I Ruin then Ultimately Save Christmas

Well, I agreed to mind a friend’s cat for a few days. To avoid the wife experiencing unnecessary worry, I just had it arrive as a surprise. Because I care about her wellbeing. The integration with our own cats is currently going exactly how I expected; clusterfuck of magnificent proportions. I decided to wait until later to acknowledge ‘a few days’ is a liberal and probably condensed understanding of the ‘visit’ period.

The scenario has allowed me to reach a few logical conclusions though. Namely: male cat just wants to sniff and make friends. Girl cats both want to hiss and cause problems. With a sample size of three, logically, all female cats are bitches. I’d like to up the sample size a few more before I can safely jump to all females (generally) being bitches. But yet here we are. Awkward silence.

Also I have needed to point out that reportedly Steve Jobs only slept like 12 minutes in total a night and he got shit done. Which of course does nothing to placate angry wife’s mean sleep-deprived antagonism. Although maybe Steve just owned a few cats that didn’t get along, did you ever think about that? No. Only thinking about yourself and your dream of three hours a night sleep.

As I said though, here we are. It’s funny isn’t it, the old saying of a happy wife leading to a happy life. I always thought the saying was missing something important, you know, like what happens when you don’t have a happy wife.

I know now.

In any case, I am sandwiched in the middle of a home life of moods which alternative between passive-aggressive and aggressive-aggressive and a work life dealing with a new outsource team which, coincidently, can also be described as a clusterfuck of magnificent proportions. Strangely enough the background melody of furious cat hissing is present in both locations.

It being Christmas, I needed to pick myself up and ignore the sarcastic little voice in my head

whispering, “Most of this is your fault”. So I am currently doing what a normal person would be in my circumstance, using Gizoogle to translate all internal office emails into street slang before sending. Or as Gizoogle puts it:

It bein Chrizzle, I needed ta pick mah dirty ass up n' ignore tha sarcastic lil voice up in mah head whispering, "Most of dis is yo' fault". Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. So I be currently bustin what tha fuck a aiiight thug would be up in mah circumstance, rockin Gizoogle ta translate all internal crib emails tha fuck into street slang before sending.

Someone stopped and asked me why I was crying at my desk and I told them a ‘normal person’ is known as an ‘aiight thug’ in street talk. That poetry moved me. Although as they started walking away I clarified that I wasn’t getting any sex at home either. For reasons outside my own control. Then I told them it was “mysterious” while waving my arms around mysteriously.

My current policy on emails may need some revisions as I just called one of the senior partners a “biatch”. I am pretty sure I am going to get in trouble for sending that one, or in street:

I be pretty shizzle I be goin ta git up in shiznit fo' bustin  dat one.

No need to worry, I placated the situation by putting my Outlook out-of-office on a few days early. Then putting an Outlook rule so I don’t see any emails coming in – they are a problem to deal with next year. But as equally as I am someone who hates conflict and confrontation, I am also someone who thrives on contradiction and seemingly, confusion. So my out-of-office message was also translated into street:

Nuff props fo' yo' email.

I personally wish you n' yo' crew all tha dopest fo' tha festizzle season. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy, Dog. May tha egg-nogg be tha noggiest.

I'ma be returnin on 8 January n' is ghon be round dat time, dependin on tha hangover thang.

Try mah mobile beeper first if you urgently need mah crazy ass fo' anythang but will also be checkin emails.

Walk wit Jizzy

Merry Xmas!

Pictured: Die Hard, A Christmas Story

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Under My Wing

Holy fuck, I have been asked to provide guidance on some software changes to our offshore team who we affectionately refer to as the “Inglorious Indian Basterds”. Well I call them that anyway. For some reason our wise management was happy for me to liaise with the ‘Basterds directly, which showed a great deal of faith in me, or in another more accurate way, it showed an uncommon lapse of judgement on their part.

Dear Team India

Thank you for your feedback, we take your comments very seriously and in me you can be rest assured that the firm has provided their best resource to guide you. Well in truth I can’t claim to be the best, but on a good day, at least in the top 20. In any case I will be your guide and champion, like some offended mother goose spreading her wing protectively over a new clutch. If anyone or anything bothers you I will hiss and chase those pricks off the network, honk’n and spitt’n, my solemn word to you: I will fuck them up.

So yes, we recently put through some global migrations to the ledgers and because this is the real world and because our software vendor is like a black hole of stupid, some fixes are required. Before you throw up your hands and call everyone a bunch of thieving cunts for making your work life so much more difficult, for effectively stealing your time, I should warn you: that doesn’t solve anything. I know that because I did the same thing. As your guardian-goose, I am free to offer minor and offhand criticisms during this and all future commentary and right now I feel you are lacking in one important life lesson:

Assume you are about to be fucked over. Assume that in the next minute, hour or week, something will happen which will cause you to throw up your hands and wonder why this and why now. Here’s the crux, God is not real. Your elephant God with the titties isn’t real. This is life and life is cruel. It punishes us for having the gall not just to exist, but to live. You get out of bed and look forward to a bright day? Don’t just expect to be challenged for your own hubris. Demand it, because you are a fucking warrior.

So again, we thank you for the screenshot of the ‘error’ message you provided along with a garbled email that I assume you typed out while having a stroke. Going back to my point above, I recognise the half hour I spent deciphering the message not as karma, but as existence itself challenging me. Well played by young gosling. Well played.

