can see the mayhem I’m talking about. You will be appalled. You will cry for your mommy. You will cut yourself.

The Dark Überlord is here today and running around like his panties are on fire. This morning he sent me to Starbucks for two double espressos and a latte. When I got back he frowned because he wanted two lattes and a double espresso. I showed him the note he gave me to the contrary but he still sulked because really, I should have decoded that note and reversed the numbers, what was wrong with me, did I not read between the lines?

Give that man a sedative.

Quiet Please! The Guv'ner Is Working

Despite the fact The Überlord is out of the office, and in fact, out of the country until tomorrow (cue Hallelujah Chorus), I have spent all this morning working. Yes, you heard me correctly. Working. When I could have been blogging. Or reading gossip sites. Or napping on the couch in the Überlord’s office. Or procrastinating and drinking Diet Pepsi. Or making voodoo dolls in his likeness out of office supplies and then castrating them. With a rusty butter knife.

So yes, I worked. Of my own free will. Aren’t you all so proud? I’m putting it in the calendar as a reminder and next year I will bake a cake for the anniversary and possibly commission a bill board in Times Square saying “What were YOU doing on February 7th, 2008? THE GUV’NER WAS WORKING!” and it will be as smug and sanctimonious as it sounds and feature a huge, scary photo of me grinning with spinach on my teeth and giving a cheesy thumbs up.

There has been some rampant compiling of lists for a start. Things are getting to the Code Red stage of hectic as regards travel and meetings for the next few months, and keeping track of the who the where the when is getting horrendous, as is keeping a record of what paperwork has been completed for each trip. It is quite frankly a major spear in the Guv’ner’s side. Therefore, my highly informative lists are very helpful in these matters and as only I see these lists, I can scribble snide little comments in the margins like “get authorization for first class to Australia, chaaa right!” and “who does he think he’s kidding?” and when he’s really pissing me off I can scrawl myself a note that says, “Überlord requests middle seat in coach next to very fat person who hates deodorant”, as well as draw crude sketches of the Dark Überlord swinging in a hang man’s noose or being eaten by a lion or sodomized by Shaquille O'Neal. So even work can be fun to an extent.

Naturally now I am over the lists and more interested in the Internetz and whether Britney’s driven off of a cliff yet, while naked, speaking like Dick Van Dyke and covered in lime jello, weave falling through the air like a giant, hairy spider.

(She hasn’t.)

There are, however, still 9 and a bit hours left in the day, so I wouldn't count her out just yet.

The REAL Super Tuesday Results

As the various states' election results are still pouring in you may wish to check the official results against the Guv'ner's much more realistic and not at all made-up predictions, which you can find RIGHT HERE! See? The Guv'ner speaks only the gospel truth.

I'm pretty certain you'll find my predictions a lot more accurate in portraying who each state truly wanted to vote for. None of this Hillary or McCain or Obama nonsense.

My apologies to Michigan and Delaware who were just too hard to predict (or I forgot, whatever, sue me). I'm pretty sure Delaware would do whatever Maryland wanted and Michigan is practically Canada so who cares? (I'm KIDDING Michigan, honest, simmer down!!)

Don't even think of suggesting that I have too much time on my hands. Or beer.

The Guv'ner Predicts

All the various states' election results are still coming in and sadly everything's been pretty much going as expected with a few minor upsets, regarding election results this Super Tuesday.

However, you may wish to check the official results against the Guv'ner's much more realistic predictions, which you can find RIGHT HERE BABY!.

I'm pretty certain you'll find my predictions a lot more accurate in portraying who each state should have voted for. My apologies to Michigan and Delaware who eluded me. I'm pretty sure Delaware would do whatever Maryland wanted anyway and Michigan is practically Canada so who cares? (I'm KIDDING)

Everything Tuesday

Today, Tuesday, is also known as “The Day of Bloody Mayhem” in NYC. This is because we have problems handling one “event” at a time – OK…I do - but any more than that, you can fuggedaboutit.

