I like to think I'm a pretty 'upbeat' sort of guy at work. Certainly, there are annoyances at my office -- not to mention complications, technical difficulties, seemingly endless meetings, sudden emergencies, unexpected problems, and a urinal handle that won't flush unless you jiggle it just right -- but I try not to let it get to me. I try to be positive. Cheerful. And mostly, in denial of the shit-tsunami that's usually surging it's way down the hall towards me.

Listening to music in the car on the way to work helps. If I'm in a determined sort of mood, I might play some driving techno stuff -- Chemical Brothers, maybe, or the Propellerheads. If I need a pick-me-up, then maybe it's edgy rock, like Smashing Pumpkins or Foo Fighters. And if I'm feeling a little down or tired, I'll pop in something jangly I can sing along with -- Blind Melon is good for that; so is Dave Matthews. And, as I was crooning along with today, so are the Refreshments.

(Yes, I was singing in my car. Yes, often at the top of my lungs. And yes, I'm a sappy damned douchebag. But that's not the point this time. Today, we're laughing at me for another dumbass thing. Do try and keep up.)

So, I made it to work. The last song I was howling along to was 'Mexico', off the Fizzy Fuzzy Big & Buzzy CD. Cool tunes, catchy hooks, nearly-naked cartoon chick on the cover. Good times.

So the lyrics were still running through my head when I made it into the building, and to my first meeting of the day.

At this point, I should probably mention that I'm one of those people who'll suddenly -- though in my case fairly quietly, due to my off-key warble -- break into song, with no obvious provocation. I'm pretty sure I picked it up from my dad -- he's got this weird, and apparently contagious, habit of singing about what he's doing, or what someone just said to him. I don't know where the hell he got it from, but he's passed the insanity down to me, and now I'm stuck with it. So I sometimes have 'conversations' like this:

Wife: 'Honey, can you take out the trash?'

Me: 'Takin' out the trrrrrash.... Ooh, I'm a-takin' out the trash... Yes, it's -- Gar-bage Day! Ooh, baby, Gar-bage Day! Hey hey!'

Wife: 'You're an idiot, you know that?'

And then, while I'm carrying the garbage out, she locks me out of the house. Yes, the lady's quite the kidder. Ha mo-fucking ha.

Anyway, there's that. There's also the whole 'humming a song in my head and then realizing that I'm actually singing it, out loud, with other humans within hearing distance' thing, which -- believe it or not -- can be even worse.

Which gets us back to this morning. Let's recap -- Mexico running through my head. Me in a good mood. And an hour-long meeting with bosses and co-workers and such just about to get under way. I've just skipped into the conference room and found a seat, while people pile in around me. I'm singing to myself, in my head, until I get to the bit just before the chorus, when I absentmindedly let a couple of bars slip out. In case you're not familiar with the song in question (and here are the lyrics [link], in case you want to play along at home), here's what the folks in my immediate vicinity heard:

'*hum* *hum* *hum-a-hum-a-hum*...

Got off in the wrong direction --
Found a hooker and lost my erection,
So I had to lie, in the letter...'

I think it was right around 'I had to lie' that I noticed the people staring at me. It took a couple of more words in the verse to put two and two together -- I'd just launched into song at the worst possible point in this little ditty, and got flat busted by at least two -- no, wait, that girl over there's not looking, but her face is really red, so at least three -- oops, hold on, the guy across the table is deliberately avoiding my eyes... eh, but most people in the office end up doing that, so maybe it's just coincidence -- busted by at least three people who just heard me spontaneously spout something about a 'hooker' and 'lost my erection' in the lull before the start of the weekly group meeting. Out-fucking-standing. Oh, the wonders this will do for my rep with these people. Goody to the max.

So, that was how my morning started today. I think I recovered pretty well -- I looked around, wide-eyed, like a shaved gerbil at a K-Y convention, and then muttered, 'Aw, shit!' and pretended to study the meeting agenda in front of me. Smooth, yes? Cool like the other side of the pillow. That's right.

