I spend a fair amount (much too much) of my time at work solving problems (i.e. fixing other peoples' F-ups), and recently there's been A LOT of them, many of which are caused - or at least further complicated - by incompetence and an institutionalized lack of accountability. Despite my repeated attempts to present solutions to many recurring problems, management has yet to take much, if any action to ameliorate them. (On a side note, I imagine that these problems are neither unique to my firm, or to my job, so this one is also for all of our readers who are similarly getting shafted by the man).
Of course, calling out your boss probably isn't exactly the best course of action career-wise, especially so in this difficult (slash non-existent) market for Finance jobs, but, like most impulsive decisions, it seemed like a really good idea at the time.
Thankfully (luckily?), reader Calgary Schmooze was able to bring me back to my senses with this positively inspirational tribute to the daily grind.
(btw, if anyone's looking to hire a hard-working Anal_yst, shoot me an email firstname.lastname@example.org, as my current gig severely underutilized my skills/knowledge/uncanny mastery of sarcasm/etc.)
From this Craigslist post:
Upon stepping into the office this morning, I had two different people remind me what day it is. “It’s Friday” they spouted, as if they had just unveiled some hidden truth about life……no shit it’s Friday, believe it or not I have a vague understanding of the passing of time, and keep myself moderately aware of what day in the week it is. But thanks anyway, lest I forgot and had the horrible misfortune of thinking it was Thursday. Could you imagine? The horror.
So what does Friday really mean? Why do people feel the need to tell you what day it is? I don’t recall many occasions where an excited employee nudged me w/ a pointy elbow to remind that it was, in fact, Tuesday. “Dude, it’s Tuesday, sweet.” Well, the reason is most of us hate our jobs, and Friday is our welcome respite from the soul shitting grind that is the working week. And what do most of us do on a Friday night? Drink. Self-medicate. Salute ourselves for another listless week by flooding our central nervous system with what is essentially poison. Before you think me some finger pointing parade rainer, please know that I love, love the poison.
So we drink, letting our horrid memories of pointless meetings, inane office banter, the sound of the printer spitting out the dead carcasses of our beloved, oxygen giving trees just so everyone in the office can read yet another idiotic memo from the CEO reminding us all of the importance of “hammering the phones” (this ass-clown refuses, refuses to email the memos, declaring that it’s much more “personal” when it’s tangible, in your hand, and you’re reading it. Note to cock-smoke, no one reads them anyway, you’d have a better shot at getting us to look at a feces-smeared scrap of notebook paper and sticking that on our desks, you raging, insufferable, overpaid mental midget.) By the way, why couldn’t someone have told me that the phone would be such a huge part of corporate life? I don’t remember hearing in college “by the way, 89% of you will make a living by incessantly calling uninterested parties via the telephone and trying like holy hell to get them to purchase something you yourself don’t even understand or believe in, enjoy, you’re doing yeoman work!” So, we drink, we drink to wash it all away, to silence the demons that fester in our skulls Monday through Friday, that feed off our collective apathy as we whither away in front of the true idiot box (the computer has officially taken over the T.V as the single most contributing factor in the decline of modern civilization, causing at the very least eye damage, and the worst, total and complete mental breakdowns. If Google’s pop-up blocker didn’t come around, I’d be serving 25 to life right now for some sort of reprehensible crime). So we drink, we drink to forget and to forgive. To forget the past 5 days, and forgive ourselves for what we’re about to do in the next two. To forgive ourselves for not becoming what we always dreamed. To forgive ourselves the rampant complacency that has taken a hold of us as we watch our lives slip away, one company-wide email at a time.
So we drink. Like rabbits fuck, we drink, from close of business to close of bar, we imbibe enough alcohol in one sitting in the vein, fruitless attempt to carve out just a smidgen of fun in an this suddenly barren, bleak, pale existence we call our lives.
Okay, I think I’m getting a bit too depressing. It’s Friday after all, as I was just reminded by Kelly, our sales engineer, as I was typing this. Actually, I should be clearer, she said, “Hey hun, T.G.I.F, right?” I should have replied “L.O.L Kelly, hopefully we both get a little T.L.C tonight, oh, B.T.W, fuck off.”
Kelly’s a nice girl; I should take this out on her.
So we drink. Like Republicans lie or Democrats waiver, we drink; we drink more than Market Street smells. We drink more than the Muni line 30, 41, and 45 through Chinatown blows. We drink more than Ted Kennedy’s third liver could ever hope to possibly expunge. We drink because we can. We drink because we must.
Now of course, there are some of you out there who like their jobs. A few who dare use the word “love.” But you’re not reading this, b/c you’re busy doing what you enjoy, not scouring CL for something or someone to buy/sell/trade/dump/fuck/rant/rave/find/steal/lie to/lie about/and all other things Craig.
We drink because Katie, our manager, is so insecure she actually makes breathing awkward.
We drink because Bruce, the VP of being a incredible ass-face (and Biz-Dev) insists upon wearing enough cologne to the point where lighting a match anywhere near him is potentially life threatening.
We drink because Michael, the homophobic advertising guy, gets all red in the face if you call him “Mike.” So of course, we call him Mike often, cutting off the “e” at the end to emphasize the point that we’re really, really enjoying it.