Firstly we had this huge ticker-tape parade taking place downtown for the award-winning, killjoy, sporting upsetters, those enormous coffee bean throwers, the NY Giants, making me thankful I work up here in midtown therefore got to escape the crazy that no doubt ensued. I know nothing about football except those boys are way too fond of the shoulder pad and tight pants. It’s all grunting and sweating, touching each other’s asses and rubbing one another’s helmets.

Whoa, I just got the sudden urge to sing YMCA…

Today’s also not the most pleasant weather so that ensures lots of wet, paper pulp littering the streets, which better be cleared by the time I get home tonight, slackers!

Then of course it’s Super Tuesday so naturally much voting has commenced in the five boroughs. I pretend to be uninterested because, frankly, they don’t let me vote as I’m a filthy, stinking, commie, Godless foreigner so I reserve my right to sit back and watch the proceedings while mocking all the candidates in any way I see fit.

This being NYC and not renowned for its Republican stance, my subway entrance this morning was swamped with Hillary and Obama supporters, thrusting leaflets and buttons and their throbbing, sweaty groins in my direction - I made one of those things up (they had no buttons). They tried to follow me down the steps like I’m a purty celebrity. “Vote for Hillary!” one whispered furtively, nodding at me sincerely and waiting for a response.

“I’ve got a lovely bunch of coconuts!” I replied cheerfully and swiped my way through the turnstiles to safety.

You know what I'd like? I'd like just one candidate to ask ME what I'd like them to do for me if they became President. Because I have some suggestions (of course I do). Firstly, I'd like to be able to enjoy all bad, bad, heavenly things tax free (even the illegal ones). I would like some affordable healthcare and decent education but apart from these things I'd be happy if the government would butt out of my life altogether, unless it's to bring me a wheelbarrow filled with money, a bottle of top shelf tequila and an Uzi.

Most importantly of all, today is Pancake Tuesday, Fat Tuesday, Mardi Gras, Shrove Tuesday! A day for a face stuffing and I’m happy to report, my coworkers have started early by providing us with many cookies, coffee and pastries. This is a quite splendid and unexpected occurrence. Tonight I will bake up a storm of crepes to drizzle in lemon juice and sugar as is the British way and will proceed sucking them down like oxygen while the election results come in.

The Dark one just left for Europe again and I am drowning in future trips and travel arrangements that need to be made, so I will commence swinging on my chair and singing along with this old Jesus and Marychain album and maybe tomorrow I'll consider doing some work.

I do have a lovely bunch of coconuts.

Last of the International Playboys

A cryptic message from the Dark Überlord on a scrap of paper on my desk, requested I procure him a flight on a certain date, to “Indonesia”. I am fairly convinced that the Überlord believes that “Indonesia” is a city and not an entire geographic region full of them. I am assuming he wants to fly to Jakarta but really, he could be going anywhere.

Especially if I have anything to do with it.

I looked up some information on Indonesian cities and got back a list of what looks like monsters in a low-budget, Japanese horror fest (“Bogor” anyone? “Probolinggo?” “Dompu”?), drugs with possibly nasty side effects (“Ciamis”, “Cilacap”, “Cinere”), or potential Latin prepubescent pop groups (“Menado”). Some of the others sounded like fun pastimes (“Sukabumi”, “Purbalingga”, “Bangkinang” and “Fak Fak”) or tropical diseases (“Bukittinggi” and “Sibolga” – “Mom, mom I have a rash on my cranker, I think it’s Sibolga!!!” the correct response being, “Don’t worry son, take two Cilacap twice a day and you’ll be golden!”)

And all them sounded infinitely more interesting than Jakarta although less lovely and tropically pleasing than Bali. My only real disappointment was not finding a town named “Punani” because that would have been a stupendous HEE moment.

I think I will await further instructions on this one for the sake of my sanity. Or I could just send him on a one way ticket to Fak Fak where he would have his orifices filled by the phallic appendages of well-endowed, evil tribesmen who would then roast him on a spit and shrink his head to the size of a wee, tiny pea. Ah one can dream.

