digitaldiscipline: (Default)
[Uttered by the national sales henchperson at my office, watching me make her life simpler.]

"You know, the heavy lifting that we do around here is what makes all the pretty stuff easier later on.[1]"

Suffice it to say, I am substantially less gung-ho about making her pet project come to fruition (not that it didn't take her three weeks to get back to me on a one-page document I published for her to review), not because she's technically illiterate (which may or may not be true), or even because she's blunt (I tend to admire that), but because her universe revolves around making herself look good, with as little effort as possible.

"You get me the info you want to have here, and I can make it happen."
"Then what do you do?"
"Teach you, or one of your lackeys, how to do it, because I'm not a sales minion, so you'll know when changes are needed."
"We could get you on the list..."
"No."


[1] Hacking a CSS template, since IE doesn't recognize the .box tag, using notepad. Well, gee whiz, plaintext sure doesn't look like much when you're a PowerPoint whore, but watch the page look pretty when I get this shit right. . . and, yes, it's trial and error until then. Sorry there aren't any goddamned dancing hamsters to amuse you in the interim.

Have this rat, freshly back from the greater NYC area. He's real friendly, but has a bit of a substance abuse problem....
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digitaldiscipline: (Lumberg)
[If you can all hear that in that 50's "Build Your Own Bomb Shelter" voice, so much the better. Add audio artifacts, like scratches and pops, for that extra frisson of authenticity. . . I'm just making shit up]
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digitaldiscipline: (Lumberg)
Yes, Swarmy, your job is hellisher than mine. Doesn't mean mine doesn't suck, yours just sucks more.

Boss: How do I cancel this print job?
Me: I usually walk over and hit the button.
Boss: Which button?
Me: The one on the printer that says ON/OFF.

He's currently muttering and basically kicking an electronic dead horse. "It did it again! It popped up the thing, and then it went away!"

Look, Commander Numbshit, if it printed just fine to the fast, cheap, big printer when I walked you through it two minutes ago, why do you insist on trying to print to the slow, expensive one? It's not like I don't jump up and take the printouts to you when they come out by my right ear anyways. . . . that is, when you're not interrupting the major yet pointless undertaking I've got sitting on my desk to have me do even more pointless and menial shit, like clean a work area that's remaining unused or typing a bit of correspondence that you're perfectly capable of typing yourself.

"Where the hell are those pages I just printed out?"
"I gave them to ____. He's the one you were printing them out for, right?"
"Um, Okay. Thanks."

Even when I'm reading his mind, it pisses him off. Thank god the other guy here is bored and aggravated enough to be willing to do the extra-menial stupid work of reformatting essentially meaningless information, so I'm free to do such lovely things.

Maybe Swarmy is on to something, staying all night - the boss would be gone after hours. The downside, of course, is that I have no idea what the fuck he's doing; presuming, for a moment, that he has the slightest fucking clue.

In other news, I like having sex. I like pizza. And Miller High Life is substantially better in bottles than cans.
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