A long time ago, when I was working support for a small public television station, I got a call from secretary in Marketing who said that her computer was frozen.
“Did you reboot the machine?” I asked.
“No,” she said. “It’s frozen. Frozen solid.”
I put down the phone and ran back to the Marketing Department.
Sure enough, the caterers for a fundraiser had dropped off ice and champagne, and the ice had spilled out on to the floor
The computer was encased in ice.
We left it outside to thaw, and salvaged what we could from the hard drive.
I ordered a bunch of books, then I ordered a car adapter kit for my phone.
It was sent in two boxes, both of them due Friday.
They made it to Houston Friday morning.
One was delivered before noon, but the other gave me a weather or natural disaster delay alert. Delivery Monday.
The weather was beautiful, and there were no natural disasters. So why the alert?
Okay, so the other package was delivered in the afternoon, and they apologized for the delay.
But I refused to accept the apology. Because they’re in the business of delivering packages, not lies.
When I feel down about things at work, I have to remind myself that things are much better here than anywhere else I’ve worked.
This isn’t the fucking public TV station, threatening to take muppets away from kids if you don’t pay up.
This isn’t the fucking news TV station, polluting the airwaves with sensationalist bullshit in between the commercials.
This isn’t the fucking webhosting company, treating broken freaks and geeks like slaves so they can host porn, jihad, and stolen music and movies.
“This is better,” I tell myself. “We are better than that.”
And, thankfully, I believe it.
I had a hard time choosing a major in college, so I decided on Dan Bakerology.
That’s the study of me, Dan Baker.
I got straight A’s in it, too.
Graduated Magna Cum Laude.
Barely beat out my girlfriend, who was minoring in Dan Bakerology.
Well, ex-girlfriend. She dropped me, but didn’t drop the minor.
The campus police called it stalking.
She was allowed to graduate anyway.
For my masters thesis, I plan to turn in a mirror.
The big question is, how the hell do I get a job with this degree?
I knew I should have chosen Sociology.
I was there when Superman said he would never fly again.
“I’m never going to fly again,” he said. “Ever.”
Then he took off his cape, tossed it in the trash, and walked to The Daily Planet.
“I QUIT!” he shouted.
It took them a few minutes to realize that he was Clark Kent.
Then he did a few interviews and speaking engagements for money. Even posed in Playgirl.
“Easy money,” he said. He thought about selling his services to the highest bidder, but he decided to stay retired.
“If you monkeys screw this planet, I’ll just fly to Mars.”
Things are a bit shaky where I work.
There’s been a lot of turnover recently.
When employees quit or get fired, management sends out a memo to the staff to let them know.
That way, you know who to go to for something.
But they never say why the person is leaving.
Some say it was sexual harassment
Other say it as a personality conflict with bosses.
Instead of participating in water-cooler gossip, I just assume that they were eaten by clowns.
So, when they hired a clown for my surprise birthday party, I stabbed him with the cake knife.
We had a good deal going between me, Bill, Steve, and Ted.
Bill runs the front company.
Steve runs the back end.
Ted’s the numbers guy.
He cooks the books. The books.
Sometimes, he cooks them in a wok.
Other times, he cooks them in a crockpot.
Once, he cooked them in a pressure cooker.
Man, those books cooked up good.
What’s the front company?
A restaurant. A great restaurant.
Yep. The special is book.
(We tell them it’s veal.)
People eat the evidence. The fucking evidence. And they love it.
Two thumbs up, and Michelin stars on the way.
I used to work for a television station.
They were in the network’s ownership group. Big markets got new equipment and they’d get cut-rate junk.
They’d only buy new equipment if there wasn’t any way to repair the old.
The station needed a new transmitter, but the network made them run on backup until another station needed a new one. Then they’d get their clunker.
After the World Trade Center fell, I wondered if they were going to salvage WABC’s transmitter from the wreckage, hose off the dead bodies, and refurbish the twisted hunk of metal.
I’m surprised they didn’t.
Master Watanabe makes swords. He’s been making swords for forty years.
His swords are the best swords, but he has yet to recreate the Koto, the legendary samurai sword.
There are no instructions or directions remaining. So, Watanabe experiments with every sword he makes.
He is teaching his apprentices how to make swords, so they can carry on the traditions, and his quest to recreate the Koto.
But you know what? Watanabe’s a moron.
Who the fuck needs a Koto? Who’s going around with swords these days?
What people need are knives in the kitchen and for self-defense, not swords.
Every flight’s got some kooky, obsessive germophobe who wipes their seat down with antiseptic spray, and then lays a towel on the seat before they sit down.
They usually wear masks and gloves, and they like to bring their own beverages and snacks.
Man, they bother me.
I like to fake a sneeze or a cough in their direction, just to get them all freaked out.
However, one time, a sneeze got out of control, and I ended up vomiting on the guy.
The airline suspended me for two weeks. Pilots are supposed to say hello, not barf on passengers.