Each day at work, I see my trashcan has moved a bit closer to the door of my cubicle than it was the previous day. I think somebody is trying to steal it an inch at a time. I noticed because lately, I haven't been having as much success with my paperball 3-point dunks. And they say one gets better with practice and human growth hormones.
I suspect it's John. John with all those banana skins and candy wrappers lying around on his desk. How many bananas does one eat in a day? Should have noticed it at the time. Although I'm not exactly sure what his exit strategy is. How it's gonna work when he makes the trashcan disappear entirely. Theoretically, it might be possible not to notice something move an inch a day but surely one would notice it's total disappearance?
Right now I'm toying with the thief. Pretending I suspect nothing and letting the charade continue. But just when the trashcan is almost out the door, I'm gonna bring it back in. All the way in. Make him wish he could get back all those wasted minutes of his life. Gonna make him realize crime don't pay. Gonna get John back on the straight and narrow.
Showing posts with label office. Show all posts
Showing posts with label office. Show all posts
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
Rednecks and hillbillies
So Bill approached me at work today.
"Yo, K-Man", said Bill.
That's what Bill calls me. By the time I had developed a dislike for this nick, it was too late.
"Yo, K-Man. I'm going to this bluegrass festival in the Poconos this weekend. Wanna go?"
"Isn't that like a redneck thing?", I said. "Tell me the name of the town, so I know where to stay away from."
"Why?", said Bill. "You know, you should really go, you might like it."
"Nah man, I said. "Most of you might not have seen an Indian guy before. I am afraid I'll be hunted for my skin or something. Maybe captured and locked up in a cage for observation. Declared a new species and pickled in formaldehyde."
"And if you're lucky, that's all they'll do to you", said another colleague who happened to be passing by. He left, laughing at his own joke.
"You know what I realized", said Bill, "I think you're confusing rednecks with hillbillies."
"What's the difference?", I said.
"Rednecks are racist of their own volition", replied Bill. "Hillbillies are racist because they know no better."
"Ah, I see", I said. "So you rednecks are well-informed racists. You haven't taken the decision to be racist lightly. You've given it considerable thought, mulled it over. Weighed the pros and cons, done your research."
"Exactly", said Bill. "Whereas a hillbilly is born into racism. Kind of like how one is born into a religion. Rednecks, on the other hand, are the free-thinkers of racism."
"That's a great way to put it", I said. "Nobody's explained it to me in those terms before. But still, how does this affect me? Regardless of the nature of your racism, I'll still be in danger, right?"
"Rednecks are harmless", said Bill, "The nature of our racist tendency implies that we are capable of making a conscious effort not to harm you. Whereas hillbillies will come at you like a bear after honey. It's a primal urge."
"And you're saying there will be more rednecks at this gig than hillbillies?" I asked.
"Yes, very few hillbillies in Southeastern PA", said Bill." So will you go?"
"Doesn't bluegrass involve those tiny guitar-like things that sound like someone strumming on his pubes?"
"Yes", said Bill. "Banjos".
"Sorry, I like my guitar heavy", I said. "But have fun. You gonna take your livestock along with you?".
"That's hillbilly", said Bill. "I take dead flesh".
"Oops, gotcha".
"Yo, K-Man", said Bill.
That's what Bill calls me. By the time I had developed a dislike for this nick, it was too late.
"Yo, K-Man. I'm going to this bluegrass festival in the Poconos this weekend. Wanna go?"
"Isn't that like a redneck thing?", I said. "Tell me the name of the town, so I know where to stay away from."
"Why?", said Bill. "You know, you should really go, you might like it."
"Nah man, I said. "Most of you might not have seen an Indian guy before. I am afraid I'll be hunted for my skin or something. Maybe captured and locked up in a cage for observation. Declared a new species and pickled in formaldehyde."
"And if you're lucky, that's all they'll do to you", said another colleague who happened to be passing by. He left, laughing at his own joke.
