Friday, April 13, 2007
mydaysasawageslave.com
mydaysasawageslave.com
mydaysasawageslave.comhttp://www.mydaysasawageslave.com/images/bstorm.jpg
Thursday, December 21, 2006
it's an own brand christmas in my imaginary world
mydaysasawageslave.com
it's no expense spared in the high class world of marketing and advertising this christmas...
it's no expense spared in the high class world of marketing and advertising this christmas...
Friday, December 01, 2006
Marketeers Slide Further Down the Evolutionary Chain Shock!
Thursday, November 16, 2006
a mission brief made me vomit through my eyes
mydaysasawageslave.com
I was thinking about doing some work. I had a pile of briefs in my 'to do' list which were getting dangerously close to their deadlines.
Angry Martin had been sending me loads of porn, heavy metal and football related emails which had had an adverse effect on my work rate.
As a result of having to account for every minute of my day in billable work in order to get paid, I was an expert at filling my day with imaginary duties and chores.
For every job that came in, I figured I could do it in half the time, giving me the other half to spend my time subversively idling. I won't even get anything constructive done in this time. That would be too 'protestant work ethic' for me. No I would be happy in the knowledge that I was doing nothing constructive for this time, thus denying my boss the full worth of his pound of flesh.
So in an effort to find something I could pad out the day with I picked up a brief at the top of the pile. I'd been avoiding it for 2 days now and figured it wasn't going to go away. Unfortunately I was signing my own death warrant.
The introduction went "Our product provides women who put personal relationships as a top priority, with a moment to take a step back and focus on what really matter. The coffee lover's coffee!'
Fuck! I snorted out loud. That was a serious pile of shit. How the hell can I take that seriously? It was saying 'Yes, we marketeers care a lot! and we really mean that!'
A mission brief made me vomit through my eyes
Now I lie every day for a living but that took the biscuit. It went on over 4 pages of ever worsening rubbish.
I lost heat by page 2 and noticed a new mail had come in from Angry Martin. Maybe I could start this job tomorrow?
I'm sure I could bluff my way through some bullshit an hour before deadline. You know a woman, aspiring young professional, late 20's / early 30's, stylish apartment, with her friends. Oh and drinking coffee of course!
Anyway, it says here in the subject of Angry Martin's email that someone can vomit through their eyes. I have to see that.
I was thinking about doing some work. I had a pile of briefs in my 'to do' list which were getting dangerously close to their deadlines.
Angry Martin had been sending me loads of porn, heavy metal and football related emails which had had an adverse effect on my work rate.
As a result of having to account for every minute of my day in billable work in order to get paid, I was an expert at filling my day with imaginary duties and chores.
For every job that came in, I figured I could do it in half the time, giving me the other half to spend my time subversively idling. I won't even get anything constructive done in this time. That would be too 'protestant work ethic' for me. No I would be happy in the knowledge that I was doing nothing constructive for this time, thus denying my boss the full worth of his pound of flesh.
So in an effort to find something I could pad out the day with I picked up a brief at the top of the pile. I'd been avoiding it for 2 days now and figured it wasn't going to go away. Unfortunately I was signing my own death warrant.
The introduction went "Our product provides women who put personal relationships as a top priority, with a moment to take a step back and focus on what really matter. The coffee lover's coffee!'
Fuck! I snorted out loud. That was a serious pile of shit. How the hell can I take that seriously? It was saying 'Yes, we marketeers care a lot! and we really mean that!'
A mission brief made me vomit through my eyes
Now I lie every day for a living but that took the biscuit. It went on over 4 pages of ever worsening rubbish.
I lost heat by page 2 and noticed a new mail had come in from Angry Martin. Maybe I could start this job tomorrow?
I'm sure I could bluff my way through some bullshit an hour before deadline. You know a woman, aspiring young professional, late 20's / early 30's, stylish apartment, with her friends. Oh and drinking coffee of course!
