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...