I Give My Future Grandchildren Permission to Push Me Down the Stairs if I Ever Act Like This
Like so many people with theatre degrees, I work in an office. On a computer. In fact, I’d venture to say that I do about 95% of my job on my computer. My company is really into online forms and cutting down on faxing and paper use, which is totally fine by me. Not so much because I want to conserve our precious woodlands, but because less paper means less getting up off my ass to fax or file something. You understand.
You’re lucky I’m lazy, you endangered sumbitch.
My co-workers in this office are also remarkably technology-savvy, even the ones who – shall we say – came by computers late in life. Because, really, if you just apply yourself a little, any asshole can learn how to use a computer. You need look no further than an episode of “To Catch a Predator” for proof of that.
The thing is, we have this other office. On the other side of the country. It’s our main office, and came into existence back in the days when “Fatty Arbuckle” was a perfectly acceptable name for a celebrity. Since the office has been there for so long, there are certain colleagues of mine who were hired before we were required to ace multiple computer proficiency tests just to score an interview with this place. What I’m trying to say is: there are a bunch of olds in that office who have no idea how to work a fucking computer.
Why isn’t my english muffin getting toasted in this contraption? And what is Sammy Davis Jr. doing here?
The annoying thing is, my company is very aware that these senior employees need extra help and training with computers and basic software, so there are fully-paid classes and training opportunities everywhere you turn. There’s no excuse to be ignorant to the mysterious ways of the Dell. You don’t need to understand HOW email works, just please fucking learn how to send a reply that:
Doesn’t sound like a telegraph
Gets sent to ME, and not the person whose last name is identical to my first name (this happens about once a month, and is also the reason why I have sprouted a new wrinkle on my forehead)
Does not include those annoying colored/patterned backgrounds and/or a biblical quote with a winking smiley face at the bottom. I am telling you right now that Christ himself would roll his eyes at that shit (unless, of course, you sent the email to Darryl Christ instead of Christ Lord, because you still cannot grasp the perplexities of the Outlook address book)
As I mentioned before, my job is performed almost exclusively on the computer. Which is why it blows my mind that I still get questions like “How do I print in color?” and “What does ‘number lock’ mean?” from my dusty-ass old counterparts who make more money than me because they have been working since the dawn of time. How are they doing their jobs? How?! The only answer I can come up with is that they’re not doing their jobs (or at least not doing them very well), but no one wants to can Granny lest they get slapped with a messy age-discrimination suit. Nevermind that she still prints out every email she receives, completely negating the paperless office concept – we’ve got to keep her old ass hired until she decides to pack up her Anne Geddes posters and get the hell out of there.
I’m sure this will all come back to bite me in the ass someday when I have to call my grandson to come over and help me figure out how to operate my newfangled diabetes shoes. But until then, I’ll keep bitching about my crusty old co-workers on the internet. At least I know they’ll never find my blog.
What’s with the random slam up in the third paragraph? Sheesh – a guy kills a young actress after sodomizing her with a champagne bottle and he never hears the end of it.
Entry filed under: Taste my Backhand.