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.

Recently, I moved to a new building at work. Actually, our whole group moved -- close to twenty people, packing our crap and moving our stuff and stuffing Post-Its into our pockets, like squirrels stocking up nuts for winter. So this week is our 'settling in' period, where we unpack everything and figure out what's all screwed up. And there's a lot that's screwed up. Observe.


First of all, I've got a new officemate. And the movers got our boxes o' crap mixed up, which means we inadvertently swapped our secret stashes of naughty piccies. Which is embarrassing at best, but to make things worse, the dude is apparently into gay pygmy porn. And really -- Verne Troyer in a Zulu costume, bent over a wildebeest? I don't see how that helps anyone, frankly. I just hope I get my 'Angela Lansbury Money Shot' calendar back. Rrrrrrrowr!


(That's bad, isn't it? Every time I tell that joke, God clubs a baby seal. Probably.)


Anyway, that's just the tip of the iceberg. They also managed to switch my phone number with the girl's down the hall. And now her boyfriend keeps calling my desk -- breathing heavy, talking dirty, asking me what I'm wearing... it's creepy.


Still -- I think I'm gonna do him. I'm not gay, personally, but that bitch stole my stapler. I've got to get her back somehow.


Finally, my chair didn't make it to the new office. I was pretty disappointed -- I've spent months squeezing my assprint into that thing, and it was just starting to get comfy. But the worst part is, there weren't any chairs available in the new place. No proper chairs, anyway. Some dude came around and tried to talk us into taking some of those ridiculous ergonomic monstronsities from a few years agol the kind where you sit on your knees and teeter precariously over your desk for a few hours.


I didn't know those things were even around any more. Who designed those things, anyway? 'It's good for your back', they said. 'It's good for your back, it's good for your back...', like a bunch of Day of the Dead extras. Is having a 'good back' really worth sitting like a knock-kneed emu for eight hours a day? I'll take the scoliosis and slipped discs, thank you very much.


Anyway, these particular 'chairs' were even worse, because they came with wheels. Wheels! I just looked at the guy, kneeling on the thing and rolling around the room to demonstrate, and said:


'Buddy, you couldn't pay me to sit in that thing. That's not a chair -- it's a mobile blowjob station.'


That put the kibosh on that little show-and-tell. Sure, I got called into the boss' office to talk about 'inappropriate behavior' and 'poor attitude' and 'double-secret probation'... blah blah blah. It was still worth it. Even if my officemate took one of the damned things. He's a little weird that way -- I'll have to keep an eye on that guy. Especially since I'll apparently be sitting on the floor next to him until they get me a chair -- and remember, he's into the 'little people'. Pygmy porn, indeed.

I'm still acclimating to my return to the office, after a much-needed recent vacation. Luckily, I'm well-schooled in a very useful technique to help in difficult times like this. It's called:


'Saying Important-Sounding Things to Make It Seem As Though You Know What the Hell Is Going On'


As you might imagine, this comes in awfully handy for me. I'm often in the dark -- or in a fog, in left field, in my own little world, in the tank, or otherwise in a pickle -- and I don't want to wind up in hot water, too. And there's nothing like an Important-Sounding Thing™, delivered with a knowing nod, to make it seem as though you're right on top of things. Maybe even a step or two ahead, if the nod is timed just right. You can do it, too; it's easy.


The nice thing is, an Important-Sounding Thing™ doesn't actually need to reference the current topic to be effective. In fact, it doesn't need to be about anything at all, provided it sounds important and profound enough. I'll illustrate:


Imagine you're at the office, working on a team with a big report due tomorrow. You don't personally know what the report is about, actually -- you've probably been working on just one tiny aspect of the final project. Plus, you don't pay much attention in meetings, really. You're usually busy doodling cartoon turtles on your hand and dreaming of art school, or composing Burma Shave jingles in your head. Maybe listening in group settings is against your religion. Or maybe you're completely blitzed, after a Red Bull 'n' ouzo lunch escapade.


Whatever the case, you've got no clue what's going on. But your coworkers have discovered a problem with the report. The data's bad, or the fonts are all wrong, or something. The whole project's in jeopardy, and the people who know enough to see the writing on the wall have begun to panic. Joe from accounting is on the floor, in the fetal position. The guys from R & D are restraining Edith from jumping out the window. It's chaos, and you're the only calm soul in the room. You can't let on that it's because you simply can't see how many nails are already in the coffin. So when the marketing V.P. staggers past you and shrieks, 'How can you be so calm?!?', don't shrug and laugh it off. Nod sagely and say an Important-Sounding Thing™; something like:


'It's always possible to salvage that which you never really lost.'


What does it mean? Who knows. And who the hell cares? It's the type of thing that makes people -- smarter, more well-informed, and probably better-dressed people than you -- stop and consider. It's a catalyst, really. Soon, they'll decide that the first thirty pages of that report are fine. They can use a figure from the end, splice a couple of sections together, work all night to fill in the gap, and gloss over the scary parts tomorrow. It'll take a bit of luck, but it might just work. And suddenly, they're moving again. The team is charged up, people are scurrying to and fro, and you're a genius. Your fortune cookie non sequitur has saved the day, and you can finally go back to your desk for a secret nip of hooch and another game of Freecell. How's that for a happy ending?