Anyway, it says here in the subject of Angry Martin's email that someone can vomit through their eyes. I have to see that.
Thursday, October 19, 2006
car parking rage is the new rock and roll
I'm sitting waiting on the phone to ring with the news that my boss is in the process of being beaten senseless outside the office.
Some poor unfortunate had the temerity to park in his (Number 1's) favoured parking space this morning. In retaliation, he has blocked them in, so that they have to call him to get away. At which point he plans on menacing the hell out of them.
This is bread and butter to him. Kind of like a hobby. He loves menacing and bullying his underlings here, and by and large they all take it. When people get fed up with it, they just leave quietly. Or in pieces.
I personally hold every middle aged business man / suit / corporate lizard type responsible for this behavior. Way I see it is, chances are they are just like my Number 1 in their organisation, so if I can make them uncomfortable in any way, I'm striking a blow for all the wageslaves like me who have to deal with their bullying on a daily basis.
I will go out of my way to annoy or confront one of them in the course of my day. At the moment I am involved in an ongoing feud with someone else's Number 1 across the road. He is going mad over the fact I chain my bike to a railing near a spot he favors for parking his BMW.
He doesn't own the railing.
He doesn't own the street.
And he doesn't own me. Yet.
He only seems to turn up maybe once a week. In a hyper aggressive mood. Obviously offended at having to look at an eyesore he probably equates with being a communist or something, threatening to cut my bike off the railing.
Off course I love the fact that he is getting into such a rage. And anyway, his car would make a bigger target than my bike if he wants to go down that road.
So I'm sitting here hoping that when the other car's owner turns up, he is a grade A, Tony Soprana style, violent nutjob, who, maybe, has decided to pulverize the next person to criticize his parking.
I told this week's receptionist to give me a call when ever it 'kicks off'. This is one fight I'd pay to watch.
I worked with a media company on Ely Place a few years back where they switched courier companies. The old one's owner got drunk with some dodgy gangster 'friend' of his and came round to rough up my boss and his office. They locked the door and threatened him with a fire extinguisher.
I think he had to pay them off. A couple of the other wageslave desk-jockeys actually suggested "we go in there and give him a hand!"
I think they thought they were on that Flight 93 on 911, fighting back against a gang of Terrorists.
I was only there a couple of weeks at this stage, "Fuck that!" I said. "I don't know any of those guys in there. I'm not going to get killed 'cause it's part of my job."
The other guys saw sense.
One girl, Jean, tried to get involved but ended up in tears. The gangsters left and our boss sheepishly came out a few minutes later, ridiculously claiming he had scared them off!
Over the course of time the only regret of those desk-jockeys, was that they didn't go in there and put in the boot themselves, as one by one they were fucked over by the boss.
So I'm sitting here waiting for the phone call to say a large east European psychopath is killing my boss in a needless dispute over a car parking space.
In reality the driver of the offending car will probably be a pleasant and stressed pregnant woman, rushing to collect her kids or something. And Number 1 will have his fun at her expense. Like he always does.
Still here's hoping.
Some poor unfortunate had the temerity to park in his (Number 1's) favoured parking space this morning. In retaliation, he has blocked them in, so that they have to call him to get away. At which point he plans on menacing the hell out of them.
This is bread and butter to him. Kind of like a hobby. He loves menacing and bullying his underlings here, and by and large they all take it. When people get fed up with it, they just leave quietly. Or in pieces.
I personally hold every middle aged business man / suit / corporate lizard type responsible for this behavior. Way I see it is, chances are they are just like my Number 1 in their organisation, so if I can make them uncomfortable in any way, I'm striking a blow for all the wageslaves like me who have to deal with their bullying on a daily basis.
I will go out of my way to annoy or confront one of them in the course of my day. At the moment I am involved in an ongoing feud with someone else's Number 1 across the road. He is going mad over the fact I chain my bike to a railing near a spot he favors for parking his BMW.
He doesn't own the railing.
He doesn't own the street.
