Stirring The Pot

So, since the incident I've been on light doodie.
Basically I'm reviewing the rules and regulations of this wonderful place I work, and letting them know if I find something wrong.
About three days in, I did.
Not so much a discrepancy, but a concern.
We sell items that people aren't supposed to have.
A good two page report to the upper-crust and the next day I'm called into the bosses office to get chewed out about "reviewing" rules and regs "...not stating [my] opinion on what [I] think is wrong with them!"
Okay.
I took THAT well.
I'll just do what I do and not let anyone know when I think something is wrong.
Seems like this is a case for T-Shirt Hell.

Anyway, today I'm flipping thought the R&R and find something very disturbing.
Bettering yourself is not required, but definitely encouraged.
However, it seems as though, where I work, we have a little rule where if you choose to better yourself, and you fail, you will be fired.
Not you can, not you may, you will be subject to disciplinary actions (found via R&R) which are termination.

Let me break this down to you.
Not because I feel that you're dumb and need the explanation, but for those of you who follow along already know, this is the kind of thing I do.

Bob works at Disneyland (a respected name in Disney Entertainment) as Pluto.
Bob wants to be a main character such as Mickey Mouse.
(On a side note, if you sing through, M.I.C.-K.E.Y. but replace mouse with moose, it still sounds the same, only funnier... M.O.O.S.E. Mickey Moose, Mickey Moose...)
Now Bob goes through Mouse training and does just fine, but fails his mouse test.
To be fair, Disneyland gives Bob another chance at his mouse test anytime within 90 days of his original mouse testing, but he fails that too.
Now Disneyland fires Bob.
Not keeps him at Pluto status, not gives him more time to work on his mouse test.
FIRES him.
However, if Bob would have gone through, and failed, the duck [Donald] test, Bob could still be Pluto.

There is no difference in pay for being Pluto, or Donald, or Mickey, just an extra notch in the cap.

The only real difference is if Bob wants to be a greeter.
But once again, Bob can be a greeter as Donald, and not get fired for failing.
Mickey is a different story though.

We're punishing people for trying to better themselves, if they shoot to high and fail.

Anyway, I got my big wooden spoon and decided to address this with the higher echelon with my handy dandy letter writing skills.

So tomorrow, I figure I'll be making yet another trip in to see the big boss.
(Showing you where I work will have to do, I can't find a name tag.)


Don't let 'em getcha!
V.V.

My Most Humble Appologise

I know some of you have gotten used to coming here and reading a little something something, But you haven't been able to do that.

Since that accident, I haven't written much.
I blame it on the meds.
By the time I get home, after my light doodie, I'm so medicated up that I can't think straight enough to speak, let alone type.
I stare at the wall waiting for the right word to pop into my head.
But I'm Route 66 and all the words I need are on the Freeway, cruising by my lonely brain, completely unaware that it's even there for them to be serviced.

Anyway, I'll do better soon.

Until then, don't let em' getcha.

V.V.

Check Out This Sheeightt!!

I've been out for a minute, as most of you know.
I was injured in the line of doodie.
In the event that you would be interested, you can copy this x-ray and enlarge it.
You'll find the tip of my finger to be broken off and "severely misplaced."
Actually, this is after they put the pin in (obviously) so it isn't misplaced anymore.
I don't really know what they said misplaced anyway, I knew where it was the whole time.
Still in my finger.
Trying to come out where my fingernail should be.
The tip is actually what pushed the nail up in the first place.
It was pretty disgusting looking, and a bled like a, well...
*What has two legs and bleeds profusely? Half a cat.*
... I guess like a stuck pig. (No pun intended.)

Anyway, so this happened on day one(1), and by day three (3) I saw a "specialist" and had this nifty pin in my finger.

On a slightly related note, one day two (2) I got a different kind of nifty new pin.
This wicked-cool Zebra pen (Zebra F-701) that has a grip similar to a socket wrench.
(Maybe that's why I like it so much.)

So my "specialist" turns out to be a plastic surgeon/hand specialist.
He informs me he would have put the nail back on (coulda told me THAT sooner) and I might be able to return to work as a hand model for QVC, but it'll take about a year.
Since I injured myself not at QVC (on a renegade 9 carat topaz two finger pimp ring) but at my regular job, I don't have to pay for this hand and breasticle doctor, which makes me happy.
Of course, I can't really go to work, even when I go to work, and I can't model anymore genuine artificial emerald colored pea-gravel stones in an aluminum foil wrap gently and gracefully placed around the wrist (Much like a bracelet.) but it's still like having time off.

It's been giving me plenty of time to think about other things, like posts that need to be written, and other neat-o things.

Tonight, however, it's 545 a.m. and I'm going to bed.
I have many rules and regulations to go over tomorrow

Don't let me getcha. : )

V.V.