The Guv'ner Kick Starts Her Social Life

A nice thing about the Uberlord being overseas is, I can come in late and duck out early if I feel like doing something exciting in the early evening like seeing a movie, as I did tonight.

OK, in the grand scheme of things, seeing a movie probably doesn't rank up there with say...stealing a car and driving it into the Hudson while licking Absynthe off a man's naked torso, but that's my life. The movie I mean...not the naked torso Absynthe licking thing. I'm a respectable human being you know. On Sundays. In April. After the 28th.

So I met up with my friend Christina and we went to see "Juno" because I'm sick of the world telling me how "awesome" it is when I haven't seen it to counteract this viewpoint. Naturally, I can be a touch cynical - no honestly! - and I figured an indie movie hitting the box office hard probably means it's fairly average for someone who is used to indie movies, so I was pleasantly surprised that it was excellent and very cute but not in a way that made you want to swallow Draino then put a sword through your spleen or anything. And the great dialogue prevented it from being too saccharine. I surmise that this is because it was filmed in Canada and starred two Canadians, because Canadians are naturally allergic to schmaltz. It's something they put in the drinking water up there. Labatt's I think it's called. Anyway, if it had been too sweet the main characters would have puked all over each other in disgust and that movie would suck. Then I'd have puked on Christina and she'd have puked on the row in front etc. and it would have been like that scene in "Stand By Me" when Lardass eats all the pies.

Juno's boyfriend was just the sweetest thing ever. It was the geeky dude from "Superbad" who looks awkward in his own skin. I like me a skinny nerd boy now and then you know. They're so corruptible. Allegedly... If he wasn't barely legal I'd load him into my trunk and keep him in a box under my bed for a rainy day.

Ahem.

I especially enjoyed the trailer for that piece of crap Kate Hudson/Matthew McConna-hooey romcom that's about to spread its nasty, non-funny hilarity all over us. It took all the strength and will power I had not to stand up and yell, "YOU have no tits Kate Hudson, and YOU are GAYER THAN LIBERACE McConna-hooey so quit pretending!" I just ground my teeth and snarled instead. Who goes to see these things? Are they mental?

Another Day In Paradise

I groaned like an oak tree in a tornado at having to get up this morning. This is normal, however, and part of my life-long protest at mornings in general and the fact I have to drag myself out of bed to do things during them, when every sane person knows mornings are for sleeping, drinking coffee, nursing your hangover, peeing and more sleeping.

I arrived at work, cold, frowning and not inclined to deal with assorted dickwaddery from anyone, to find a very pleasing lack of Dark Überlord. I wasn’t sure what to do at first – be ecstatic and do a happy dance or commence being very suspicious of why there was no Dark Überlord. I glanced tentatively around each corner, to make sure the Apocalypse wasn't crouching there waiting to trip me up, but no.

I decided that looking a gift horse in the face is beyond stupid and so I began the dancing and followed it with coffee imbibing and joyous knuckle cracking. My own knuckles I mean - I don’t want you thinking I’m going around smashing other people’s joints with a ball peen hammer or anything. Not that the thought doesn’t occur to me fairly regularly...

When he does show up he’s not going to be happy to learn I haven’t been able to upgrade his flight to Europe for this evening from business class to first because the airline was completely over sold on first class. The fact that no seats exist and there is also a waiting list ahead of him will not be an acceptable excuse to the Dark Überlord, who thinks I can just conjure these things up because he wishes it so. If I had that talent I’d be in Fiji right now, lying in the sun, sucking down exotic beverages while a nubile, tanned lovely boy fanned me with a huge palm frond and fed me chocolates. I'm sorry, I just slipped back into fantasy land yet again.

Also, if I’d only known he wasn’t coming in all morning I could have had a very satisfying forty winks on his couch for an hour or two. Damn inconsiderate man.

On a nice note though, I am very flattered to realize my ambition of becoming an honest to God, goddamn, fabulous Internet quasi-celebrity (like Britney only with panties), thanks to my being subjected to an interview by the mean and nasty SUZE, so go on over there and tell her what a mean beeyotch she really is. And hot damn, that pepper spray stings!