Pictured: IT Department Head

To answer your main question, the error message wasn’t an error at all, it was just a slight change to the wording. As an Australian we have a healthy fear of the unknown, of dark, unknown places where we are expected to place our hands (even if metaphorically). This is because these dark places are full of shit that can kill us (even if metaphorically). I remind you that you are a warrior so click that shit with the confidence of someone born to conquer. If you get bitten, well just ensure you have a good excuse to give to the IT department or at the very least a scapegoat because the IT department has no time for existential excuses about bets between you and the universe. They aren’t normal like us.

There are a few main problems to fix and of course there will be individual challenges in each ledger as well, but I know you have taken my advice from above to heart. You won’t lament when you find these, you will accept them as your due for walking, talking and mastering the fucking electron. Then, knowing you, my young goose-padawan, you will email me a long-winded email which meanders through conflicting statements and questions without reason. But I accept that, because that is my due.

I could explain how to address these main problems, I could even create a “procedure” and document it in the “intranet”. In fact, I should do both of these things because that is what I was asked to do. But what would you learn then? Instead I’m going to offer you exactly the same thing I was provided when I faced these same challenges, jack fucking shit. You pick yourself up and either be the professional you are being paid to be or alternatively find a way to move numbers around and talk fast enough so that it looks like you are, really in this world the only difference between the two is how you sleep at night.

Also let me know if someone is giving you grief here, I will literally stoop down, point out my neck, hiss and bite them right in the groin while flapping my arms around. It’ll be fun.

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Office Banter

A lot of people work out there in the world, without cubicles, without the sterile atmosphere and the scent of people that have just given up. Also, the scent of some dumb fucker who decided to have fish for lunch. Anyway, assuming you were curious, wondering what was said behind those glass doors, this is pretty much it:

Colleague: Are you coming to the Partners’ barbeque?
Me: No.
Colleague: Why?
Me: I don’t like driving north. It feels, wrong, kind of dirty, you know?
Cubical-buddy (interrupting): His wife said they already have something on that night.
Colleague: Why can’t you give a normal answer?
Me: Because my father took off when I was seven years old. But before he left he told me one thing - “Always fuck with them. Always.”
Colleague: Did he really say that?
Me: No.
Colleague: Did he really leave when you were a kid?
Me: Also no.

Me: So, do you have a husband? Boyfriend?
Graduate that I am training: Sort of.
Me: So, girlfriend? We are all pretty open here, <Cubical-buddy > is a lesbian and <other work colleague> is more camp than a row of tents.
Cubical-buddy: No I’m not, don’t listen to him.
Me (whispering very quietly): She experiments.
Graduate: No, I am seeing someone but it is new, and he is three years older.
Me (attempting to look cool in front of a 20 year old): Older is awesome. My wife is 21 years older than me.
<months later at a team bonding fishing day which included spouses>
Graduate (after staring at my wife for an uncomfortably long time): You aren’t 20 years older than him!
<Wife glares at me>
Me: Yeh, my bad, I didn’t prepare you for that one. I am juggling so many balls I forget what lies I’ve told people.

Cubical-buddy: Do you think <Partner> has had a boob job?
Me: Dammit, I know what you are doing. Stop it.
<after coming out of meeting with Partner>
Cubical-buddy: That was fast.
Me: She asked me to leave.
Cubical-buddy: Were you staring at her chest?
Me: I was staring at her chest.

Partner: Did you call <Manager of another team> a cunt?
Me: Before you start shouting, it was situationally relevant.
Partner (now shouting): How could the situation call for that?
Me: He was being a cunt.
Partner: Please don’t do that again, I now have to go and respond to an official complaint.
Me: Fine, but since I’m scratching your back, how about you do that thing for me. You know, the thing I like.
Partner: Fine <turning to Cubical-buddy> go make him a coffee.
Cubical-buddy: He doesn’t even drink coffee!
Partner: Just do it. I will be busy with HR for a while.
Me: Oh good, can you please ask them how my sexual harassment complaint is coming along?
Cubical-buddy: When were you sexually harassed?
Me: I was groped in front of the lifts yesterday.
Partner: Jesus, I just bumped into you and it was an accident.
<Cubical-buddy gasps dramatically>
Me: I know, right. Uninvited physical contact. Her boob rubbed right against my arm.
<Cubical-buddy gasps louder>
<Partner walks off swearing>

Cubical-buddy: Someone used some of my butter in the fridge.
Me: Communal fridge, it happens. Don’t let the man get you down.
<Me, after Cubical-buddy goes to a meeting, sends long winded firm-wide email out condemning the butter theft, reiterating that Cubical-buddy has five children she needs to feed and educate, which is difficult enough, but also her husband ran off with his secretary so she is doing it alone>
Colleague from another team to Cubical-buddy: Look, sorry, I took some of your butter and to make things right I’ve brought you some things, to help out a little.
<hands over a bag of assorted groceries to a confused Cubical-buddy before walking off sheepishly>
Cubical-buddy (for some reason only now noticing the email): God fucking dammit, you lying asshole. Now I need to give this back.
Me (looking through groceries): Fuck that, we got cookies!

This image was mislabeled, obviously. I'm going
to allow it though.

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