Funny Things From My Work

There’s a woman here with no neck. I’m not sure if her shoulders are too high or if it’s her head fat that’s dripping down just below her ears, but she really has no neck. And you never see her turn her head. Why? No neck.

There’s a woman who must answer your question, even though you never ask her. I just went to her department and had a question for the woman who was right in front of me. From about 20 feet away, this other woman started to answer. Loudly yelling across the office. And the answers she was yelling had already been answered by the woman in front of me about 5-10 seconds prior to the yelled answer, so there was a Grand Canyon echo effect happening with this woman who absolutely needed to answer my question, even though she wasn't asked. Do you think she is that desperate for attention or is it a need to be right or to feel helpful that makes her do this thing? I don’t know.

My supervisor is constantly grumpy. And he knows it. When he was first introducing himself to my group, he told us that he had been told by “everyone” that people think he’s mad or upset all the time. “I’m not mad, that’s just the way I am.” Yet he continues to not smile, laugh, engage in personal conversation. He does not answer your questions without insulting you for asking the question first. “As you’ll remember from training…” is one of his favorite beginnings to a sentence. Of course, if I HAD remembered from training, I probably wouldn't be asking. He shaves his forearms. Some co-workers of mine saw him during overtime hours in the summer and he was wearing shorts. They expected him to have shaved legs, but he didn't. Why would you shave your forearms and nothing else?

One of my 19 bosses is senile. Not like, “oh, he can’t remember where his keys are, how cute.” No, this guy is like, “he’s urinating in the fax machine.” But he’s really nice. He smiles a lot. I guess, if I couldn't remember how shitty my job was, I would smile a lot, too.

My friend from work walked into my office, without knocking, and poured the left-over water from his personal coffee pot on to my carpeted floor. “I just had some extra water,” he said to me, and then left. Hysterical!

A doctor of psychology and a man of… oh, I dunno… let’s say 87 years, just told me about how he used to be a really good pitcher. I told him I was not very good at baseball, and he started telling me about how he used to play on all-star teams in high school and college and he was quite good. I had talked with him before, but I had never seen him light up quite like he did when he was talking about how a gentleman from his childhood neighborhood who he called “Whitey” Robinson taught him how to throw curve balls and sliders. They called him “Whitey” because he had a full head of white hair. If you play baseball, you never have a real name. You have a name other people give you. Whitey, Babe, Mr. October, The Mick, Lefty, Satchel, Pee Wee, Duke, Dookie, Poopy, Pee Pee, Piece of Shit, and Vagina Mittens. If you have one of these names, you’re a baseball player. Or a pornographer.