Subway Tales

My day started with a refined looking older gentleman sporting an expensive coat, old school hat and some impressively gigantic jowls, whining on the train because some lady had the nerve to squeeze into the space next to him.

“There isn’t enough room!” he whined. “You should stand until you can sit down properly.” She looked at him like he’d said, “My God, the last time I saw a face like that was on a stick at a Chinese market!” and refused to budge.

This is the New York subway, Quentin Crisp, be grateful she didn’t stab you in the kishkas and steal your rather fey chapeau.

Myself? I had the pleasure to be seated next to some guy who smelled like a fruity mixture of Old Pee and Old Spice – quite the sexy combination. He was wearing some really tinny, nasty headphones and blasting some god-awful hippy music that made me want to grab the overhead bar, swing from it like a gorilla and kick the dude square in the nuts. Would it hurt you to take a bath, fella? Would the world end, Stinkmeister?

To make matters worse one of my bras had recently gone through the drier accidentally, which distorted the hook in the back, so mid way through my commute I stretched slightly and it unhinged and pinged open in the back, freeing the hounds as it were. Thank God for big winter coats. I mean if you’ve got cute little A Cup boobies it wouldn’t be an issue but when you’re a C/D cup like me, all manner of nastily embarrassing bounce-age can occur if you let it. Think two fighting puppies in a sack! I’m sorry, did I gross everyone out with that visual? Good!

No Dark Überlord today, I’m happy to say, as he had a pressing engagement elsewhere. Sadly not “pressing” as in “pinned under a train” but it is only noon and one can live in hope. Nonetheless a welcome sanity break for me.

And really, a sane Guv’ner is a happy Guv’ner.

Today's Complaint...

The Dark Überlord’s Dictaphone broke down recently causing the world to stop spinning briefly. You might have felt the jolt? A week past Tuesday it was. The E.R.s were full of broken bones and other related maladies.

I had our office services people get him a new recorder, which they had by the next day – a lovely, silver Sony micro-recorder. Situation rectified, right?

Right.

The Dark Überlord didn’t like it. It was too “flimsy”. It has a hard plastic shell unlike the old relic we were using which was carved out of bedrock and operated by a team of dinosaurs on a treadmill. Damn thing would’ve withstood a hand grenade attack back in the day.

“This thing is too fragile.” He whined about the new Sony, hurting its fragile feelings. “We need to get something more rugged.”

I don’t know what he does with it that would constitute needing something “more rugged” since something more rugged comes with a more rugged price tag that the company will have to pay for. Maybe he plays touch football with it in his office? Or dodgeball? Maybe he chops wood with it. I don’t know or, for that matter, care.

Since our office services people laugh in my face when I put in absurd requests (they got us the “flimsy” but perfectly adequate Sony) we decided to circumvent them by ordering the desired machine online and expensing it back, which is guaranteed to give someone in our billing department a coronary since they like every penny expensed to be a penny well spent. Still there is no point arguing with an Überlord when his mind is made up.

Who knew a micro-cassette recorder (a rugged one mind you!) cost $239? Not me. I was expecting maybe….$30. Tops. Getting the money back should be fun with a capital ‘KILL ME NOW’. Still it’s not my money so really. Who cares?

For the record, the Sony works perfectly well and since he talks into it while sitting at his desk, I’m not seeing why it needs to be made of solid steel to begin with but then I’m not a pampered fuckwit with fancy ideas.

All my fancy ideas involve sharp implements and soft flesh and result in death.

Viva La Résistance

The Dark Überlord, who’s in Europe this week on business, called me yesterday distraught because his swanky hotel room (a five star hotel room at that) didn’t have an impressive enough view for his lofty tastes. “It overlooks a side street!” he spluttered, terrified by this unknown world of deprivation. Well that must have been just traumatizing. A side street! The indignity. There must be someone we can sue for the distress caused to his emotional psyche. Paging Doctor FUCK-YOU!