"You know what I realized", said Bill, "I think you're confusing rednecks with hillbillies."
"What's the difference?", I said.
"Rednecks are racist of their own volition", replied Bill. "Hillbillies are racist because they know no better."
"Ah, I see", I said. "So you rednecks are well-informed racists. You haven't taken the decision to be racist lightly. You've given it considerable thought, mulled it over. Weighed the pros and cons, done your research."
"Exactly", said Bill. "Whereas a hillbilly is born into racism. Kind of like how one is born into a religion. Rednecks, on the other hand, are the free-thinkers of racism."
"That's a great way to put it", I said. "Nobody's explained it to me in those terms before. But still, how does this affect me? Regardless of the nature of your racism, I'll still be in danger, right?"
"Rednecks are harmless", said Bill, "The nature of our racist tendency implies that we are capable of making a conscious effort not to harm you. Whereas hillbillies will come at you like a bear after honey. It's a primal urge."
"And you're saying there will be more rednecks at this gig than hillbillies?" I asked.
"Yes, very few hillbillies in Southeastern PA", said Bill." So will you go?"
"Doesn't bluegrass involve those tiny guitar-like things that sound like someone strumming on his pubes?"
"Yes", said Bill. "Banjos".
"Sorry, I like my guitar heavy", I said. "But have fun. You gonna take your livestock along with you?".
"That's hillbilly", said Bill. "I take dead flesh".
"Oops, gotcha".
Friday, May 22, 2009
Clown car
Sometimes it takes me a while to get American pop culture references. Today, in the parking lot, a colleague asked me, hey, how's your clown car doing. I said, what clown car? Are you calling me a clown? That's funny, he he. No, you aren't? Why clown car then? No, I don't know what a clown car is. Okay...go on. I see. Uhuh. So what you are saying is, when you asked me how my clown car was doing, you were, in fact, referring to the tiny car frequently featured in old-style American comedy flicks and cartoons that pulls up to the curb, followed by a heavy exodus of clowns from its interior, the sheer number of which, when compared to the disproportionately small size of the car, provides the humorous effect.
Oh okay, I get it now. I own a small car.
Alright then, I am glad we resolved this issue. Shall we go on inside now?
Oh okay, I get it now. I own a small car.
Alright then, I am glad we resolved this issue. Shall we go on inside now?
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
Happy birthday, John
Bill celebrates his birthday today. As is the custom in my office, first thing in the morning, they passed a birthday card around that everybody was supposed to sign. Ross gave me the card, telling me it was Bill's birthday. I wrote "Happy Birthday" and signed my name underneath. Then, I gave the card to Jim to sign. I did not tell Jim that it was Bill's birthday because making casual conversation with Jim at 8:00 am is a surefire way to develop a brain aneurysm at 9:00 am.
But Jim is an inquisitive type. He fancies himself to be quite a sleuth. Jim scanned the birthday card for clues as to whose birthday it was. He saw the words "Happy Birthday" and underneath it, the underlined name, John. John always underlines his name when he signs it on a birthday card. Jim did not know that. So Jim, having no sleuthing abilities whatsoever, naturally opted to believe that it read "Happy Birthday, John". He added his own wishes to the card by writing "Happy Birthday, John". Then, he passed on the card to Ronny, helpfully informing him that it was John's birthday. Ronny signed the card as well, adding his hope that John would experience an abundance of joy on this wonderful day. And so, like a tragic rolling stone, the card continued to make its way downhill, gathering birthday wishes for John.
At some point today, Bill will be signing his own birthday card, wishing John the very best and quite possibly, also adding a humorous side-note because he is that kind of a guy. Bill will feel just a hint of bemusement over the fact that this is the first time in all these years that he has shared his birthday with John. Bill will also wonder whether John is a closet Hindu and has been following the lunar calendar. And later on in the afternoon, we will be having a surprise birthday party for John. John will be really really surprised, seeing that it isn't his birthday. Also, John is seventy. I don't think he would like a premature birthday or a surprise.