Best of all, there are loads of Important-Sounding Things™ out there for you to use. Or you can make up your own -- just make it philosophical...-ish. And vague. If it sounds like a proverb of some kind -- possibly coined by a famous person or translated from some obscure dead language -- all the better. For instance, I've gotten a lot of mileage out of:


'The ancient Sumerians used to say: desperation is a shoe that never climbed a pyramid.'


Were there pyramids in Sumeria? Couldn't tell you. Did they have shoes? No idea. Could they even talk, or walk, or despair? Does it really matter? No. And do I look like the kind of guy who paid attention in history class, or do I look like the sort of guy who got to the midterm question 'What was the immediate cause of World War I?' and wrote:


'Mankind's drive to conquer is unquenchable, like a moth to the flame. Or a stripper to the glittery body paint.'


(For the record, saying Important-Sounding Things™ doesn't actually work in an academic setting. I almost had to take the stupid class over the next year.


Let this be a lesson to you: don't bullshit in school, kids. I don't want to be responsible for creating the next generation of McDonald's fry cooks, all right?)


The next time you're jammed up with your boss, underinformed and unprepared, don't cower in the broom closet or fake a bout of explosive projectile lumbago. Simply muster your courage, waggle your chin like a pundit, and unleash an Important-Sounding Thing™ to take the heat off. After all, could your boss fire the person who reminded people:


'Widgets made with the most love are the widgets that will be loved the most. I think Einstein said that.'


Probably not. At least, mine couldn't. And making French fries has nothing to do with building widgets, so it should work even better for you. All hail the Important-Sounding Thing™!

I've mentioned a few of the quirks of my new office building. Here's another:


Our building has seven floors. Each of those floors boasts a conference room. To distinguish the rooms from each other, the higher-ups have seen fit to assign each room a name. None of this bland 'Meet me in the third floor conference room' talk for us. We're living on the edge! Bam!


It was also decided -- by a subcommittee, which was nominated by a task force, which was convened months in advance by a board of directors, no doubt -- that the names should follow a pattern. Something to name the conference rooms easy to remember.


Apparently, that last part of the memo was cut off by the printer in the subcommittee's meeting. Because the conference rooms have been named after... mountains.


That's right, mountains. Famous mountains throughout the world. Seven of them. Go on -- name seven mountains. I dare you. And no, 'Space Mountain', 'Brokeback Mountain', and 'Anna Nicole Smith's chest for two, Alex' do not count.


Hell, I've been in the building for weeks now, and I can't name seven mountains. Here's all I know:

• 'Everest' is on the top floor. (Duh.)
• 'McKinley' is on my floor.
• 'Hood' and 'Fuji' are around somewhere.
• 'Big Rock Candy' is conspicuously absent. Who picked that damned subcommittee, anyway? Hello? Geography!

Sure, I'm an idiot -- and they've made sure my keycard won't work on most of the floors -- but still, couldn't they have thought of something easier? I know I have. Five things easier, in fact. To wit:


I'll Gladly Teleconference with You in Tuesday, for a Hamburger Today


Name the rooms after the days of the week; what's simpler than that? We peons on the lower floors get the crappy 'Monday' and 'Tuesday' rooms, the the brass can spend their time with their feet on the 'Sunday' table.


Of course, it wouldn't be much good for their psyches to have meetings in rooms that remind them of the weekends. And that piss 'n' vinegar would trickle down to the 'Friday' crowd, who'd take it out on the 'Wednesday' crew, and they'd shove it down our miserable 'Monday' throats. So, maybe not a good idea.


Ahoy, Meet-ey! Arrrrrr!


How about the seven seas, instead? Wouldn't you rather be soaking in the 'Mediterranean' or taking a nap in the 'Caspian', instead of freezing your ass off at a staff meeting halfway up some godforsaken mountain? I know I would.


On the other hand, the seas are no easier to remember than what we've got now. And what goes on top -- 'Red'? 'Black'? 'Caspian'? Eh, forget it. I need something less complicated.


Hi-ho, Hi-Ho, It's Off to Meet We Go...


There we go -- the seven dwarves. Who could argue with spending three hours in 'Happy'? Hell, most of our meetings are 'Sleepy' or 'Grumpy' as it is; what harm is there in a name change to make it official?


Eh, but there's still 'Dopey'. Nobody's gonna want 'Dopey', and of course, we'd get stuck with it. I do enough dancing like a monkey as it is, without having a whole room dedicated to the purpose.


You've Been a Baaaaad Conference Room!


Seven rooms, seven deadly sins -- it's like they were made for each other. You could even tailor your room reservation for the type of meeting. A powwow over lunch goes in 'Gluttony'. Mergers and acquisitions use 'Greed'. The rest of use can bounce between 'Anger', 'Envy', and 'Sloth' for most everything we need to talk about. It's perfect.