And he doesn't own me. Yet.
He only seems to turn up maybe once a week. In a hyper aggressive mood. Obviously offended at having to look at an eyesore he probably equates with being a communist or something, threatening to cut my bike off the railing.
Off course I love the fact that he is getting into such a rage. And anyway, his car would make a bigger target than my bike if he wants to go down that road.
So I'm sitting here hoping that when the other car's owner turns up, he is a grade A, Tony Soprana style, violent nutjob, who, maybe, has decided to pulverize the next person to criticize his parking.
I told this week's receptionist to give me a call when ever it 'kicks off'. This is one fight I'd pay to watch.
I worked with a media company on Ely Place a few years back where they switched courier companies. The old one's owner got drunk with some dodgy gangster 'friend' of his and came round to rough up my boss and his office. They locked the door and threatened him with a fire extinguisher.
I think he had to pay them off. A couple of the other wageslave desk-jockeys actually suggested "we go in there and give him a hand!"
I think they thought they were on that Flight 93 on 911, fighting back against a gang of Terrorists.
I was only there a couple of weeks at this stage, "Fuck that!" I said. "I don't know any of those guys in there. I'm not going to get killed 'cause it's part of my job."
The other guys saw sense.
One girl, Jean, tried to get involved but ended up in tears. The gangsters left and our boss sheepishly came out a few minutes later, ridiculously claiming he had scared them off!
Over the course of time the only regret of those desk-jockeys, was that they didn't go in there and put in the boot themselves, as one by one they were fucked over by the boss.
So I'm sitting here waiting for the phone call to say a large east European psychopath is killing my boss in a needless dispute over a car parking space.
In reality the driver of the offending car will probably be a pleasant and stressed pregnant woman, rushing to collect her kids or something. And Number 1 will have his fun at her expense. Like he always does.
Still here's hoping.
Thursday, October 05, 2006
Training dogs to cover for you at work...
Someone said you could get a bunch of monkeys to write the entire works of Shakespeare if you gave them enough time and a typewriter.
My Boss, Number 1, once said he'd much rather assign seat numbers than put names to the new faces that kept popping up around the place. That way everything could stay the same for him and the person in my seat would always be Number 29. And so on.
I was thinking of sending a dog into work in my place and see if anyone noticed.
Would he still be referred to as wageslave 29. Merely an operative filling a seat. My seat.
On the plus side from my employer's point of view, he would probably spend less time online than me. Or on the phone. Or drinking coffee. Or whinging.
The turnover would probably be high though, down to the whole dog years versus human and all that. He'd have been here 10 plus years already in place of my year and three quarters.
Then again the turnover's pretty high as it is. We lost another receptionist this week. She lasted maybe 3 months. What's that in dog years? A year and three quarters or something. Sometimes this job feels like it's going by in dog years.
Not that it's much different most other places. My mate johnbob21 says we're all like like Father Ted's on our various Craggy Island's where there is always an equivalent Father Jack type has-been, a Dougal type young idiot and you.
Recent interviews have confirmed this to me and along with my growing addiction to YouTube, I have found my motivation seriously lacking of late.
Think I'll revert to plan B and gradually send in a well trained pet in my place.
Maybe after a while he could swop job chairs with some other well trained pet in a job just like mine on another island, just like mine.
Someday.
Monday, September 25, 2006
mydaysasawageslave.com
mydaysasawageslave.com
I am trying to be a better and more productive wageslave believe me i am.
But try as hard as i like, it's just not working. I can't drum up the enthusiasm for the job. Maybe it's the particular job but I fear it's work in general.
My boss (Number 1) took me and a couple of other design droids out for lunch on Friday. A kind of "checking in with the troops" (his comment and his inverted commas!) and a... "bit of morale boosting."
So I thought I'd be reasonable, give him a chance, take the free drink and food and see how it goes.
It was fuckin' awful! No two ways about it.
Every single facet of conversation of Number 1 led conversation is designed to push his social status.