But there will be cake. And that's all that matters.
But Jim is an inquisitive type. He fancies himself to be quite a sleuth. Jim scanned the birthday card for clues as to whose birthday it was. He saw the words "Happy Birthday" and underneath it, the underlined name, John. John always underlines his name when he signs it on a birthday card. Jim did not know that. So Jim, having no sleuthing abilities whatsoever, naturally opted to believe that it read "Happy Birthday, John". He added his own wishes to the card by writing "Happy Birthday, John". Then, he passed on the card to Ronny, helpfully informing him that it was John's birthday. Ronny signed the card as well, adding his hope that John would experience an abundance of joy on this wonderful day. And so, like a tragic rolling stone, the card continued to make its way downhill, gathering birthday wishes for John.
At some point today, Bill will be signing his own birthday card, wishing John the very best and quite possibly, also adding a humorous side-note because he is that kind of a guy. Bill will feel just a hint of bemusement over the fact that this is the first time in all these years that he has shared his birthday with John. Bill will also wonder whether John is a closet Hindu and has been following the lunar calendar. And later on in the afternoon, we will be having a surprise birthday party for John. John will be really really surprised, seeing that it isn't his birthday. Also, John is seventy. I don't think he would like a premature birthday or a surprise.
But there will be cake. And that's all that matters.
Wednesday, April 01, 2009
Breaking in
We have a new guy in our office who's been temporarily assigned to us from India. He will be with us for the next four months. He's Maharashtrian and coincidentally, from Pune. My American colleague G is in charge of supervising the new guy. G wandered into my cubicle yesterday.
gawker : What's up G? How's the new guy doing?
G : Habeeb is in training class.
gawker : Habeeb?
(The new guy isn't Muslim and his name isn't Habeeb.)
gawker : Listen G, don't try your "all brown people are terrorists" jokes on the new guy just yet, okay?
G : What brown terrorist jokes?
gawker : You remember, when I didn't shave for a month and when I finally did, you asked me if I had graduated from terror camp?
G : Oh, that.
gawker : And when we were in the Indian restaurant, you complained they weren't playing your favorite song, and when asked which one, you put your palm on your mouth and yelled "ulululululululu"?
G : So when can I start making terrorist jokes?
gawker : I will break him in gradually. Start him off on some mild Mahashtrian mother-sister stuff. Gauge his reaction. I will let you know if and when he is ready for your overtly racist material.
G : Alright then, you do that. And don't cross any borders illegally in the meantime.
gawker : Oh, and no "Mexicans, Indians, what's the difference" jokes either.
G : You're running a pretty tight ship, Osama.
gawker : Just trying to keep the office safe from suicide bombings.
gawker : What's up G? How's the new guy doing?
G : Habeeb is in training class.
gawker : Habeeb?
(The new guy isn't Muslim and his name isn't Habeeb.)
gawker : Listen G, don't try your "all brown people are terrorists" jokes on the new guy just yet, okay?
G : What brown terrorist jokes?
gawker : You remember, when I didn't shave for a month and when I finally did, you asked me if I had graduated from terror camp?
G : Oh, that.
gawker : And when we were in the Indian restaurant, you complained they weren't playing your favorite song, and when asked which one, you put your palm on your mouth and yelled "ulululululululu"?
G : So when can I start making terrorist jokes?
gawker : I will break him in gradually. Start him off on some mild Mahashtrian mother-sister stuff. Gauge his reaction. I will let you know if and when he is ready for your overtly racist material.
G : Alright then, you do that. And don't cross any borders illegally in the meantime.
gawker : Oh, and no "Mexicans, Indians, what's the difference" jokes either.
G : You're running a pretty tight ship, Osama.
gawker : Just trying to keep the office safe from suicide bombings.
Monday, March 23, 2009
QOTD
Colleague1 on Colleague2 :
"If this guy came upon a wall, instead of climbing it, he would probably run left and right trying to find out where it ended."
