Climbing the Ladder

So one thing I did in my absence was quit my job. Yep, that's right. I traded my crappy, boring I.T. job where I moved data around all day.....for a crappy, boring I.T. job where I write reports all day. Trust me, it's just as unexciting as it seems, if not more so. The salary is more or less the same, and I have the same view of three padded cubicle walls filled with asbestos.

Then why did I trade one crappy, boring I.T. job for another, you ask?? Well for one thing, the new job doesn't have an arrogant prick who polishes his BMW every day in the parking lot with the carcass of a baby lamb. And the new job doesn't have a loud mouthed one-upper who takes great delight in pelting his co-workers with rubber Nerf darts any chance he gets. And the new job doesn't have a lesbian ex-Marine project manager who constantly yammers on the phone in corporate babble, referring to humans as "resources" and their work as "deliverables." And the new job doesn't have a psycho secretary who threatens to go postal if you don't properly label your refrigerated items.

So what DOES my new job have?? I'm glad you asked. My new job has a lymie who wears the exact same clothes every day: blue jeans and a black sweater with some sort of British emblem thing on one sleeve. My new job has a metrosexual with a hilarious last name (which I will not divulge at this time) who gossips about his co-workers like a housewife gossips about the neighbors. My new job has an overweight boss/owner who looks like Santa and is about to die at any moment - every day he comes in bright at early at NOON, huffing and puffing with exhaustion from his 50 foot walk from his car. But more important than any of that, my new job has one of THESE:


That's right, baby! I've got free membership to COSTCO, the nation's number 3 wholesaler of bulk merchandise! Coming from a guy who buys his mayo by the gallon, this is a true godsend!! You just can't put a price tag on perks like that!! Actually, I guess you can. But it's the thought that counts, right?

Oh yes, and this job comes with another intangible benefit: FLEX TIME! Now if you're not familiar with this radical new concept, it's quite simple. Flex time gives employees the ability to set their own working hours. For example, at my company I have the option of coming in at 8:00am and working until 5:00pm...or, if I prefer, I can come in at 7:45am and work until 4:45pm!! Or let's say I'm not a morning person. No problem there! I can come in at 8:05am and work until 5:05pm!! Or let's say little Dyck Jr. has an organ recital at 5:07pm. All I have to do is come in at 7:52am, work until 4:52pm, and make the 15 minute drive to his school, where I proceed to fondle his music teacher and watch D.J. play with his organ. The point is, with flex time, my options are virtually limitless!!!*

But wait, there's more! This job gives its employees YET ANOTHER exciting perk: FREE BEVERAGES!! Yep, the coffee pot is always full of steaming hot instant decaf. Want half & half or sugar? Got it right here!! Or maybe coffee isn't your drink of choice. Well you're in luck, because this building comes fully equipped with INDOOR PLUMBING...including a WATER FOUNTAIN!!! I tell you, there's nothing like standing around the water fountain and chatting with your colleagues about last night's rerun of Match Game '78 on GSN. Man, that Charles Nelson Reilly was a hoot!

I'm sure I'll have plenty more stories to tell about my exciting new job, but suffice it to say this is a company that truly values its employees...all seven of them. Every day when I drag data-bound control boxes onto my report layout and align their positions along the grid, I feel like I am truly making a difference in the world.

Please shoot me now.

* As long as I get there close to 8am and work eight hours, plus one hour for lunch.

Party Time!

I.T. geeks sure know how to party. I learned this fact recently at my company's first (and hopefully last) annual employee appreciation luncheon. This is management's way of rewarding us for our hard work in lieu of actually giving us cash. We give them a third of our lives, they give us two slices of cold pizza and a styrofoam cup filled with flat soda. Yeah, that seems about right.

The festivities took place Thursday at noon in conference room 8...because everyone knows when it comes to parties, conference room 8 is where it's at. It comes fully equipped with tables, chairs, a speaker phone, and a white board - everything you need to get your freak on. And did we ever! Man, we rocked that place for ONE WHOLE HOUR before returning to our cubicles in an orderly fashion to continue working on our deliverables.

