Day Job Douchebaggery [Where the Hell Was I?]

« Eleven Questions, and Random Tomato Snark | Main | If I Eight Your Five-Hole, Would You Six My Nine? »

April 07, 2005

Day Job Douchebaggery

You folks ever tackle something at work -- something really big and hairy and nasty?

(And no, I'm not talking about the boss, or that weird Greek guy who works in accounting. Don't get all 'Sasquatch fantasy camp' on me, okay? I'm working up to a bitching here.)

So -- assuming that you have decided to take on some horrific, hellish nightmare of a task at work -- did you notice the funny looks that people gave you when you signed up for the job? I mean, you expect the 'hey, better you than me' glint at that point -- you know what you're getting into, more or less. But there's also that doubt, that almost impercepible yet unmistakable shake of the head as they pass you in the hallway. 'Poor thing...' they're thinking. 'Doesn't even see the shitball coming.'

And that's when you steel yourself for the task, right? That's when you realize that they -- those sorry souls who don't want to 'get involved' in something so complicated -- they don't believe you can pull it off. They think you'll get bogged down in details and mucked over in issues, then bitchslapped to the carpet by some special case or other. It doesn't matter what kind of work it is, really -- paperwork, computer work, stocking shelves in a Wal-Mart. The important thing is that you signed up to do it, perhaps when no one else would, and now they're just standing back, waiting for you to crumble under the weight.

I did that, this week. I said, 'Sure, I'll take on this enormous chunk of work, put some other stuff on hold for a week, and get it out of the way by next Monday. No problem.'

That was me, at the beginning of the week. Optimistic, cheerful, naive, stupid, stupid, stupid me.

Now, it's Thursday night. I'm maybe a third done. I'm bogged down, mucked over, and thoroughly bitchslapped around. Color me crumbled.

But of course, it's not so easy. It's never quite that easy -- just because you finally realize that the so-called 'impossible' task you took on really fricking is impossible (and who put that 'so-called' there in the first place? Bitches!) doesn't mean that you can scrap it and go home for a nice little nappypoo. Oh, no. No, even if the shit takes longer than you thought, and the work is bigger than you previously imagined, and everyone knew you couldn't do nineteen days' worth of work in a week... you still said you would. So you have to see it through, whether it takes those nineteen days, or a hundred and nineteen. Life's a bitch. And the office is your pimp sometimes. So work that ass, baby -- yo pimp gonna get paid tonight!

You know, you'd think a guy like me would learn from this nonsense. I'm not exactly 'Mr. Ambitious' to begin with.

(At least, not outside my writing. Sure, I'll wax poetic for sixteen paragraphs about a sandwich, or post a two-part, three-thousand-word opus on a vacuum cleaner... but at work? Get there on time? Finish what I start? Zip up my damned pants? Nah. That's just 'The Man' trying to keep me down. Homey ain't goin' out like dat.)

But no. 'Impossible' projects are my specialty. At least, starting them seems to be -- I can't recall every actually accomplishing anything useful in the end, but something seems to compel me to jump on board any ship about to sink to the bottom, and try to save the damned thing. And it's not as though actually succeeding would do me any good, really -- there's no extra cash involved, and nobody's offering me sexual favors in exchange for spreadsheets full of data.

(Which is sad, really, because I've got plenty of those. I don't actually have to finish something to produce an enormous shitpile of Excel-ready nonsense. Man, if I could get paid by the table cell... damn. You'd see some bling around here, man -- phat logos and pictures and shit, and gold chains hanging off the blogrolls. That's be stylin'. I might even install a new font; something more suitable for my message.

Yeah, yeah, I hear you -- 'Dingbats'. Why you gotta playah hate, man? Let me have my dreams!)

Anyway, I don't know where the hell I was going with any of this, really. All I know is that I dug myself a big-assed hole, and now I've got to climb the hell out of it, before the big asses come in and do their thing. It's going to take me a little longer than I thought, but it's no biggie. I think the long hours and lack of sleep are starting to affect the important shit, though -- this is just about the longest, darkest, ramblingest post I've written in a while. Sheesh.

Sorry for yanking you into my nightmare, folks. But hey -- it's another post, right? And it's not a total loss; I did manage to squeeze 'Sasquatch fantasy camp' out of it. Come on, people -- that's fricking gold, right there. Admit it. Don't make me get all 'office pimp' on your asses.

Categories: Work, Work, Work

Technorati Tags:

Posted by Charlie on April 07, 2005 | Bookmark This | Email Me

Permalink | Comments (3) | TrackBacks (0)