"If this guy came upon a wall, instead of climbing it, he would probably run left and right trying to find out where it ended."
Thursday, March 12, 2009
Email joke
So I emailed this joke to a couple of American colleagues. Didn't get a response. So I went off to their cubicle to get their response in person.
gawker : Hey guys, so what did you think of the joke I sent you?
colleague1 : I hated it. So much that I printed it out just so I could shred it.
colleague2 : Yeah, and then I burnt the shreddings.
gawker : Come on, it wasn't too bad. Anyways, it wasn't mine.
colleague1 : Really? It had gawker written all over it.
gawker : Well, we Indians are all pretty much alike.
colleague2 : Yeah, you all stink.
gawker : Sure, sure. So are we doing Indian for lunch?
colleague1 : Yeah.
colleague2 : Thirty minutes.
gawker : Hey guys, so what did you think of the joke I sent you?
colleague1 : I hated it. So much that I printed it out just so I could shred it.
colleague2 : Yeah, and then I burnt the shreddings.
gawker : Come on, it wasn't too bad. Anyways, it wasn't mine.
colleague1 : Really? It had gawker written all over it.
gawker : Well, we Indians are all pretty much alike.
colleague2 : Yeah, you all stink.
gawker : Sure, sure. So are we doing Indian for lunch?
colleague1 : Yeah.
colleague2 : Thirty minutes.
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
heydagoodagadi
Our office building has an evening janitor whom I bump into every single day as I'm running downstairs after the day's work is done. Very friendly elderly fellow and always greets me when I meet him. The only problem is, I still don't know what he's been saying to me as a greeting. This is because when I see him and I say "Hey, how you doing", he doesn't wait for the closing notes of my "doing" to die down before he commences his own greeting. In fact, he carefully times his own greeting to begin at the precise moment when I say my "Hey". As a result, what I've been hearing till now as a combined cacophony of our two greetings can be phonetically described as "heydagoodagadi". I'm still trying to figure out which part is mine and, thereby, isolate his vocal frequencies from the mix. For all I know, he might have been asking me to go fuck myself. I hope not because I've given this guy considerable love over the years.
Thursday, March 05, 2009
step ex lesb
Last weekend, my colleague had to drive four hours to his step-sister's daughter's birthday party which was being celebrated at his step-sister's ex-husband's house where he watched her ex-husband have a fight with his step-sister's lesbian ex-lover over the custody of the kid.
So quit complaining about your life.
So quit complaining about your life.
Thursday, February 19, 2009
Cock and Balls
I have a colleague who likes to say "cock and balls". He regularly uses this phrase as a substitute for the word "nonsense". Each time he says it, I have a vision of him scooping up somebody's cock and balls in his hand, kind of like how a good Indian housewife scoops up a lamp for the purpose of gratefully celebrating the awesomeness of her husband with it.
He is also a fan of dropping into my cubicle every f-fucking-ive minutes and just going on and on about shit. He sits in the next cubicle so due to his repeated invasions, I think I have developed this seventh sense on when he's gonna do it next. My sixth sense is actually my paranormal ability to turn on any television channel that is playing Seinfeld at any given instant. So anyways, due to the power of this seventh sense, never, not even once, has he caught me surfing the internet. I think I'm gonna use this sense for other non-office related activities, for example, when I'm in the Chandrapur jungle and a tiger's about to pounce on me from behind because I devoured the goat originally left as its bait, I can take appropriate evasive measures because I knew he would be coming.
This same colleague that I was referring to, had, in the past, developed this highly irritating habit. Whenever I was confronted with a problem of any sort, his advice to me would be "You know what we need in our software? A (problem) button." For example, if I was looking for my stapler, he would say to me, "You know what we need in our software? A "Find the Stapler" button."
Now he has moved on to a different approach. His latest solution to any problem is for me to go to www.(problem).com. So he will now say, "You know what you should do, you should log on to www.findmystapler.com". Oh he is a riot.
