An ode to that horrible screaming judge on “So You Think You Can Dance”
**Septemberday **watches this thing in the living room, while I’m in the bedroom on my computer. The tweens in the audience screaming? Eh, annoying, but no big deal. Then she comes on. Her voice is bad enough, somewhere just on the bearable side of Fran Drescher. But then she gets excited. Something about that scream shoots straight through the wall, travels down the back of my spine, and clamps its teeth onto my lumbar vertebrae. Fingernails on a chalkboard would be a blessing. :mad:
I came very close during lunch yesterday to asking her if she wouldn’t mind watching that after I’d gone back to the office.
Can Fox broadcast her internationally without violating the Geneva Convention?
Nice sexist headline, Yahoo! How to Train Your Boyfriend. Can’t wait for tomorrow’s installment, How to Train Your Girlfriend, right? I wonder if you have to keep chicken in your pocket like on It’s Me or the Dog. :rolleyes:
To a person I ranted about in the May mini-rants thread:
May I say once again how tired I am of your whiny phone calls and weepy emails regarding how horrible things are at work? When are they ever NOT horrible? Will you ever learn to delegate, or must you control everything and then be a martyr about it? You have two months’ worth of vacation time coming which you may lose if you don’t use it. Take a frakking vacation already and stop bitching to me.
Oh, and you can stop bragging to total strangers about the company you work for. You only do it to get attention, and it’s damned hypocritical as well, considering how frequently you tell the rest of us how much you hate it there.
Goddamnit, fuckwits, you’re providing RSS feeds for yourcomicstrips. Stop making me click on a fucking link to view the strip. Everybody else has figured out how to put the actual comic in the RSS reader, why can’t you?
Fuck you. I’m not going to post “SPOILER ALERT” in my fucking Facebook status so you can maintain your self-imposed blackout on the fucking songs fucking U2 is fucking rehearsing–REHEARSING, NOT PLAYING–for the motherfucking start of their fucking tour. Jackass. God, I hate self-important, self-righteous, delusional, obsessive fan twits. News flash: Bono doesn’t know who you are, no matter how many times you’ve flashed your tits at him from the front row.
Dear co-worker who went away:
I understand that you and your family were glad to move back up north, as South Florida and you weren’t a match made in heaven. I understand that you were a dependable, trusty worker, who produced good work, were patient with your other co-workers, and that you were a humble soul who appreciated being told that your efforts mattered. I understand that you never thanked me personally for the two gift certificates I awarded to you last year for your good work, because you probably didn’t know that they came from me, rather than the department’s petty cash fund. I understand when you cried due to intense emotion when you received an award (and cash) that I nominated you for. I even understand that you didn’t know how to spell or create readable sentences; your job didn’t require it, so neither did I. I also understand that you were a devout Christian who adorned your cubicle with JESUS LOVES YOU, MOMMY signs that your kids made. Because you never prostelyized, however, I really didn’t care – you came in, you did your job and did it well, and we got along fine.
I understand that HR did an exit interview when you left.
What I can’t understand is why you bad-mouthed me to HR. Told them I made people feel stupid. Told them I was short-tempered. Told them my under-staff were afraid to come to me with their technical issues.And worse, none of this came from you – you were just repeating things that other people told you. PEOPLE WHO DIDN’T EVEN WORK IN OUR DEPARTMENT AT THE TIME OF YOUR LEAVING. So now that’s noted in my file. HR required my boss to have a talk with me; she was able to assure them that I was not a bully, and that there was no need for a formal Verbal Warning. But what do you care? You left. Maybe you thought you were doing the right thing. I just can’t understand why.
I don’t care if your doctor doesn’t know if it’s viral or bacterial. Our company has about the most flexible telecommuting policy on earth; WORK FROM HOME! My toddler and I don’t want to catch what you have, and I’ve been watching you rub your eyes and then not wash them.
Dear Microsoft. Thank you for breaking my code that has been working for the past six year. You were nice enough to introduce a new function that theoretically replaced the old code but didn’t have the same functionality. So that required me to move my data into a new place in the resource file. But tell me, why does the string table not support cut and paste? And why does it look like the resource editor for the string table was written by an untalented intern who didn’t quite finish the job by the end of the summer? Why did a fifteen minute fix have to take three hours of increasing frustration?
Had to remove this one, because I’m afraid the person it’s about will see it.
To person at investigative agency is State A. Just fucking admit you made a mistake. You don’t know me, I don’t know you, you’re never going to talk to me again, just say “Whoops, sorry!” and hang up. This is the conversation:
HER: I’m calling to request records from a Smith County agency in my state, State A.
ME: Do you mean Smith County, State B, or Smith County, State C? Because we do business with those locations but not with Smith County in your state, State A.
HER (as if I’m retarded): NO. I am with investigative agency in STATE A. I need records from Smith County in STATE A.
ME: Well, as I said, we don’t do business with Smith County, State A, and have never done business with them, so I’m afraid I can’t help you.
HER: But they gave me YOUR name and YOUR direct number! How else would I get your number?
