Recently, I have been on the engagement from hell. Okay, they are ALL engagements from hell, but this one is very special. Not for the reasons specified below, but for many others.
Ladies and gentlemen, that is not why I bring you here today. I want to alleviate all of your concerns about how safe your money is in our great, private institutions during these scary economic times.
You see, the majority of those with whom I work are in the banking and healthcare industry. And we aren’t talking puny little people. We are talking the biggies. So when I tell you I am here to give you comfort, I can back it up.
In order for me to give you that comfort, as Jesus learned very quickly, parables are the best way to convey that information. So below is a parable of my own.
“Oh ye, little lambs under the oppresive economic situation of the United States of America, come, sit under the tree of knowledge and share with me this story. Listen, as I tell you the truth of what is going on around you; that the pharisees do NOT want you to know.
Though lowly commoner that I am, I find myself surrounded by bank executives, creating intelligence reports so that the economic decision makers that be can make better decisions for you and me. And lo, I work hard for my currency that pays my landlord for my humble abode.
Upon delivering such ‘intelligent’ reports for said executives who are responsible for the safety of our money, I am returned armed with frustration from said executives. These executives are frustrated, because these reports, which will save the economic lives of you and I, do not share the same report title sizing upon viewing.
Lo, diligently, I try to determine the cause of such a heinous complaint. However, there is no issue to be found. After communicating back and forth, after two weeks, the executives explain to me that it should be clear to me that we are discussing printing visibility, NOT viewing visibility.
After bleeding appropriately for my inability to read minds, I reviewed all pixel sizes for over an hour, and attempted to print out said reports to compare the psychotic noisings of bank executives.
Upon printing and within seconds of determining the problem, I found myself rolling on the floor, and could not stop. I had immediately become possessed by a spirit, which could not be exhumed by myself; a spirit of laughter. This spirit could only be removed from me by sharing the story with as many people as possible.
Therefore, I picked up the phone and called my other developers.
I explained to them that the executives were choosing to print the legal-sized report on letter paper, which is resizing the document when printing. Doing so would of course, resize the title and all other information on the report. Now, why would this be an issue? Because the report is a legal-sized document. And it is quite visibly a legal-sized document when viewing it in Adobe Acrobat Reader.
Now, you may ask me, oh commoner, how did you handle the expulsion of the laughter demon, and how did you handle the conveyance of such information back to the bank executives for such folly? And how did the executives handle such an embarrassing oversight?
Well, the demon persists to this day. I found that the demon is a part of my personality, and I rather like him.
I conveyed the information back to the client as nicely as I could, and tried not to sound like a complete asshole.
The client actually did not think they did anything wrong. They blamed the tool, and didn’t understand that those were settings in Adobe Acrobat reader, and thought that we should somehow code into the report such that Acrobat reader prints it out a certain way. “
So I assure you, your money is completely safe in the hands of banking executives. As long as you do not ask them to print out pdfs, or anything banal that requires an IQ of say, oh, 30.
And from that, I was dismissed from the project for being a poor developer (among other non-sensical mistakes on the client’s behalf that were, of course, my fault). Of course, I was categorically mandated to work through every holiday we had, I was forced to cancel my vacation, and we worked 7×18 every day since Thanksgiving. And from that, you can imagine that my resume is going to be updated this week while I am on vacation (think medical leave).
I am the proud nesting ground of one retarted, autistic and dumb mother-fucker female redbird.
Some stupid, over-testosteroned egotistical male redbird has decided that MY property is the best place to keep his harem of the “dumb blonde” female redbirds. I have three of them. I assume he is working on more, due to the typical boredom factor of about three months of most males.
This one particular dumbass, I mean, female redbird, has decided that she can get into my house. For six months, I have listened to this dumb mother-fucking stupid-ass bird peck at my window. Full head-on. At first, I worried that she would kill herself, so I would go in there and scare her away. As it continued, I just got pissed.
I put up blocks, cardboard boxes, scary shit; nothing deters this stupid fucking bird. My house looks like it has been boarded up with cardboard in the back. All she does is find another fucking window to peck at.
It starts at 5 a.m. and goes till about 9 p.m. I am now hoping that one last peck will take out her brain stem and that will be the end of it. It’s either that, or I go out and commit mass murder against three harem birds. God knows what the male would do to me should I do that.
I don’t own a gun; I guess I would have to resort to hand to hand combat. Because I can’t fly, and I am slow as molasses, she has the upper wing on me. But it’s MY fucking house, bitch. Maybe some poison on the glass? The bird CAN’T be smarter than me. Or can she?
Ideas on killing the mother-fucking retarted and autistic harem bird? All ideas welcomed.
In light of the fact that I have spent years and years and years celebrating Valentine’s day alone, consuming vast quantities of chocolate to compensate for the lack of sex in my life, I have decided to put together a proposition.
My proposition consists of exactly what I am looking for in a man. Okay, the MINIMAL qualities. Over the years, my list has grown quite short, much like my expectations out of life.
So, without further ado, here is my proposition to those men who fit the bill.
Single, well-employed, traveling female in search of anatomically-correct male counterpart who has the following qualities:
1. Can speak and write at a 9th grade level.
2. Can lift Sparklettes water from porch to kitchen.
3. Can say “uh huh” and “oh” and “wow” at appropriate times in conversation when not listening.
4. Is mildly employable.
5. Breathes air. Doesn’t have to breathe air well.
6. Can get out of bed by himself without a forklift. Crowbar is acceptable.
7. Does not wear women’s lingerie.
8. Does not fuck with my purple pens. These are sacred items.
9. Does not get manicures.
10. Does not fart ON me.
Okay, I couldn’t compress it without losing half the screen, so upon Wayne’s recommendation, I uploaded it to youtube.
Again, I am the one with the christmas dress in many colors in striped pattern both horizontal and vertical and talking about tearing my dress. Ah, skinny once upon a time.
I know I was supposed to take the site down this weekend, but my friend, Keitha from high school, found an old video we created for our senior English class about the Great Gatsby. You really should watch it. Let it buffer out a bit before you hit the play button or it will pause on you.
You can probably tell which one is me; I am the skinny girl in the striped christmas-looking dress that is strapless, and, for some reason, in a whole lot of the movie. I am one of the first people you will see, and I am the one that is faking drunk a lot, because of my character, and making a lot of noise and stopping the party mid-way through. And I am skinny. Skinny. Jeez! It’s amazing what we forget.
It’s pretty hilarious though. At the end, we do credits on camera; Keitha and I. It’s worth a watch; it’s so bad and just way too funny.
Sorry it’s so long; I am sure it was a requirement of our assignment. Basically, we just spend a lot of time dancing, talking and screwing up our lines. And at the end, for some reason, as we pretend to accept an award, I decide to say, “Sit Ubu, sit!” Good dog.