So anyways, like I was saying, this guy likes to say "cock and balls" a lot. That's all I really wanted to say.
He is also a fan of dropping into my cubicle every f-fucking-ive minutes and just going on and on about shit. He sits in the next cubicle so due to his repeated invasions, I think I have developed this seventh sense on when he's gonna do it next. My sixth sense is actually my paranormal ability to turn on any television channel that is playing Seinfeld at any given instant. So anyways, due to the power of this seventh sense, never, not even once, has he caught me surfing the internet. I think I'm gonna use this sense for other non-office related activities, for example, when I'm in the Chandrapur jungle and a tiger's about to pounce on me from behind because I devoured the goat originally left as its bait, I can take appropriate evasive measures because I knew he would be coming.
This same colleague that I was referring to, had, in the past, developed this highly irritating habit. Whenever I was confronted with a problem of any sort, his advice to me would be "You know what we need in our software? A (problem) button." For example, if I was looking for my stapler, he would say to me, "You know what we need in our software? A "Find the Stapler" button."
Now he has moved on to a different approach. His latest solution to any problem is for me to go to www.(problem).com. So he will now say, "You know what you should do, you should log on to www.findmystapler.com". Oh he is a riot.
So anyways, like I was saying, this guy likes to say "cock and balls" a lot. That's all I really wanted to say.
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
13 inch TV
Colleague1 : That guy who just passed us. He had a head like a 13 inch TV.
gawker : Where?
Colleague1 : There, that guy in the Hyundai.
Colleague2, still trying to process Colleague1's initial statement : What? Why did you compare his head to a 13 inch TV?
Colleague1 : He had a huge head. I couldn't see his neck.
Colleague2 : But why a 13 inch TV? Who compares a head to a TV? Why not say he had a head like a basketball?
Colleague1 : He had a square head, like a TV.
Colleague2 : You could have said he had a large head. Christ, John.
Colleague1 : Look, I didn't want to send any homosexual overtones. You know what they say about guys with large heads.
Colleague2 : What....that they have big remotes?
Colleague1 : Forget it. Anyways, I made gawker laugh. That's something.
gawker : Actually, I am quite easily amused.
gawker : Where?
Colleague1 : There, that guy in the Hyundai.
Colleague2, still trying to process Colleague1's initial statement : What? Why did you compare his head to a 13 inch TV?
Colleague1 : He had a huge head. I couldn't see his neck.
Colleague2 : But why a 13 inch TV? Who compares a head to a TV? Why not say he had a head like a basketball?
Colleague1 : He had a square head, like a TV.
Colleague2 : You could have said he had a large head. Christ, John.
Colleague1 : Look, I didn't want to send any homosexual overtones. You know what they say about guys with large heads.
Colleague2 : What....that they have big remotes?
Colleague1 : Forget it. Anyways, I made gawker laugh. That's something.
gawker : Actually, I am quite easily amused.
Friday, December 05, 2008
Rusty Gears
gawker : So did you interview the new guy?
colleague : Yes, I did. He's smart.
gawker : Really? What are his qualifications?
colleague : He has a masters degree from UPenn.
gawker : Cool. Masters in what?
colleague : Bayesian.
gawker : Bayesian?
colleague : Bayesian.
gawker : Bayesian probability?
colleague : Yes, Bayesian.
gawker : How will that help him in tech support? Are you sure about this? That he has a masters in......
colleague : Bayesian. Yes.
gawker : Hmmm....Bayesian....strange.
colleague : Yes. Bayesian.
gawker : Masters. In Bayesian. Hmmm.
colleague : Yes...?
gawker (sound of rusty gears creaking into motion) : Oh.....
colleague (waiting) : Yeeees........?
gawker : Goddamn you.
colleague : LOL.
gawker : Thank you for your patience.
colleague : You're welcome.
colleague : Yes, I did. He's smart.