The Setback of Modern Civilization

(This is for my (black) friend Courtney "C.J." Jones, who laughs at black jokes not because they're funny, but because white people have actually taken the effort to hate a race enough to waste their time making up crude jokes. The same C.J. that I had lunch with at Convergy's the entire time I worked there and would ask "lame white-guy" questions to. And the very same C.J. that, after work, put his gold grille back in his mouth and went home to talk about the "crackers at work" then told us about the "fellas at home.")
(And the same C.J. that car-jacked my friend Bill with a water pistol after Bill said we were going to "Start Punk'd-ing each other." C.J. - "You been Punk'd motha f--ka!!")


I can't call myself a racist, by any definition of the word.
I can, however, say that we ALL have our prejudices.

Though today, an African-American male called me, "boy."

For those of you who are missing it, I'll try to explain.

Blacks and whites...
Wait, scratch that.
Caucasians and African-Americans (read: whites and blacks) have always had this little rivalry.
~Note: This does not apply to every black or white person, just a small group that make the rest of us look bad.~

When an African-American person pulls the slavery card and is demanding reparations for his people whom the white man made into slaves, here's a thought:
1. When the white man pulled up to Africa and saw the native peoples we thought, "I wonder if they're friendly." And we asked them, "Do you have any slaves?"
Our reply was a quick and hasty one when the native (black) people ran into the woods and began capturing opposing tribesmen (and women) and rushing them to us.
(This does not excuse white people from buying slaves, or the poor treatment, or the duration of said treatment, it only states we bought black people FROM black people.)
2. I did not personally own a slave. No living member of my family owned a slave. I'm willing to bet you can't find not one single solitary living person that ever even f'ing SEEN a slave! I didn't even grow up with a maid, or butler. We had a paperboy that we had to share with all the neighbors, and he was white.
While I agree, the treatment of said slaves was extremely very poor, and THEY (or the next of kin) did deserve reparations for all of the mistreatment, I think that day is done.

I don't hear about reparations for the Jews, and they don't ask.
Yet every once in a while, someone will tell me the white man is keeping them down.
The white man is keeping them locked up for "some bullshit."
They only shot four (4) people in the head on a drug deal gone bad, but it's MY fault they got sent to jail.

Now we're starting to get to the point.
I can be called everything under the sun, and I'm not supposed to care.
None of it is derogatory.
But a black man can call another black man "nigga" or "boy" and it's ok.
If I call anyone but my son, "boy" it's a class action lawsuit.

Yet today, an African-American male called me "boy."
I replied "Congratulations, you've just set "your people" back at least 1oo years."

Martin Luther King was looking for reparations for slavery, he was just trying to be recognized as an equal.
Civil rights.
And ladies and gentleman if you want to talk about slavery, look closely at MLK's name tag.
It says DOCTOR (Dr.) before it says Martin Luther King.
I, personally, can get credit for enslaving all of Africa, and imprisoning every gang banger behind bars, but it's nary the man who takes the time to think Dr. King got himself educated, President Obama is an educated man.
While you were "bangin" for some dope, or some "hos" or a little beer, some people are getting an education.
Some of "your people" are becoming CEO's of companies, movie stars, musicians, VERY wealthy businessmen, athletes, doctors, president.

I work side by side with a black man every day.
He does the exact same job I do, and gets paid the exact same amount.
And while the racist white trash might call him "the N word" (A variation of the Spanish/Portuguese noun negro, a descendant of the Latin adjective niger, meaning "black") the black people he encounters call him much worse and ridicule him for getting an education and making something of himself.

It's really ridiculous.


Back to the point.
A black man called me boy.
A name/phrase that is degrading and derogatory to black people, and he used it against me, like I've ever said it in my life.
The only time I call someone boy is in addressing them in sentence. (i.e. Boy, I could really use a drink after the day I've had.)
I have never, in the history of inhaling life giving air into my very lungs said to anyone (EVER) "Get out that mop and get to cleaning, BOY."

And I really don't appreciate ANY-F'ING-BODY treating me like I was the Grand F'ing Pooba of the entire Rebel F'ing Army.

I sincerely apologize to each and every African-American person because those of you who are bettering yourself (as all of human-kind should be doing) will almost always be drug down by the people who don't care.
(Then again, whites will always be drug down by NASCAR and "wife-beater" shirts.)
(And serial killers.)
(And domestic abuse.)
(And the French.)

Just kidding France!

On the plus side... there's always THIS GUY!


Don't let 'em getcha... down.
V.V.

I'll Do Better or The Magic of Words

I know it's been a minute or two, but the truth is, I've been working on my parents house.
They went on vacation for a week and I've been fixing up the place while they're gone.
Walls and floors and such.