He goes to Spain on holidays. Not that he would normally, but his wife's family, who are very wealthy, have an apartment there.
He occasionally goes "over to the west somewhere... (Mayo) to stay at a farmhouse B&B. The farmer and his wife, whilst being mad are surprisingly intelligent. Quite cultured and versed in the ways of the world. You could have a conversation with them!" Even I am a bit shocked that he seemed shocked at this.
Ned, our resident 'westie' laughs at this kind of thing in the way the gombeen Oirish characters in the Irish RM used to laugh at Peter Bowles.
A self confessed D4 (that's Dublin 4 an 'elite' Dublin postal code to the unitiated) Boy, he only goes to this one place outside his postal district on the recommendation of a builder friend of his.
He leaves that to hang in the air for a second before continuing... "He's not. like, a normal builder, he's very wealthy. Builds houses. Worth a fortune".
"Of course' I sigh.
As we prepare to leave he stops only to make the waitress squirm a bit more, asking her how much of a tip she felt she was worth.
I walked ahead of the others back toward the office. Over my shoulder, I can hear Number is on a role... "I've never been poor, have you? I mean I've never had to do without anything. Even when I was at university. I lived at home. I had a job. Money, a car. What's it like?" he asks pointedly of his remaining design droids.
The traffic drowns out any hope of a response and I put a bit of distance between myself and them. I pass the ambient black guy with a sandwich board on the bridge who is becoming more ambient and un-noticed everyday. In my head I'm singing 'The Port of Amsterdam', the Bowie version.
"there's a sailor who dies, full of beer, full of cries..."
I'm the first back into expensively designed cube farm that is work, when I see someone frantically scurrying about up at the back of the office. It's a familiar shape so I go a bit closer.
"Carol? is that you. You Ok?" Carol is the pregnant girl they bumped off a couple of weeks back.
She looked up at me looking totally stressed and confused before blurting out a sharp "No." Her eyes welling up before breaking into tears. Sobbing!
Jesus! I didn't know what to do.
"I can't believe they just just got rid of me like that... I just came in to collect my stuff. It's taken me a couple of weeks to be able to come back... and then they have some one else at my desk.
They told me they it was nothing to do with my pregnancy. They couldn't afford the position. But they've got someone else doing my job. Already! How long has she been here?"
"Er, a day or two after you left... maybe."
"Bastards!" she wailed.
"Yeah I know, they were really shit, the way they treated you. Look I'm really sorry about all that." I fumbled... "It was nothing to do with me. Or most of the people here really. Everyone was freaked out over it... they're just real fuckers.
You're better off out of it. You don't need to be around people like that."
"It's just that I thought Igor was a friend. I'd worked with him for years. He's been in my house for dinner! I invited him to my wedding! and then he does this... Wanker!"
At this stage a couple of the female wageslaves had come back from lunch. They rushed up to console the now distraught Carol with a hugs and sympathy. I was glad to be relieved. Truth was, that for the first time in my working wagelsave life, I felt thoroughly ashamed of myself. Ashamed that i had to stand and watch a grown woman cry over mistreatment. And ashamed that there was nothing I could do other than offer my sympathy.
The girls ushered her out before Number 1, Igor or any of the middle management drones made it back into the office.
I was back at my cubicle staring blankly at the screen for the rest of the afternoon. I had a print out stuck on my partition with the lyrics of the intro monologue from radiohead's OK computer... fitter, happier, more productive... a pig in a cage on antibiotics as Bowie played out my day in the port of Amsterdam.
"...Yeah, they've bargained their virtue
Their goodness all gone
For a few dirty coins
Well he just can't go on..."
indeed.
I am trying to be a better and more productive wageslave believe me i am.
But try as hard as i like, it's just not working. I can't drum up the enthusiasm for the job. Maybe it's the particular job but I fear it's work in general.