gawker : Really? What are his qualifications?
colleague : He has a masters degree from UPenn.
gawker : Cool. Masters in what?
colleague : Bayesian.
gawker : Bayesian?
colleague : Bayesian.
gawker : Bayesian probability?
colleague : Yes, Bayesian.
gawker : How will that help him in tech support? Are you sure about this? That he has a masters in......
colleague : Bayesian. Yes.
gawker : Hmmm....Bayesian....strange.
colleague : Yes. Bayesian.
gawker : Masters. In Bayesian. Hmmm.
colleague : Yes...?
gawker (sound of rusty gears creaking into motion) : Oh.....
colleague (waiting) : Yeeees........?
gawker : Goddamn you.
colleague : LOL.
gawker : Thank you for your patience.
colleague : You're welcome.
anomaly
I get the following email from my colleague :
"Gawker....there's something strange about this function in the code....Did you write it?"
I go through the function and it's in a file that I usually stay clear of. So I reply to that effect, saying no, it's probably not mine. Colleague then sends out an email to my boss, asking her if she wrote the function.
A few minutes later, my boss replies, "The comments to the function contain the word 'anomaly'. That's not a word I usually use."
Colleague mails me, "You know what, I don't even know what anomaly means. So I'm sure it isn't my function either."
Sure enough, it turns out to be my function. Now I have been instructed to use the word "anomaly" in the comments of every function I ever write. Digital urine.
"Gawker....there's something strange about this function in the code....Did you write it?"
I go through the function and it's in a file that I usually stay clear of. So I reply to that effect, saying no, it's probably not mine. Colleague then sends out an email to my boss, asking her if she wrote the function.
A few minutes later, my boss replies, "The comments to the function contain the word 'anomaly'. That's not a word I usually use."
Colleague mails me, "You know what, I don't even know what anomaly means. So I'm sure it isn't my function either."
Sure enough, it turns out to be my function. Now I have been instructed to use the word "anomaly" in the comments of every function I ever write. Digital urine.
Friday, April 04, 2008
Wiffleball
The 2008 wiffleball season officially kicked off yesterday in my company. Before you bombard me with emails (assuming you hire a private investigator to find out my email address, but you didn't have to do that, you could just have asked me) saying "uh...wiffle what?", rest assured that I am already on the case. I asked my colleague to explain wiffleball to me in immigrant terms. He replied, "It is baseball, but with a plastic bat and a ball with holes." And to make doubly sure that I understood, without a hint of of irony, added, "It's like cricket but not so fucking weird".
Wiffleball games are played on weekdays during the lunch hour between two teams comprising of company employees who still retain adequate control of their motor faculties and hand-to-eye coordination since these are basic prerequisites for playing wiffleball. This narrows it down to four people. Lets call these people Me, Irritating Guy, Bagel Guy and Russian Guy.
Irritating Guy is so named due to him being a non-stop irritant in my otherwise contented professional life. Here he is, bugging me to use the fake wax phone in my office to make a phone call to my boss. Here he is, preying on my not-unlimited stock of chewing gum. And here he is asking me questions to which there can be no possible answers. There are other undocumented, yet equally egregious irritants attached to his persona such as his frequent sneezing "Achoooo" which is unfailingly followed by a long-drawn-out "Aaaaah" which brings up unnecessary visions of various bodily fluids exiting his various bodily orifices. And then, his worst trait, which is the act of being startled each time anyone enters his cubicle and speaks to him, the manifestation of which takes the form of a yell "WOAAH....Woooaah...woooaah......wo....you startled me". So let's just call him Irritating Guy and be done with it.
Bagel Guy is so named because there was a time when Bagel Guy, out of his good nature and curiously, of his own free will, used to bring us a bagful of bagels and cream cheese on fridays. After buying a house, having two babies and adopting a dog, he gradually ceased to engage in this admirable practice. But we still call him Bagel Guy in order to shame him, remind him of his previous philanthropy, hoping that the pressure of this honorary title will encourage him to resume bagel delivery operations.