Wireless Willy got the party started by whipping out his smart phone and checking the weather forecast. Sunny and cool, with a chance of evening showers. Way to go, Willy! You rock!! Meanwhile, Finicky Fred was busy removing undesirable toppings from his pizza and carefully placing them on his napkin. Homeboy got some mad mushroom pickin' skillz, yo!!

Next, it was time for Conspicuous Consumption Carl to take the floor. (We call him "CC to the C.") He had us all riveted with his story about moving his 50 inch plasma screen to his bedroom to make room for a 65 inch DLP projector in his den. But then Waldo the One-Upper shook things up when he revealed plans to install a 70 inch mega screen in his living room. CC to the C was not at all pleased, and for a moment, it looked like a fight might break out. But thankfully, Rotundra the morbidly obese security officer was standing by with her incident report forms. Big mama be keepin' the peace in da hood!!

Just when we thought things couldn't get more exciting, Joystick Johnny took the tech talk in a whole new direction when he started describing in great detail how he rigged his X-Box to rip copies of his favorite DVDs. Everything from soldering motherboards to installing new chipsets - that mofo be pimpin' it old school!!

By now, the ladies were starting to loosen up. Lemon Lime Linda started tossing back shots of Diet Sprite while Domestic Darlene was slam dunking paper plates in the trash can and wiping the pizza oil off the tables. Bitch knows how to work a paper towel! You go, girl!!

Seems like the action was just getting hot when our hour was up. My how time flies! It was such a shame to see the hilarious hijinks come to a halt. This was undoubtedly one of those legendary parties we'll be texting our grandkids about someday.

Please shoot me.

Your $$$ At Work

I'm happy to inform you that the Mighty Blog writers' strike may be nearing an end! Yes, the protestors are showing signs of weakening...especially since I put the live scorpions in their shorts. But until the writers are back at work, I thought I would regale you with an insider's look at Dyckerson's day job.

Some bloggers don't like to write about their jobs for fear of being outed. I don't have this fear. I stopped giving a shit long ago, mainly because I hate my fucking job. Basically I work in I.T. for a huge, faceless corporation that steals from its customers and robs its employees of their will to live. That's right, it's an insurance company. I've written about it many times before - like my jackass co-workers...my dipshit managers...and the shitty building itself. But I don't think I've ever shared with you how much goddamn time gets wasted here.

This place has all the efficiency of a toilet filled with bricks. You want to know why your insurance premiums are so fucking high?? Here's what I do in a nut's hell: Each month I receive a file on my computer device. This file contains data. I take the file and move it to another folder on my computer device. (Are you with me so far??) Once the file has been moved to the correct folder, I run a simple application on my computer device. This application copies the data in the file and pastes it into something we call a data warehouse. (Not to be confused with a data whorehouse, which is an entirely different matter.) Anyway, all I have to do to run this application is edit two lines of code and click a few buttons. A Rhesus monkey could do it. Hell, a Reese's Peanut Butter Cup could do it.

How long do you think this process takes? An hour or two?? Before you answer, I forgot to tell you I have to document every step I take ad nauseum. When I receive the file, I have to document it. When I move the file, I have to document it. When I copy the file to the data warehouse, I have to document that as well. And once I'm done documenting everything, I have to document the fact that I documented it.

NOW how long do you think this process takes? Wait, don't answer yet! I didn't mention the endless meetings and conference calls I must attend nearly EVERY FUCKING DAY. I meet with retarded clients who don't understand why they can't send us data in a different format without telling us. I meet with useless managers who want us to find ways to improve our process so they can look good to THEIR useless managers. I've never had a meeting that didn't end with me having MORE WORK.

NOW how long do you think this process takes? Stop right there, Pedro!! I neglected to tell you about the nasty emails from the Refrigerator Nazi and the constant interruptions from my loudmouth cube neighbor and the endless problems with our network that go ignored by our incompetent Help Desk whose members spend their time playing computer Solitaire and Texas Hang 'Em or whatever the fuck it's called.