We drink because if we have to endure one more Friday afternoon meeting, we might just projectile vomit in Kevin’s glandular, gnome like face. Just because you don’t have a life doesn’t mean the rest of us want to sit down at 4:45 on a Friday to discuss the company’s direction for Q3. You see Jeff’s left eye twitching? I’d give this meeting another 3 minutes before he reaches across the table and pulls one of your ears off, Kev. The man’s in a custody battle for his children and you’re taking time away from his weekend with them because you’re a selfish, horrible man. And if Kevin does blow, you can bet your ass Mitch, the North West sales manager will. I swear that guy starts off cooking some chicken by biting their fucking heads off. Do you hear his unending finger tapping on the faux-marble table? Notice how the pace quickens every few minutes? Well Kev, you’ve got a few more seconds of being a bullshit blowhard until Mitch pulls your heart of your fucking chest.
We drink because there’s no such thing as a good week of work.
We drink because if Jessica doesn’t say, “this is a mission critical decision” at least 4 times a week, it means she was out sick three days. Jessica, it’s an office supply order for Staples, how in HOLY HELL is that mission critical? Do you even know what mission critical means? Do you? You’re the office manager, not the board chairman, the phrase “mission critical” should never, EVER come out of your mouth. It’s a stapler, not a funding request, chill the fuck out.
We drink because there is no such thing as a uni-sex bathroom. It’s a girl’s bathroom people. You wonder why us guys leave the office at least twice to three times a day, not including lunch? It’s because we have to shit, and we can’t very well shit in that veritable Globe Theatre of a restroom, where every sound is amplified ten fold. The one time I just had to go (note to Jessica, now that was a mission critical decision) and simply couldn’t make it to the hotel across the street (those people must have caught on that I’m not staying there, considering they see me every fucking day) I took a shit in the uni-sex bathroom, and what ensued was an anal-philharmonic, led by yours truly, in which the entire office was privy to every fart, grunt, and bowel-related sound effect I had to offer. I felt like taking a bow when I got out, possibly chugging some coffee and going in for an encore. So no, it’s not uni-sex, it’s a girl’s room. You might as well stick a huge tampon on the door with a note reading “No Y Chromosomes allowed.” Oh, and Regina…I salute your utter shamelessness when it comes to shitting. I’ve never, ever seen a women carry the paper under arm when she walks into the bathroom. Bra-fucking-O my girl. Truly, classic stuff.
We drink because we know Ted’s gay, the whole office knows Ted’s gay, Ted’s friends and family know Ted’s gay, and we’re pretty sure at this point Ted must be vaguely aware he’s gay, yet he still insists upon talking about all the “hot ass” he “tags” over the weekend. Note to Ted, it’s not working amigo, when you can recite more show tunes than Nancy, who worked on Broadway in Manhattan for 4 years, well, it’s time to take the jaws of life to that closet door and step out into the world the way you were intended. Thing is Ted, everyone likes you, you’re good people, and coming out won’t change that, it will simply save us from the intensely awkward experience of suffering through one of your bullshit “she was so hot and then we did this and that” stories. How come we never see this girls Ted? How come they never call, never email, and what’s that stain on your shirt? It doesn’t look like mayo.
We drink because we all know that “lunch and learn” really means “this will be the worst lunch you’ll have all week” as we’re forced to share low-rent burrito’s at Chevy’s and listen to some hired-gun of a sales guy tell us all how we have to “want it” more than the other guy. Hey Chet, this is software sales, not rugby, now fuck off.
We drink because Amanda in finance is hot, and Tom in HR thinks he’s going to bang her, and as God in heaven is my witness, if he does I will completely shut down and cry myself to sleep, because Tom in HR is quite possibly a larger d-bag than Kevin, and should he bed Amanda, well, then..nothing is right in the world. We drink because we’re afraid that might happen, and we drink because we’re too afraid to talk to Amanda, save for the pathetic “warm today” comment we threw at her on Tuesday. No shit it’s warm today, she too must come from outside like the rest of us, it’s not as if she wakes up, showers, than steps in her transporter and beams herself to work. She goes outside too, you fuck. And by you, I mean me.
We drink because we’re almost positive Brett and Stu are get stoned at lunch, and we’re pissed they haven’t invited us along yet.
We drink because the last time someone said something funny at work it was completely unintentional, and it revolved around a Freudian slip when Kev, at the end of one of his marathon Friday meetings, was trying to answer Mitch’s constant interjections over our marketing budget but also trying to keep Brian quiet and ended up trying to speak to them both at the same time, calling Mitch “Bitch”. Hilarious. The fact that Kev survived that meeting is a testament to the fact that he’s like a cockroach, and could survive anything. A nuclear holocaust ensues, we’re all dead…and there will be Kevin, holding court in a Friday afternoon meeting with three charred corpses and half a human head, wondering aloud “where everybody is?”
We drink because calling our work weekend in Reno a “retreat” is an oxymoron. It’s not a retreat, it’s an assault, an assault on everything we hold dear…how DARE you ask me to give up a weekend to go to a conference w/ the whole company in Reno. I’d rather eat Kevin’s shit. Okay, that’s a little too far. I’d rather throw shit at Kevin. Actually, come to think about, throwing shit at Kevin would be kinda high on my list of things to do over a weekend.
We drink because Shelly has now tried to arrange four different happy hour get togethers and the only one who shows up is Kelly and Mitch, and the only reason Mitch shows up is because he’s a drunk. We drink at some other bar, out of sadness for Shelly. And Mitch.
We drink because the thought of Monday is enough to make us cry.
And finally, we drink because in the end, when it’s all said and done, we have much to celebrate. We are lucky enough to have the luxury of bitching about corporate jobs and cubes and the bullshit office when you consider the state of affairs for most of this planet’s inhabitants, every day a true struggle, food and a roof over their heads never a certainty, but rather something they strive for. We drink because in the end, we’re lucky, spoiled, pampered brats, we know it.
We drink because we can.
We drink because we have to.