Russian Guy is an enigma. He is Russian and hence the name. He is rumored to pledge allegiance to the Russian mafia, which, in turn, is rumored to exist. Russian Guy is good looking and an avid skier. He is the heart-throb of numerous ladies and especially well-beloved in upstate New York, specifically the Finger Lakes region. Russian Guy eats a lot of bananas at work.
So these were the chief wiffleball participants. Two teams were formed and assumed playing positions on the field. The wiffleball triangle was our parking lot, which is bounded by our office building on one side and two creeks on two sides. To my disgust, I was paired with Irritating Guy, which meant that today would not be my chance to finally vent out years of pent-up hostility towards Irritating Guy by hurling a plastic ball with holes at him. But hey, there would always be tomorrow.
My team pitched first. I decided to pitch, being fairly confident in my pitching abilities. In India, I used to be a crafty fast bowler in cricket, having a long run-up, a vigorous tossing action and when the batsman was quaking in fear, I would throw his timing off-kilter with an extremely slow ball. That was my technique and I stuck to it, every ball, every game.
I used the same time-tested technique to try and dispatch my wiffleball opponents. I don't know if my colleagues had made a trip to the local library and studied archival footage of my old cricket games but they all appeared to be pretty well-equipped to deal with my crafty balls. I got dispatched mercilessly. Two runs were scored in the first inning before I got them all out.
Irritating Guy batted first for our team. He appeared to have lost control over his limbs which appeared to be swinging erratically and without purpose. He got out after a mere two pitches, both of which resulted in direct hits on air. I walked in, quietly confident. Bagel Guy was the pitcher. After studying Bagel Guy's pitching, I was positively sure that I could do a lot of damage. And my confidence turned out to be well-justified. I made contact on the very first ball. I hit it hard and it went out of the stadium. I moved to second base with a double. Now, as you know, baseball is a funny game in that once you have a hit and you move on to the next base, you lose the bat and it is now up to the next batter to make something of your previous hit. In my case, since the next batter was Irritating Guy, that had virtually no chance of happening. Irritating Guy made good on his promise to do nothing by doing nothing. He hit air again a couple of times and the inning ended with no runs being scored.
Russian Guy started in the second inning. During his previous stint, Russian Guy had assumed a conventional batting stance with two hands on the bat, but had found it severely lacking. This time around, Russian Guy decided to throw convention to the wind and modified his stance. He held the bat in one hand like a club, more in the manner of someone who would not be averse to hitting the pitcher, were the ball to be out of range. Irritating Guy, who was pitching, seemed somewhat terror-struck. He pitched wildly, hitting tree branches, shrubbery and ants. When he pitched more accurately, Irritating Guy didn't fare any better. He got dispatched worse than me and suddenly I didn't feel so bad. Five runs were scored, making it 7-0 before the inning ended. We needed eight runs to win.
Irritating Guy batted first. Surprisingly, he did a good job of scoring a hit and putting me in batting position. This was my chance to make India proud.
Unfortunately, Russian Guy, who was pitching, had a craftier ball than mine. His technique was to make the ball appear slow and lethargic and it would waft up to you and you would be having a casual conversation with it and then suddenly, it was in your face and whizzing by, leaving you saying "where... what?"
To make a long story short, I hit air. It was embarassing. So much so that I did it twice. I was out. And then, I did it again during my next at-bat. Russian Guy owned me completely. We lost the game. Russia 1, India 0. I was ashamed for bringing wiffleball disgrace to my motherland.
Well, both teams get friday off in order to allow us to recuperate and enjoy what the rest of this city has to offer. The season continues on monday. I hope to practice hard through the weekend. Unless of course Irritating Guy turns out to be my opponent on monday. I am fairly confident of beating his ass blindfolded and drunk.