NOW how long do you think this process takes? A day or two? Maybe a week?? Try ONE MONTH...and that's if I'm LUCKY (which, if you read my blog with any regularity whatsoever, you'll know I am NOT). That's right, a full month is required to move a file and load it into a database. Of course, there's a little more to it than that, but I had to dumb it down a bit for you morons. Still, it shouldn't take THIRTY FUCKING DAYS to load a file.

I can see why so many I.T. jobs are moving to India. I bet those foreign fuckers don't have to comb through tons of email and attend stupid meetings every day. They just go to work, move their files, and return to their tepees where they smoke their crack pipes and make novelty ashtrays to sell to retarded Americans on eBay. Which reminds me, I need to check my account. I hope nobody has outbid me...

A Day in the Life

03:13am - Have a horrible dream in which I couldn't breathe.

03:20am - Turns out I really can't breathe. Wake up GASPING FOR BREATH because my fucking nose (which hasn't worked right since that jackass surgeon botched my rhinoplasty following the Great Car Crash of '94) is stopped up (AGAIN).

04:30am - Somehow manage to fall asleep (or did I just pass out from a lack of oxygen?).

06:22am - Wake up - again, startled and gasping for breath. Realize I will likely DIE IN MY SLEEP from asphyxiation. It's also fucking FREEZING because the temperature plummeted 90 degrees and I left the damn window open.

07:15am - Get out of bed, pour myself some OJ, and take a massive - I mean MASSIVE - dump. I try to wipe myself, but I didn't know I still had a dingleberry hanging on back there, so I end up smearing shit all over my ass crack. Conclusion: THIS IS GOING TO BE A BANNER DAY.

07:52am - Somehow manage to leave for work a few minutes early. For a moment, I actually feel good about myself...that is, until I encounter gridlock on I-64. The cause? A stalled vehicle...way off to the SHOULDER...on the OTHER SIDE OF THE FUCKING HIGHWAY. NICE GOING, ASSHOLES.

08:40am - Arrive at my shitty job ten minutes late, despite leaving ten minutes early. Throw my lunch in the freezer, pour myself some lukewarm water from the tap, and attempt to dispense some ice from the ice machine...only the ice machine is fucking EMPTY because moments ago some SELF-CENTERED JACKASS SALES WEASEL decided to steal it all for some DUMBASS CONFERENCE down the hall.

08:46am - Return to my desk in open my email. Email #1 is a message from my boss informing me that I'm supposed to be filling in for the FTP guy the next two days while he hangs out at a racetrack with a bunch of redneck dipshits. Fantastic. I am already SWAMPED with work which will not get done on time anyway...and now this. I spend the next TWO HOURS transferring data and answering questions from retards who don't know how to extract a zip file.

11:01am - On the verge of dehydration, I go to the break room to check on the ice machine. Still empty. Decide to purchase a beverage from the vending machine. Turn around only to see said vending machine being rolled out the door on a dolly. I consider throwing myself in front of it.

11:07am - Receive email from the lactating bitch in Reporting who gets to leave every day at 3:00 because she's a new mother and should therefore get special treatment. Bitch is all hot and bothered because 5,000 records in the database did not have customer ID's. That's 5,000 records...out of TWENTY MILLION. Waste the next several hours trying to sort out this mess in order to appease the bitch and her worn-out uterus.

12:00pm - Back to the break room to retrieve my lunch from the frig, only to find out I stuck it in the FREEZER by mistake. I steal somebody's pot pie and nuke it.

12:54pm - I go in the "Mother's Room" and jack off in a plastic cup. Pray to God that the bitch finds it the next time she goes in there to pump her tits.

02:23pm - Get invited to Salsa Boy's LAMEASS HALLOWEEN PARTY. I hate this guy when I'm at work, why the hell would I want to go to his house on my own time??!