I've been thinking it's time to move on.
Maybe I need a new job.
Maybe a night with some tail would relieve my stress.
Sweden, I'm talking to YOU here!
Or Germany. (I see you Berlin.)
London, you too.
I'm not picky, I'm just overly sure of what I want. (Picky.)

Anyway, I was thinking of switching jobs, maybe a nice desk job, or even one where a little more physical labor is required.
I've been where I am for a minute and it's getting to me a little bit.
So I thought about a change of scenery.

But right when I'm ready to put in my resignation, the boss tells me what he "really" thinks about me.
From what I've heard I'm not that great an employee.
Of course, I know better, as do most people, but good luck convincing some people of that.

Anyway, I figure I'll finish out the week, take my weekend, and see how I feel on Monday.
Maybe by then I'll have the decision of whether I'll change what I'm doing or not.

I know, you were hoping for something better than me bitching about work, and usually I deliver just that, but this is something that's been on my noodle for a while now, and it's finally taking enough of my attention that I couldn't deny it it's own time in the spotlight.

Keep an eye out, folks.
I hope they don't get me!
V.V.

Assistance is Futile

There are times at work when someone from your sector doesn't make an appearance.
And sometimes a few people don't.
This is a case of the latter.
When people from you're sector don't come to work, they send people from other sectors.
Sometimes this is fine, a few people are trained on everything.
But on rare occasions (and by rare I mean almost all the time) the person they send knows nothing about the job, and can barely find their way to the boiler room to get to my sector.
This presents a problem for the other people.
Instead of working hard, I now have to work my ass off.
And when the new guy gets sent to my sector, and I have to train him on how to do the job, as well as actually get my job done too, it's a bit harder day.

Now it gets interesting.
The new guy hits my sector, ("E" Sector) I've already ask about him, the response isn't good.
A friend of a friend, the Good-Ol-Boy system hard at work again!
So not only do I have to get my job done, and train him, but I also have to see that this ass clown doesn't put the whoopee cushion in the wrong chair all night.
This trick only works with proper set-up and I've got to make sure he doesn't eat the fake dog turds.

Prime example of someone Rev talks about.
The guy you expect to make a poop army, play Risk with himself, and devour the losing team as punishment for their insolence and war crimes.

Lemme tell ya here folks (and folkettes) if you're dropping off your child at the babysitters house, and before you leave you hear your little darling tell the sitter "I told you you'd hurt yourself." are you really gonna have that night out?

E Sector is the most difficult one on the whole compound.
It's busy, it smells funny, and you have to keep a look out, making sure the machines don't revolt. (They're revolting enough already.)

I guess I'm just an old fuddy-duddy when it comes to people F-ing up my work station.


Hire the handicapped! They're fun to watch.
Don't let 'em getcha.

Like Giant Radioactive Rubber Pants!

A special select chosen few people from each camp are chosen for the Emergency Squad. (E-Squad)
The E-Squad goes to other camps and searches for stuff.
I don't know what they search for.
I know they've found some amazing things.

Actually, I do know what they search for, but I'm not telling.
They search for all the stuff that normal people search for, but they figure with enough of them doing it, they'll find what a single team (of two) will miss.

Anyway, it's not about them as a team, or the job that they do.
It's actually about the select few of them, and not just the E-Squad guys, but there are a lot on it, that have entirely too much testosterone.
That amazing little thing that runs through their veins and makes them scream and yell and go berserker over every little thing that goes wrong (or right) in their day to day.
It powers through them like G.I. Joe in the Barbie section at Toys-R-Us on a three day pass.
Or like, oh I don't know, like giant radioactive rubber pants.
"The pants command ME!"

On a side note, that phrase comes from Invader Zim.
In it's entirety being "But... invader's blood marches through my veins, like giant RADIOACTIVE RUBBER PANTS! The pants command me. Do not ignore my veins!"

Nonetheless, I'm sure most of you know at least one person like this.
Some of you know many more.
They're basically harmless, unless they're not, and then they aren't.

But what I can't figure out is what makes these select few so overzealous about every little thing.
My soup is boiling over. OH, NO!!
My son dresses like a girl. OH, NO!!
I'm only an hour early for work instead of an hour and five minutes. AAAAHHHHHHHH!!!!
I have to actually get off my lazy ass and do a little work for a change. Where's the poison?!!? I'M TOO YOUNG TO WORK!!

So, captive audience...
You sat through knowing what people are doing at the other end of the phone.
You dared to take the Folic Acid challenge. (At least, I hope you did.)
Now, I'm asking for all the input you can muster...
How do these people live more than 3o years without their heart exploding??

I really want to know.
To get so worked up, or such little, tiny, petty, bologna, how do they deal with life and not have a massive coronary by their 12th birthday.
If you're one of these people, or know one quite well, let me in on the secret.

Calm down out there, friends.
Don't let THEM getcha.