Subject: Countdown Begins

Date: 13 Feb 1997 00:00:00 GMT

From: 1Ol01O@radix.net (MegaLiz)

Organization: RadixNet Internet Services

Newsgroups: alt.slack

 

 

 

 

 

I just figured it out: I have a maximum of 63 more work days at

this place. That's 504 hours minus about 16 hours for being

habitually late, for a nice-looking total of 488 hours. Minus

lunch, that would be 425 hours, which looks even better. I might

have to take some vacation... 405 TOPS.

 

These days I have an OBSCENE amount of slacktime, which may or

may not be used for actual Slack enjoyment. It just depends.

Jabba the Boss and I seem to be enduring a sort of slow motion

tango: will I quit before he fires me? Since nobody can answer

this question with certainty, my former duties have be delegated

leaving me with only two things to do. I fix things and I find

people who are not where they are supposed to be.

 

This morning, I had to try to find people as soon as I got here,

because clients had been calling and I was not where I was

supposed to be. I exchanged lots of calls with my favorite of

the bunch, who was not where he was supposed to be and needed

the stuff that he didn't get while he wasn't there. Then he

called to say that he was happy to get the useless document I

sent and why couldn't everybody be as fast as me. AW.

 

Then I get a call from a guy, who is soon to be leaving, looking

for a guy who is supposed to be here. He needs to tell him not

to go where he's supposed to be next week. The first guy needs

an answer soon though, because he's supposed to be somewhere

else. In fact, he hasn't been home for a YEAR. AW.

 

After I fixed a couple of machines, I had nothing left to do.

It was 11:30! So I went to the Post Office. For mysterious

reasons, we PAY them not to deliver to our office. While I'm

jostling with the other patrons in the ill-designed lobby, it

occurs to me that HAD I been huffing dangerous fumes and

collapsed right there, I could have knocked out the first

person to give me mouth-to-mouth, who would in turn incapacitate

the next hero, etc. Like one of those tragic manure pit

incidents. And some people wonder why the post office inspires

homocide. It just IS LIKE THAT.

 

Once I wander back to where I'm supposed to be, I have nothing

to fix and no one to find. Still. I check mail and get a note

from a friend who wants to get pregnant but needs guidance,

which give me the treasured opportunity to offer my favorite

advice.

 

I try ONE MORE TIME to retrieve the Weather Dave picture for my

new tasteful screen background. No luck.

 

Then I find out that I have something to do: I must swear out

an affadavit that a deadbeat client is in fact a deadbeat. He's

the ONLY ONE in eleven years that I haven't been able to extract

due payment from. My sole failure as sometime charming collection

agent.

 

HE SHOULD SUFFOCATE IN THE POST OFFICE AMONG SMELLY STRANGERS,

but NO, "Bob" must have some other use for this swilly scumbag.

 

He's just his type.

 

I'm done now. 404 1/2. HAHAHAHAHAHAH.