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Its getting so I can write this thing with my eyes closed. (And it shows).

The Summer 2001 Update

Page 15 of 50

For a while, I had this sneaky trick. There is one toilet that I like very, very much. I am very prottective of it. She is my Sweet Clean bowl. And I strive to preserve her for my butt only, at least first thing in the morning.

I started out by initialy leaving just a long peice of toilet paper half in and half out of the toilet wator. The magic of osmosis pulls the water upword, and over the rim, then down onto the tile floor, leaving a soggey cascade of pulp sure to deter someone from using her before me. This trick worked for a while, but again, those danm programmors, whose standards drop with each Quarterley Rollout from beta to box seem to push the limits of their own self-viollation each fiscal year.

My new plan

The best time of the day to use the toilet is 6PM. The janitoriol staff finishes up at that time. The bowl is sparkling clean, the seat has been sannitized with a pine smelling germ killor, and the water inside the toilet is antiseptically cloudy with the soapy shade of baby blue.

Howevor, it is hard to time a log to six PM. I am a morning man. I dont get into work until 8 or 9AM. So how to keep your bowl nice and clean from 6 PM untill then?

Last year (or mabye the year before) I divulged one of my secrets on this homepage: Snackpak Pudding Singles. Yes, I warn you the folowing 2 paragraphs are disgousting. It is my secret plan that I do nowadays, to ensure the firstfruits of the Day are MY friuts.

At exactley Five aftor 6 every night, I locate "Lucille" (the bowl I like), and flush her soapy blue water down to make it look "used". And then I take the extra step of makin it look VERY used. With a plastic spoon I flick a small amount of fake spattor right out of a SnackPak chocolate pudding cup on a few strategic places.

You dont want to ovor do it.

Just a few tiny drops are all you need. The size of a penny, a dime, but not a quartor. Anything bigger than, say, a nickel will get people talking, and and complaining, and surely lead to some angry e-mails flyin around about trying to locate who is the danm slob around here, becuase he will be fired as soon as we find out.

By morning --like the morning I am writing about right now, the fake spattor, having sat in our stuffy fake-air building where you are not alloud to open the windows, will be nice and suficeintly dry, with no nasty odor. And it looks danm real. Lovingly, I wipe the chocollate off with alcohol swabs, sit down, relax and start my day right...

Just the: Anothor firedrill

This is the earliest we ever had a firedrill. I barely had time to "finish the download" and "delete the cache" beffore having to run out. Like I said the last thing you want to happen is to get coght by management hiding out for a firedrill.

I am a loner

This time by the way out there on the sidewalk I avoided the smokers AND the nonsmokors. I just wanted to be by myself. There is a little footpath thay curls behind the building, and this is where I wandored. And who did I see there also all alone but Stu. He was sort of ambling along. I went up to him and asked if somthing was wrong.

He is NOT a loner, and in fact is very sociel, dispite the fact that he looks exactly like a pig. His chin was up and his snout pointed high in the air. He looked very distracted and said that nothin was wrong.

But I knew somthing was wrong

I was teriffied that I was going to be fired, and that Stu knew about it, AND that Stu probly coud do nothing about it. And this explained his aloofness. He just coud not face me.

I wandored back to the front of the building to where all the people were. And slowly pulling into the Cyberblop circulor driveway was my brother Spike driving his minivan. He looked like the face of shock and death.

Spike lives in the same town as Cyberblop. Last year he moved here to Texas with his wife and kid from California and bought a big piece of land. He made sure he was far enough away from Granfather's trailor so as not to have to deal with caring for the old basterd, which was MY unfortunate lot in life. Also being 100 miles away is suficiently downwind from the stinking troll, if not barely so.

Spike's face was white and his lips were purple. "He's back," he stammored raspily. "Granfather is back."

I said to him, "Yes, I know, the Criptozoologists said that in a mattor of weeks he'll be totally back. That odd statement about Hannity and Colmes on the Fox News Channol was just a weird thing that made no sence..."

Spike cut me off, "Walter, he is BACK, and he is back NOW. Listen, I'm gonna drive back home and walk to the roadhouse and get some drinks tonight, and mabye get drunk tonite too. Mabye I'll see you there later, aftor work."

The wheelbase of the minivan was tight but not too tight as to keep Spike from drivin up on our vomity little company lawn as he made the abrupt turn out while still talking. The van slowly moved back on the highway, and back toword where he lives. Right at this time the bell sounded that signolled the end of the firedrill.

"Its Only Tilde"

As people filed into the hallway Tilde began folowing me with an eagor concerned look on her face. I'd forgotton I agreed to help her with her danm budget file. The disk she gave me yesterday was right in my bag, but with all the exitement at my house I never got to it. I treid to outrun her and even thogh I have long legs and she has short little stumpy ones the pain in the ass little hag coght up to me.

"Its So Skeevy"

When she touches me, that is. Not in a sexaul way, but because she just is a lonesome, affection starved touchey feely sort. (Which I am too I supose, but I dont go rubbin up agianst people for Godsake).

Tilde insistad I follow her back to her cubical and truobleshoot her budget file. It was only an Excel file so I guessed I coud figure out what was wrong in one minute.

I cannot stand Tilde's cube.

It is all frilly and dainty like a 12 year old girl's room. Also she has this pissy peeling 1970s poster of a kitten hangin from a branch that says "Hang In There that I coud swear my mom had in her room back when she was a kid, and a lacey fluffy poofy skirt of fabric that she knitted herself to frame her 21-inch monitor, (how the HELL does SHE qualiffy to get a 21 inch monitor dammit), and the whole danm cube smelled from pots of fruity fragrent pouporri. I swear it, Tilde's girlish prissy style was enogh to make a Precious Moments figurine throw up.

"Oh WAAAlter," she whined, with big whipped puppy eyes, "PLEEASE help me get my budget in order!"

Squirming away as she pressed into me, I said, "Lets see what is wrong," and when I popped it in her diskdrive all sorts of awful things began to happen. In fact the whole screen went black.

"Oh dear. That doesn't look good," she said, "Let's run it on YOUR computer."

There is no way in hell I'm runnin this on MY computer

People at my level do not get to have a desktop workstation with a 21 inch moniter. Insted they only give us cheap laptops that we are suposed to bring home with us every night. (Yeah, right, so those danm cheap management bastords can have us on call to do work at all hours of the night)

Besides. I have alredy busted two laptops in the past. And the rules are, that if I want to keep my job, if the laptop I have gets dammaged, I have to pay to replace it out of my own pockat.

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