And now, I'm just waiting for the bullshit to start. 'Hey, Charlie, picked up any hookers lately?' Or, 'Yo, Erection Boy -- how's it hanging?' And probably, 'You know, dude, it's okay -- there are pills for people like you.'

*sigh*

The worst part is, this snarky crap will only go on until I pull the next cluetarded brainfart move, and catch hell for that, instead. And the circle of life goes on.

Meanwhile, I'm gonna start listening to NPR in the damned car. Sure, it's about as exciting as giving a teamster a Brazilian backwax... but at least there are no lyrics to lodge themselves in my brain and get me in trouble later. I can pretty well guarantee you that the words 'hooker' and 'erection' have never been uttered together in the same sentence on public radio before. Hell, maybe not even separately. Those guys have no damned fun at all. Perfect for those morning meetings. I'm sold.

Going to work yesterday cost me five hundred dollars.

I suppose that's technically not true. To be fair, you'd have to add back the salary I made at work yesterday, minus the cuts for federal taxes, state taxes, Social Security, my retirement account, life insurance, health insurance, parking, and the annual office Cinco de Mayo fund. Plus the new slipcovers on the boss' couch I'm still paying for, from last year's Cinco de Mayo fiesta.

So in reality, going to work only cost me approximately four hundred and ninety-three dollars and twelve cents.

Yay, job. Whoop-de-doo.

Here's what happened: I was driving along, minding my own business and rocking out to Celine Dion The Wiggles Christopher Cross the latest manly death metal sensation. I forget the name of the band -- Devilspawn? Dripping Evil? Deathtongue? It's not important, really.

The significant bit happened as I was crooning belting out a chorus and *WHAM*, the passenger side of the car lurched and wobbled ominously. There was nothing obviously there, except the curb I wasn't near. No cars or motorbikes or filthy street urchins were to be seen.

But something was there, and whatever it was blew the hell out of my right front tire. In seconds, the car was limping and *kathump*-ing along in rhythm to the music. As 'percussion', it was sort of intriguing. As 'roadworthy vehicle', it was quickly fading out of the picture. I needed a garage, and fast.

So I found one. But slow. Painfully slowly, in fact, which is how I rolled and shimmied to the nearest garage I knew. I'd seen them with a busted tire before -- two at once, in fact. They're good people. Honest and hardworking, as far as I can tell. They probably call their mothers every weekend, too.

Anyway, I finally made it to the garage. They offered to sell me a new tire, and I graciously accepted. They noted -- quite politely, mind you -- that my inspection sticker was a few weeks overdue.

You see, here in the progressive Commonwealth of Masshole-achusetts, we have a mechanic check our wiper fluid and left tail lights every year, to make sure that the least complicated and most trivial bits of the vehicle are functioning properly. This is called an 'inspection', and we pay thirty bucks a pop for the privilege of the service.

We then pay several hundred more dollars to fix, reattach, patch, clean, buff, wax, or replace bits of the car that the mechanics say are faulty. Even though those parts aren't actually part of the inspection, and couldn't realistically be observed by anyone who's not 'examining' your car with X-ray specs and a high-powered chainsaw.

Basically, the 'problems' the 'mechanics' 'find' are all part of the process. We think of it as an extra tax, for having the audacity to own a car and gum up the environment in the first place. We're in New England; we're easily guilted like that.

So, long story marginally shorter, that's exactly what happened. The missus had already scolded me for letting the inspection lapse anyway, so I let the mechanics open her up for a look.

(That's the car, not my wife, mind you. I'm not letting any damned grease monkeys tinker under my wife's hood.

Or anyone else, for that matter. I even installed a Lo-Jack. Don't ask. And no touchy, leadfoot. I'm watching you.)

Five hours and five hundred dollars later, I had the car back, with not one, but three new tires, a remounted exhaust doohickey underneath, and a fancy new inspection sticker worth its weight in... hell, I don't know. What costs five hundred bucks for a fraction of an ounce, anyway? Gold-plated platinum? Really, really good crank? Concentrated stripper sweat? I'm not sure.