Also – horror! - the people in the room next door had the audacity to have an infant. Not that he could hear the kid or anything, but, in theory, he might hear it and then where would the world be if he was forced to wake up bleary-eyed and devoid of the brain cells necessary to participate in his meeting? Well the world would tilt on its axis, Dark Überlord. People would run shrieking through the streets, knocking over nuns and small children in their wake, causing massive traffic pile-ups and mayhem at intersections. Stores would close and public transport would grind to a halt and the market would drop to unprecedented lows and start a recession.

Silly old butt-sausage.

On the upside, since he’s been gone I’ve been taking advantage of my freedom by coming in late and closing my office door all day to block out the rest of the scum. I’ve been playing my iPod through the speakers and singing along. I’ve been avoiding all the minions who are scurrying around hyperactively, like ants, making sure the client’s ass is well and truly kissed and other très important matters of world shattering importance, while I swing on my chair giving them the finger.

It all irritates me. The corporate world is not The Guv’ner’s world. The Guv’ner’s world is filled with margaritas and cake and bad men and music and comedy shows and Edy’s Butter Pecan ice cream and gay abandon and cursing and cats and liquor and drawing cartoons and sticking pins in maps and like...dreaming about a debauched weekend in Amsterdam eating magic brownies and getting up at noon and sitting around half the day in her underpants and a t-shirt scooping cereal into her mouth and patting her tummy and playing with dogs and interfering with boys and writing tripe and playing guitar and wearing fuzzy slippers and it is not about sitting at a desk all day organzing meetings for half-witted fucktards who can’t tie their own shoelaces..

Let the rebellion begin.

A Brief Whine

My boss is a pretty verbose guy. He spews forth words like a little volcano of vocabulary. He also likes to put things in writing where at all possible; memos, buck-slips, emails, documents indicating progress on a project, that sort of thing. He’s just never brief, is my point.

Usually these things are a case of him talking into a Dictaphone and me transcribing it, with a cackle, into Microsoft Word. Nice and easy. I type fast and really, a chimp could do that stuff. Occasionally though, he demands a cover note or slide for a PowerPoint presentation. This is fine in theory. I am more than coherent in PowerPoint.

He, however, is not.

For a start, he does not comprehend that you can not fit an infinite amount of words onto one PowerPoint slide – at least not unless you want a font size of minus 300 and are planning on handing out free magnifying glasses and an aneurysm with the presentation. He will hand me tapes full of words that would fill three single-spaced pages of Word and expects this all to fit concisely onto one slide. This is the world he lives in. Despite the obvious faces of disgust I pull when asked to do this, he doesn’t see what my problem is. I don’t have a magic wand, Dark Überlord, that’s what. My name is not Hermione Granger.

I actually like working in PowerPoint. You can do some neat stuff in there - like the time I made a presentation of all the people I hated at my last job. I made mean yet oddly accurate cartoons of everyone, captioned them all, wrote some scathing text detailing their various levels of assholity, made some graphs and pie charts (because no presentation is complete without some mathematical goodness) and synched up appropriate music. Every time Cruella de Ville, for example, would appear on the screen, that song “Bitch” by Meredith Baxter would start up. It was quite excellent! I couldn’t find a song about crusty old procrastinating douchebags for Mr. Panty-Waist so he had to make do with Carly Simon's “You’re so Vain”. And the Primitives’ “Really Stupid”.

Honestly it was a classic. When it was finished, I brought it in early one morning on my laptop along with some doughnuts and coffee, so that I and my good friends The Evil Queen and Timo could have a locked-door screening in Timo’s office where we ate, drank and gave copious amounts of "The Finger" when necessary, which turned out to be every five seconds on average. Who knew therapy could be as cheap as six doughnuts and some caffeine?

So you see, PowerPoint can be your friend.

Not for my current boss however. Mr. “I would like twenty different bullet points in one document”. Mr. “I have diarrhea of the verbal variety”. Oh no.