03:17pm - Another email from my boss: "Why did you let so-and-so take over your project without consulting me first?" Gee, I don't know. Maybe because it's HIS FUCKING CLIENT anyway??! If you've got a problem with that, why don't you just mosey your ass over to my desk (a whopping FIFTEEN FEET AWAY) and talk to me FACE-TO-FACE??!

03:48pm - Yet another email from my boss: "You're late getting this other project done. What's the deal?" The deal is, you stuck me with the GODDAMN FTP JOB without telling me in advance, you SNIVELING LITTLE PRICK. And if you'd quit interrupting me EVERY FIVE MINUTES, maybe I could actually GET SOMETHING DONE. Or better yet, stop playing manager and DO IT YOURSELF. Or better yet, take your piece-o'-shit BMW for a drive and WRAP IT AROUND A TREE, you ASSHOLE.

04:55pm - I pass the bitch in the hall on the way to the can. She appears to be disturbed about something. Conclusion: SHE FOUND THE JIZZ CUP! There is a God!!!

05:30pm - Spend another 45 minutes in gridlock on I-64. The stalled car from this morning has been replaced by a jack knifed tractor trailer with three children pinned underneath it. At least that's something worth seeing.

06:45pm - Pull up to the Wendy's drive-thru, order three items from the dollar menu, and wait 15 minutes for the soccer mom in the minivan in front of me to dispute her order with the cashier. Apparently she wanted her cheeseburger medium well. It's fucking WENDY'S, you CUNT RAG. Consider yourself lucky the meat actually landed on the bun and GET OUT OF MY WAY!

07:02pm - Receive a strange package in the mail from RevRee. It's a DVD of Dave Letterman on Oprah from about seven years ago. Oh, and she included a note inside: "I'm pregnant and you're the father."

07:15pm - Open my rear patio door for a little fresh air, only to have my nostrils assaulted by a HORRID STENCH. Apparently something had DIED in my back yard.

07:17pm - I inspect the yard, and sure enough, there's a dead bird under a bush. I puke up my chicken nuggets, grab a shovel from the shed, and fling that fucker over the fence and into the asshole neighbor's yard. WELCOME TO MY WORLD, BASTARDS!!

08:00pm - Turn on the TV hoping for some high quality prime-time network programming. Instead, I get "Singing with D-List Celebrities" on ABC. I toss an ax through the screen.

09:12pm - Dial up the internets and check my eHarmony account. Great news: I have been matched with Helga, a 53 year old mother of three who's into NASCAR, Harleys, and long walks on the beach.

10:45pm - Time for a snack: A glass of milk and four Ding Dongs.

11:30pm - Suffer a mild heart attack and go to bed.

Bowling With Pinheads

Let me preface this post by saying that I hate bowling. Why, I don't know. Maybe it has something to do with inserting my precious feet in a pair of red and white rental shoes that have been previously worn by God knows how many slack jawed rednecks. Or maybe it has something to do with inserting my delicate little fingers in three dark, germ-filled holes, contorting my back into a painful and awkward position, and throwing an oily 16-pound ball down a wooden floor in hopes of knocking down ten pin-like objects.

Now that you know my official stance on bowling, you can imagine my thrill when I found out the company I work for was sponsoring a team outing to the local bowling alley. It's their little way of saying, "We appreciate the extra work you've been putting in, but we don't want to give you any actual money or time off." And because the big event was scheduled during company hours, I had no way of getting out of it.

My team was composed of three blithering idiots (myself excluded, of course). Let's take a moment and meet this all-star lineup:

Salsa Boy - This guy is a class-A douchebag and attention whore. In addition to hir passion for Mexican condiments, turns out he's also a hardcore bowler. The day of the outing, Salsa Boy brought his custom-made titanium bowling ball and tote bag into the office and paraded them front of everybody. He was making such an ass of himself, I decided to have a little fun at his expense...so during lunch, I paid a visit to the Piggly Wiggly* across the street. Upon my return, I waited for Salsa Boy to leave his cube for a moment, and then I replaced his prized bowling ball with a delicious cantaloupe. The idiot didn't even realize it until we got to the bowling alley, and let's just say he was not a happy camper.