The truly amazing thing is that the ordeal could have cost me more. After a point, this garage simply wouldn't take my money. I told one guy that if they're changing three tires anyway, and I suspect the fourth has a slow leak, why not give me a whole new set?

And he pooh-poohed me. Insofar as a large, greasy Italian mechanic can 'pooh-pooh' anything, really. More likely, he 'pshaw'ed me, or 'pfffffftttt'ed me. Later, I was even 'fuggedabahtit'ed. The point is, they wouldn't do it. They were content to make the other fixes, patch my last remaining original tire, and leave it at that. I guess mechanics in New England are easily guilted, too.

After they've collected my five hundred bucks, of course. Dese guys in da garage, dey's sweethearts and all, but dey gotta eat, ya know what I'm sayin'? Youse ain't gettin' outta dere with a full wallet, but pays more than five hundred smackeroos? Fuggedabahtit!

Sometimes, it just doesn't pay to be greedy.

I worked late at the office tonight, and by eight o'clock, I was starving. I'd only had a puny salad and a hard-boiled egg for lunch, because... well, frankly, I have plenty of unhealthy things in my life already. If eating a bowl of rabbit food occasionally means that I don't have to give up any of the other vices, then it's worth it.

I said, 'occasionally'.

At any rate, that spinach and cucumber crap wasn't doing me any good at half-past-dinnertime. I typically only use the company snack vending machines in emergencies -- but this was an emergency, dammit. So I grabbed a fistful of quarters and hit the vending machines in search of rations.

This was my first trip to the new, improved, and reportedly breathtaking bank of vending machines in the upper lobby of our building. The management had recently seen fit to augment our single, lonely vending device with a whole second machine full of goodies, and marked the arrival with much pomp, in the form of a company-wide email. I could hardly contain myself as I sprinted down the stairs to what I was sure would be a Wonka-esque wonderland of crispy chips, flavored popcorns, and other delicious, highly processed, overpreserved, and largely artificial treats.

(Hey, I had a salad for lunch. I don't want my stomach getting entirely used to that healthy garbage.

Don't look at me that way. What are you, my mother?)

Finally, I arrived at the vending area, flushed with excitement -- and exertion from running down two flights of stairs. Clearly, I needed something salty and fried to boost my energy. For medical reasons.

(It's complicated; you probably wouldn't understand.

I'm not a doctor, but I play one in my head sometimes.)

My first disappointment came as I peered into the goody machines, and found that they contained exactly the same products. Ruffles over here, Ruffles over there. Popcorn over here, popcorn over there. Fritos here, Fritos there, everywhere a Freet-Freet. I could double my DoubleMint if I wanted, but as tempting as QuadrupleMint gum might sound, I was in the market for something more substantial. And preferably, a larger selection. I guess they figured if the machines were identical, they might actually manage to keep one of them full of crap occasionally, unlike the solo one that stays empty six days a week. It's a theory, I guess.

But there was no time for waxing philosophical; the pocket change was shaking in my hand as I lay there in the lobby, gasping my last starving breaths. That's where our resident rent-a-cop found me, when he walked in to freshen up his coffee.

Me: *gasp* *pant* Unnnhh...
Security Guard: You gettin' food there, bub?
Me: Oh. Um, yeah. Just getting some food.
Security Guard: You wanna get out of the floor?
Me: Uhh, sure. Yeah, I can do that.
Security Guard: Good. How about not hamming it up so much next time?
Me: Hey, you got it. I'll do that.
Security Guard: All right, then. Carry on.

(Yes, I have to kiss our rent-a-cop's ass. They give the guy a nightstick -- and I have a tender skull. What can I tell you?)

So, I was left alone to contemplate my choice. That's when I got greedy. I noticed one machine was almost out of these little bags of baked pita chips. Delicious baked pita chips. With cinnamon and sugar. I nearly drooled on my pants, just seeing them there. And I was infinitely relieved the security guard had already left. Those guys tend to frown on public drooling during their watch.