My boss (Number 1) took me and a couple of other design droids out for lunch on Friday. A kind of "checking in with the troops" (his comment and his inverted commas!) and a... "bit of morale boosting."
So I thought I'd be reasonable, give him a chance, take the free drink and food and see how it goes.
It was fuckin' awful! No two ways about it.
Every single facet of conversation of Number 1 led conversation is designed to push his social status.
He goes to Spain on holidays. Not that he would normally, but his wife's family, who are very wealthy, have an apartment there.
He occasionally goes "over to the west somewhere... (Mayo) to stay at a farmhouse B&B. The farmer and his wife, whilst being mad are surprisingly intelligent. Quite cultured and versed in the ways of the world. You could have a conversation with them!" Even I am a bit shocked that he seemed shocked at this.
Ned, our resident 'westie' laughs at this kind of thing in the way the gombeen Oirish characters in the Irish RM used to laugh at Peter Bowles.
A self confessed D4 (that's Dublin 4 an 'elite' Dublin postal code to the unitiated) Boy, he only goes to this one place outside his postal district on the recommendation of a builder friend of his.
He leaves that to hang in the air for a second before continuing... "He's not. like, a normal builder, he's very wealthy. Builds houses. Worth a fortune".
"Of course' I sigh.
As we prepare to leave he stops only to make the waitress squirm a bit more, asking her how much of a tip she felt she was worth.
I walked ahead of the others back toward the office. Over my shoulder, I can hear Number is on a role... "I've never been poor, have you? I mean I've never had to do without anything. Even when I was at university. I lived at home. I had a job. Money, a car. What's it like?" he asks pointedly of his remaining design droids.
The traffic drowns out any hope of a response and I put a bit of distance between myself and them. I pass the ambient black guy with a sandwich board on the bridge who is becoming more ambient and un-noticed everyday. In my head I'm singing 'The Port of Amsterdam', the Bowie version.
"there's a sailor who dies, full of beer, full of cries..."
I'm the first back into expensively designed cube farm that is work, when I see someone frantically scurrying about up at the back of the office. It's a familiar shape so I go a bit closer.
"Carol? is that you. You Ok?" Carol is the pregnant girl they bumped off a couple of weeks back.
She looked up at me looking totally stressed and confused before blurting out a sharp "No." Her eyes welling up before breaking into tears. Sobbing!
Jesus! I didn't know what to do.
"I can't believe they just just got rid of me like that... I just came in to collect my stuff. It's taken me a couple of weeks to be able to come back... and then they have some one else at my desk.
They told me they it was nothing to do with my pregnancy. They couldn't afford the position. But they've got someone else doing my job. Already! How long has she been here?"
"Er, a day or two after you left... maybe."
"Bastards!" she wailed.
"Yeah I know, they were really shit, the way they treated you. Look I'm really sorry about all that." I fumbled... "It was nothing to do with me. Or most of the people here really. Everyone was freaked out over it... they're just real fuckers.
You're better off out of it. You don't need to be around people like that."
"It's just that I thought Igor was a friend. I'd worked with him for years. He's been in my house for dinner! I invited him to my wedding! and then he does this... Wanker!"
At this stage a couple of the female wageslaves had come back from lunch. They rushed up to console the now distraught Carol with a hugs and sympathy. I was glad to be relieved. Truth was, that for the first time in my working wagelsave life, I felt thoroughly ashamed of myself. Ashamed that i had to stand and watch a grown woman cry over mistreatment. And ashamed that there was nothing I could do other than offer my sympathy.
The girls ushered her out before Number 1, Igor or any of the middle management drones made it back into the office.
I was back at my cubicle staring blankly at the screen for the rest of the afternoon. I had a print out stuck on my partition with the lyrics of the intro monologue from radiohead's OK computer... fitter, happier, more productive... a pig in a cage on antibiotics as Bowie played out my day in the port of Amsterdam.
"...Yeah, they've bargained their virtue
Their goodness all gone
For a few dirty coins
Well he just can't go on..."
indeed.