Smelly Indian Chick - You know the type. Every office has at least one, but if you're in IT, you're bound to have at least three or four. She's really petite and shy, and judging from her pungent aroma, she's not much into personal hygiene. Turns out Indian Chick had never bowled before, which took me a bit by surprise. Seems to me with all the time she saved by not showering, she would have had a chance to bowl a game or two.

Black Guy - He was actually the smartest member of the team. He faked a lower back injury to get out of playing. (You know those colored types - they always find a way to get out of doing things.) Anyway, Black Guy spent the entire afternoon swilling beer and eating greasy onion rings. Fucking bastard, I wish I had thought of that.


We all arrived at the joint at 3pm Friday afternoon. Holy shit, things have changed the last time I set foot in a bowling alley. This place looked like a fucking 70s dance club! Dim lighting, a disco ball, and multicolored chasing lights running between each lane. I think Indian Chick had a seizure, but it was too dark to tell. I was waiting for Vinnie Barbarino to come out in a white suit and juggle bowling pins. Wasting no time, we walked over to the counter to sign in.

"Give us a lane, bitch!" I told the flunkie. They like it when you're firm.

"Umm...ok, lane 13," he replied. "What size shoe?"

"Gimme a 24, you jerkoff. Where's my goddamn scorecard?" I asked.

"There are no scorecards. It's all computerized."

"Computerized??! What the bloody fuck??! I'm a data administrator, I came here to GET AWAY from computers! I want one of them overhead projector deals where I can make naughty shadow puppets on the screen! YOU STUPID SACK OF SHIT!"

I was starting to get annoyed, so I decided to take a sedative before I said something I might regret. We all headed for our lane, took a moment to smell each other's rental footwear, and grabbed our balls.

Salsa Boy decided to show us how it was done. He whipped out his titanium cantaloupe, took three steps forward, and chucked that fucker all the way down the alley...and INTO THE GUTTER. He shook his wrist and muttered something about hurting it. Please. This idiot couldn't hit a bowling pin if it was tethered to his cock.

"Hey Kingpin, you want us to put the bumpers up??" I asked with a chortle. He just grunted and sat down next to his ball.

Next up was the clueless Indian Chick. She was bowling with a 6-pound kiddie ball with a picture of Scrappy Doo on the side of it. "I do not know what to do...I require assistance please," she said in a language that sounded sort of like English.

"JUST THROW THE FUCKING BALL, POCAHONTAS! I WANNA GET OUT OF THIS FILTHY SHIT HOLE!" I explained to her calmly. As you can see, the sedative was beginning to kick in.

So she fondled her ball for a moment, and then with both hands, she swung it between her legs and thrust it down the lane. Pathetic. So pathetic, in fact, that the bitch got a fucking STRIKE! I shit you not, she knocked down EVERY GODDAMN PIN on her first roll. "Did I do goodly?" she asked.

Salsa Boy was livid. You could almost see the fumes rising from his head and enveloping the disco ball suspended from the ceiling above. I tried like hell to keep from laughing my ass off. Black Guy almost choked on an onion ring.

I was up next. I tried to aim for the center, but it was so fucking dark in there, I could barely see the damn pins. I had to look at the computer to see if I knocked down anything. Turns out I got a 7-10 split. I hadn't seen a split that wide since my night with Ms. Babble in the back seat of the DyckMobile. And much like that fateful night, my attempt to finish the job was unsuccessful.

So we continued this juvenile activity for another two hours. Indian Chick got another strike...then a spare...then another spare...then another strike...and so on and so on. I swear that little bitch must've been on the juice. Salsa Boy gave up after the 5th frame and spent the rest of the time playing Pac Man in the game room. Black Guy ate too many onion rings and ended up with a case of the squirts. I didn't clear a single frame in the whole fucking game. Did I mention how much I hate bowling??

Next month I hope we try something more relaxing. Like skydiving.



* The Piggly Wiggly across the street is actually a Wal-Mart, but Piggly Wiggly sounds funnier.