Except... how pissed would you be if your 'Lust' meeting got bumped down into 'Sloth' because the boss is 'dictating' to his secretary in there? My guess is you wouldn't take 'Sloth' lying down. That'd hurt your 'Pride', and your 'Envy' would soon turn to 'Anger'. Then where in the hell would the rest of us meet?


We're Meeting Where? And What Did You Call Me?


No, best to use my final and favorite idea -- George Carlin's seven words you can never say on television. We may not be much for meetings, but I'll guarantee you that people would soon learn where the 'Shit' is, and which floor the 'Tits' are on.


(And then that Anna Nicole remark of yours would work out just fine. See? Better.)


I'm just here to help, folks. Alert the subcommittee; I'll be waiting in 'Piss'. Please hurry.

(...Or Are You Just Porking the Wall?)


My office has seen fit to issue passkey IDs to all the employees. We use these to get into the garage, access the building, and to sneak up onto the roof for afternoon tea and cucumber sandwiches. Because we're all refined and shit like that.


Generally, I'm in favor of the keycards. They make us feel important, like we have VIP access to secret places the general public could only dream about. Never mind that most of those 'secret places' are gray windowless cubicles and drab, featureless conference rooms. Sure, any old schmuck off the street can see similar crap in the average library or YMCA center -- but you need a keycard to get to these, baby. We're special!


('Special' in the 'crash helmets and plastic utensils' sort of way, perhaps, but still -- special. And we get keycards. So nyah.)


My only beef about these magical access keys is in the way that people use them. Personally, I do what I consider to be the only sane and fashionable thing -- I clip the keycard onto my belt. The card's on one of those little retractable mini-leash gizmos, so it's always handy when I need it. Even the gizmo -- technically called a 'badge lanyard', apparently -- is useful. If I ever need to keep a rat on a leash, or tie a flea to a hitching post, or strangle one of those yippy lap dogs, I have the technology. What wondrous times in which we live.


I've seen some folks slip the ID on the end of a noosy sort of contraption, and wear it around their neck. Frankly, I'm not a fan. First of all, it's not much of a fashion statement. How the hell do you accessorize? Do your shoes match your lanyard? Is your belt wide, and your ID necklace skinny? If you have long hair, do you wear the noose under your hair, or overit? What about the shirt collar? These are questions I don't feel I should ever have to answer -- or indeed, give a flying leashed rat's ass about.


Mostly, though, an ID card hanging around my neck is just one more thing that could accidentally dangle in the john water when I'm sitting on the toilet. So, no thanks.


The ID necklace geeks aren't the problem, though. They make look a little funny, but they're not hurting anyone but themselves and Mr. Blackwell's fashion sensibilities. I'm more concerned with the 'stealth ID' crowd, the people who treat the keycards like any old ID or credit card, and jam it in their wallet or pants pocket.


Subtle? Yes.


Convenient? No.


There's a simple concept here that these folks are failing to grasp -- the cards are needed to get through just about any door in the building. During the course of a day, you're going to walk through a few doors. Sometimes, people sort of like me will see that your ID's not handy and will hold the door for you. Other times, people exactly like me will see that your ID's not handy, and laugh and point at you while you fumble to get it out. People like me are smartasses that way. Exactly that way.


'Oho,' I hear you say. 'But aren't those people harmless, too? They're only holding themselves up at those pesky doors, right?'


True. In theory.


Increasingly, though, the people who don't grasp the keycard accessibility concept also don't grasp something else -- their damned keycard. More and more of them have the crazy idea in their heads that the cards can be read without actually pulling them out. And the craziest part of that idea is -- they're right. The cards will activate the door locks, even when shrouded in a skin of cotton, denim, or thin wallet leather. So, score one for the lazy crowd.


But score negative one, and then some, for the rest of us who don't keep our ID cards in our pants, and have to watch these jackholes rub their privates all over the card readers when they need to open a door. I really don't need to see Joe from accounting dry-hump the wall every time he's coming out of the stairwell. Or to watch Edith in human resources give the door frame an asstastic lap dance when she gets to work first thing in the morning. That shit is helping no one.


If it were Tina in human resources, that would be different. I know guys in maintenance who'd install a camera in the card reader if Tina were getting butt-busy with the thing on her way in. Sadly, Tina's a neck-wearer. It's like a nudist colony -- it's never the ones you really want it to be, you know?


All the nad-grinding and ass-swiping makes me think twice about approaching a door around here, though. My ID card's right here on my belt -- outside my pants, thank you -- but do I really want to hold it up to the reader? One little slip, and suddenly my fingers are soaking in god-knows-who's crotch cooties on that thing. Ugh.


That's why I carry a pair of salad tongs around the office now. If I need to open a door, I tong my ID, push it up to the reader, and step on through. No muss, no fuss, no cootie crust. The only downside is I've got nowhere to keep the tongs. So I put them on a lanyard, and wear it around my neck. Now I can open any door I want, but I'm scared to use the john. Irony's a bitch, yo.