That’s pretty metal. Heavy metal, if you know what I mean. If you get what I’m saying. If you catch my drift. If you’re latching onto this tangent. If you’re picking up what I’m laying down. If you zingle-bopping this here lindy-ham.
I’m sorry about that, I promise it won’t happen again. In short, I wanted to express how impressed I was by the quality of this fellow’s cubes. I’m darn impressed. If I was his supervisor, I’d put a little check mark next to his name on my clipboard. I’d fire him last.
It might shock many of you to know, but I had a job as a supervisor once. Of course, if I stopped that sentence with, “I had a job once.” You’d all be equally as surprised. I didn’t work there for long, as is normally the case. I got let go because of my attitude. It’s not my fault the mail room clerks wouldn’t stop crying when I was shouting at them. It’s part of my job description. Maybe next time they’ll remember to bow when I walk by; not that it matters anymore.
I worked in a pretty small office building outside of whatever city I happened to be in at the time. I don’t remember these things as well these days, everything is a blur of alcohol, Blackjack, and managerial positions. Anyways, there were two medium-sized maple trees outside of the office building flanking the walkway to the reception area. Every day when I walked into work four hours late, I noticed that there was a beautiful blonde woman sitting at the top of the tree, typing into a laptop.
I was always a bit hungover when I first arrived for work, so I didn’t think much of it. After a few months, I started sobering up and noticed that there was someone sitting in the tree outside of my office. As soon as the absurdity of it all struck me, I went up to the reception desk and told them to call the police, or an exterminator, or whoever can get a blonde out of a tree for pocket change.
The receptionist was a bit confused at first, and didn’t seem to know what I was referring to. I started to doubt what I saw as well, so I walked her outside and pointed to the tree where I saw the blonde. Sure enough, she was still sitting on the tallest branch, typing into her little laptop. The receptionist turned to me and said:
“Oh, don’t you worry about her — she’s the branch manager.”
(Many thanks to our good friend Charles Schneider for sending this our way.)