There were only two bags left in the machine, and one of them was hanging, oh-so-tantalizingly, on the outside of the spring that turns to dispense the goodies into the hopper. Some poor sap had deposited a buck for a bag of cinnamon-flavored heaven, and gotten stonewalled by a defective mechanism. I could almost see the rube, shaking and banging at the machine, trying to loose that bag from the machine's clutches. And then finally, dejectedly, slinking away chipless and defeated.

You can see where this is leading, of course.

In my highly starvitated state, I leapt at the chance to score two tasty bags of treats for the price of one. I slung my quarters into the slot, jabbed at the buttons, and watched that beautiful spring twist both bags toward the open air inside the machine.

*twist*... *twist*... *twist*... *twi-*

The spring stopped. The second bag had marched forward, and crammed itself into the first bag. I mean, it was all over it. If the bags have any reproductive parts on their persons, then there'll be a little baby bag of pita chips on the way soon. It was almost obscene to look at.

But the first bag didn't fall.

Oh, it leaned. If it was tantalizingly close to falling before, now it was positively precarious. It was hanging on by one tiny measly corner of the bag, as though the laws of physics and fair play had been suspended inside the vending machine. The bags mocked me from their perch, with their mouthwatering pictures and the scandalous satisfaction implied by their RDA warning labels.

And just like that, I was the rube. I shook the machine. I banged the machine. As quietly as I could without alerting the security guard, I rocked the machine, trying to loose those bags from the machine's clutches.

And then finally, dejectedly, I slunk away chipless. And defeated.

Some might say the moral of the story is 'That's what happens when you give in to greed.' Others might say, 'You're better off without that unhealthy garbage' or 'You could stand to lose a few pounds anyway, there, Tubbo.'

(To these people, I say: 'You can shove it up your Frito-hole, ugly.

Also, shut up. I'm just 'big-boned'. Meany.')

Me, I think the moral is: 'If you manage to choke down nasty rabbit food for lunch, make sure you have a bag of Doritos and a Snickers bar handy, or you'll be miserable all night.'

It's either that, or I'm gonna need a glass cutter to 'rescue' those stinking bags of chips from the new vending machine. I like the first way better, though. Seems less likely to get my tender noggin nightsticked, and it comes with nacho-flavored snack chips. That's a moral I can live with.

My workplace has computer monitors. Extra monitors, apparently, just lying around not... ah, monitoring anything. They asked whether any employees would like to have a monitor.

I, being an employee, said, "Yes, I would very much like to have a monitor."

They said, "Great!"

I said, "How much will I owe you for said monitor?"

They said, "Nothing! They're free! Take whatever you want! One thing, though -- they're used monitors."

"Oh," I replied. "So they've had coffee dumped onto them, or a large hairy IT guy's been humping them or something?"

"Nothing like that," they said. "They've just been used, as computer screens. They're fine."

"Great! I always like to be the first large hairy guy to hump a monitor. I'll take one, please."

"We'll ignore that 'humping' thing," they said, and they did. "One other thing, though -- the monitors weigh eighty pounds."

"Eight?"

"Eighty."

"Thirty?"

"Eighty. And we're not helping you carry it. Or for that matter," they added, "hump it."

"I see," I said. "Can I wuss out now, then?"

"No. We've already put your name on the list. Come pick up a monitor at four o'clock."

So, I did. I made my way to the uber-secret basement-level storeroom they specified -- I called it the 'Monitor Bunker', but they didn't seem to appreciate that. I asked whether all the monitors in the building are carried down there for protection, in case of a nuclear bomb drill. They ignored me.

When I got there, a girl from the IT group was waiting.

(I know, I know -- a girl! In IT! What's next -- male nurses? Women voters? Latvians in the NBA? The whole world's gone topsy-turvy!)