ME (did not say I give up: how?): Probably you called Smith County, State B or State C, since either of those locations would have directed you to me.
HER: NO. I called Smith County in my state and they gave me your name and number.
ME: I don’t see how that’s possible, since we don’t do business with them so they wouldn’t even have my name and number.
HER: I would not have called State B or C, why would I do that? I know I called State A.
Bitch, get over yourself. You called the wrong fucking agency in the wrong fucking state. That is quite literally the only way you would have been directed to me. You cannot change reality by arguing with me, and you cannot make my company work in Smith County, State A, because WE DON’T WORK THERE! So I cannot help you. Ever! I don’t give a good goddam how you did it or why you did it, but you called the wrong place. Get over it and move on, and get the fuck off my phone. The phrase you’re looking for is “Whoops, sorry! click” Jesus, if you can’t even admit such a minor and completely meaningless error, you must be an absolute treat to work with or live with.
I applied for a crappy job at Big Corporate Entity. A week later I get a phone call from Big Corporate Entity HR. They want to schedule a phone interview with someone local. We schedule for 9:30 AM, today, plus or minus 15 minutes. They will call me.
I get up this morning, shower, drink coffee. It is about 9 AM. I make sure my phone is charged and next to me. Phone does not ring.
It is 9:30. My phone does not ring.
It is 9:45. I wonder if perhaps I have been blown off.
It is 9:55. My phone rings. It is the woman I am to interview with apologizing that she is running late. Can she call me back in about half an hour? I agree.
40 minutes elapse. My phone rings. It is my interviewer. She asks me about why I left my most recent job. I explain. She asks why I left my job before that. I explain. She asks why I left the job before that. I explain. Since she has my work history she has my application, which has the reasons why I left on it. She asks if I am looking for full-time or part-time; I say, as I said on my application, I would prefer full-time. She asks me to tell her about a work-related accomplishment I am proud of. I have had mostly crappy part-time jobs but I spin something about a project I worked on last summer. She asks me if I have any questions. I do not. She says they’ll be scheduling the next round of interviews next week; otherwise I’ll get an email letting me know I’m out of the running.
Total time spent waiting for interview: Roughly one hour and thirty-five minutes.
Total time spent actually interviewing: Seven minutes and twenty-two seconds.
Amount of time dedicated to things which were not specifically addressed on my application: Generously, ninety seconds.
Don’t take this the wrong way, but if you can’t protect yourself and your toddler from the co-worker by persuading him to avail himself of the flexible telecommuting policy, could you maybe protect yourselves by availing yourself of it?
And why would you expect your co-worker to wash his eyes? The only person I know who does tha is my wife, and her eyes are both made of plastic.
The one leading from the corridor outside our offices to the outer corridor. The one that has had various mechanical problems in the eight years I’ve been here, necessitating at least a dozen lengthy repairs featuring lots of clanking, banging and loud byplay between the dedicated, highly trained technicians called to fix it each time.
A little while ago the self-closing gasket exploded, sending a rank oily substance spraying all over the place. It smells like a cross between a machine shop and a toxic waste dump. Plus the door now bangs loudly when closing.
The guy currently clanking and banging out there asked me if this particular door was always here. I had to admit that it was installed some time back. Apparently the architect should have designed it in the first place and we are now paying the price for promiscuous door installation.
This is a goddamn door, not a critical electronic component on the space shuttle. It should be possible to buy one that can go a year at a time without breaking down in some insane and exotic way.
The company I work for can’t make money doing it’s regular line of business so here is our new business model:
Fire 60% of staff. (Expect everything to function just like before, but that’s another rant).
Cram everyone from 3 floors onto the 3rd floor, so they can rent out the crappy 1st and 2nd floors of our historical (read: old and crappy) building to other companies who presumably know how to make money doing what they do (although we are so lame we will probably rent out to deadbeats).
So, crap. I will no longer have an office. I will instead be sharing a large echo-y room with 3 or 4 other people, one of whom is a woman who has one of those annoying laughs, and who uses it all the time.
Wait a minute, you cankerous, deludedly self-important, cunt-wafflerific mud-sucking swamp bitch.
Did you just get nasty with me and give me the high hat because your secretary transferred my call to you while you were in a meeting?
What the fuck?
I am not telepathic, I do not have mind-control powers, I do not pay her salary – I did not make her transfer my call.
If you’re in a meeting it’s up to your assistant to know that or be held responsible for my being transferred while your pompous ass is in a meeting.
Oh, and wipe up the snot that dripped copiously onto your phone, desk and floor in the tone you used when you condescendingly said, to my question, “No, I’ll call you back,” as you hung up without taking my number.
People, when you’re leaving a voice mail please make sure you state your name clearly. I have an interview tomorrow with a guy whose name I’m very unsure of because he has a bad case of the mumbles.
Does it go “ooooooooo-HOOO HOOO HOOO”? (There’s one at my workplace like that – she’s a nice lady, but that laugh is so loud.)
I went from an office to sharing an office with one other person. Fortunately, he’s quiet, but the divider installed in the room has created some weird acoustics; when other people come in to talk, it gets extremely loud.