So, this IT person -- nice girl, with a very distracting diamond nose stud; I bet it shoots across the room when she sneezes, because that would be cool -- met me in the Monitor Bunker, buried deep far below the Earth's crust. And clearly, the IT group was serious about their 'no help with the carrying' policy. If the monitors weighed eighty pounds, then she weighed maybe sixty dripping wet. Skinny little thing. She could live inside a hollowed-out monitor, probably.

Along one wall of the room were thirty or so monitors, stacked and ready for vertebra-snapping lifting action. I considered several models on the second and third stacked tiers, thinking the lugging would be less laborious from a waist- or knee-level start. As I moved in for the grab, the girl said:

"That one over there's the best one. I've got one just like it at home."

"But," I protested, "that one's on the floor."

"Yeah, but it's really good quality. Those other ones go bad all the time. Plus, this one's a really cool-looking black color."

Defeated by her bullet-proof fashion logic -- and mesmerized by her bejewelled shiny honker -- I took her advice, and chose the 'good quality cool-looking black one on the floor'. I took a deep breath, bent at the knees, slipped my arms underneath, and lifted. How heavy could eighty pounds be, anyway? Football players in the NFL can lift almost that much, probably. Surely I'm stronger than them, right?

I stood and waddled the thing in the direction of my car. At that moment, I pictured myself as one of those muscled-up, shrunken-nadded goons from the World's Strongest Man competition that ESPN plays at three in the morning sometimes. Those guys are always moving rocks or cars or small Eastern European countries around, to prove that their brand of Stairmaster really is better than all the other brands. Or something.

Anyway, I recognized the things that were happening to me from watching those shows. The wobbly knees, the bulging forehead, the 'Outta the way, pregnant woman coming through!' walk -- even the unintelligible-but-unmistakable 'HIIIYYYARGGHHH!!!' that internationally translates to 'I have valiantly given my all in this battle of might and will; now can someone with unruptured biceps please pull this thing off my chest?'

So bellowing, I dropped the electronic beast and took stock to see how much further it might be to my car. "You should take a break before you try getting that thing out the door again, champ," the IT girl offered.

Apparently, I'd miscalculated when I decided not to park my car in the hallway outside the Monitor Bunker. Not cool.

Finally -- and with no life-threatening injuries, I'm happy to add -- I managed to lug the behemoth to the car and wrestle it into the back seat. Which turned out to be the easy part, given that my house lies no less than thirty-nine stairs above street level. I briefly considered calling the dog down to the car, strapping the monitor to her back, and leaving a trail of snausages up the steps. I soon rejected that plan because:

• A) The monitor's heavier than the dog, so it would probably fall first and break when they came tumbling down the stairs.
  
• 2) I don't have that many Snausages.
  
• iii) The stupid dog never comes when I call, anyway.

auled the monitor up the stairs, into the house, up another flight of steps, and parked it, exhausted, in the office. As I lay there, panting and aching and badly broken, my wife poked her head in, looked around, and said:

'Another monitor? Jeez, what do we need another monitor for?!'

Need? Silly thing, there is no 'need'. There is only 'get, because it's computer hardware, and I got it for free'. What is this 'need' you speak of? Clearly, she's never going to work in an IT department. She'll probably never ever pierce her nose. Not intentionally, anyway. Poor girl.

Now can somebody with unruptured biceps please pull this thing the hell off my chest?! I'm begging you.

The Scene: My office building, just outside the cafeteria.

The Crime: My boss, cradling his lunch, a muffin, and a Coke, reached the door to the hallway just as I, holding a plate of pizza, did. Unable to easily open the door himself, he said:

'I'm going to have to rely on the kindness of your one free hand.'

Unable to easily stop myself from being a smartass (but still opening the door for him), I said:

'Sir, if that means what I think it means, you'll be waiting a very long time.'

The Punishment: Who knows? He probably didn't even get the joke, thank goodness. And now I'm really happy I didn't go with:

'I bet you say that to all the guys, sir.'

How I stay gainfully employed is a mystery, even especially to me.