Wiffleball games are played on weekdays during the lunch hour between two teams comprising of company employees who still retain adequate control of their motor faculties and hand-to-eye coordination since these are basic prerequisites for playing wiffleball. This narrows it down to four people. Lets call these people Me, Irritating Guy, Bagel Guy and Russian Guy.
Irritating Guy is so named due to him being a non-stop irritant in my otherwise contented professional life. Here he is, bugging me to use the fake wax phone in my office to make a phone call to my boss. Here he is, preying on my not-unlimited stock of chewing gum. And here he is asking me questions to which there can be no possible answers. There are other undocumented, yet equally egregious irritants attached to his persona such as his frequent sneezing "Achoooo" which is unfailingly followed by a long-drawn-out "Aaaaah" which brings up unnecessary visions of various bodily fluids exiting his various bodily orifices. And then, his worst trait, which is the act of being startled each time anyone enters his cubicle and speaks to him, the manifestation of which takes the form of a yell "WOAAH....Woooaah...woooaah......wo....you startled me". So let's just call him Irritating Guy and be done with it.
Bagel Guy is so named because there was a time when Bagel Guy, out of his good nature and curiously, of his own free will, used to bring us a bagful of bagels and cream cheese on fridays. After buying a house, having two babies and adopting a dog, he gradually ceased to engage in this admirable practice. But we still call him Bagel Guy in order to shame him, remind him of his previous philanthropy, hoping that the pressure of this honorary title will encourage him to resume bagel delivery operations.
Russian Guy is an enigma. He is Russian and hence the name. He is rumored to pledge allegiance to the Russian mafia, which, in turn, is rumored to exist. Russian Guy is good looking and an avid skier. He is the heart-throb of numerous ladies and especially well-beloved in upstate New York, specifically the Finger Lakes region. Russian Guy eats a lot of bananas at work.
So these were the chief wiffleball participants. Two teams were formed and assumed playing positions on the field. The wiffleball triangle was our parking lot, which is bounded by our office building on one side and two creeks on two sides. To my disgust, I was paired with Irritating Guy, which meant that today would not be my chance to finally vent out years of pent-up hostility towards Irritating Guy by hurling a plastic ball with holes at him. But hey, there would always be tomorrow.
My team pitched first. I decided to pitch, being fairly confident in my pitching abilities. In India, I used to be a crafty fast bowler in cricket, having a long run-up, a vigorous tossing action and when the batsman was quaking in fear, I would throw his timing off-kilter with an extremely slow ball. That was my technique and I stuck to it, every ball, every game.
I used the same time-tested technique to try and dispatch my wiffleball opponents. I don't know if my colleagues had made a trip to the local library and studied archival footage of my old cricket games but they all appeared to be pretty well-equipped to deal with my crafty balls. I got dispatched mercilessly. Two runs were scored in the first inning before I got them all out.
Irritating Guy batted first for our team. He appeared to have lost control over his limbs which appeared to be swinging erratically and without purpose. He got out after a mere two pitches, both of which resulted in direct hits on air. I walked in, quietly confident. Bagel Guy was the pitcher. After studying Bagel Guy's pitching, I was positively sure that I could do a lot of damage. And my confidence turned out to be well-justified. I made contact on the very first ball. I hit it hard and it went out of the stadium. I moved to second base with a double. Now, as you know, baseball is a funny game in that once you have a hit and you move on to the next base, you lose the bat and it is now up to the next batter to make something of your previous hit. In my case, since the next batter was Irritating Guy, that had virtually no chance of happening. Irritating Guy made good on his promise to do nothing by doing nothing. He hit air again a couple of times and the inning ended with no runs being scored.
Russian Guy started in the second inning. During his previous stint, Russian Guy had assumed a conventional batting stance with two hands on the bat, but had found it severely lacking. This time around, Russian Guy decided to throw convention to the wind and modified his stance. He held the bat in one hand like a club, more in the manner of someone who would not be averse to hitting the pitcher, were the ball to be out of range. Irritating Guy, who was pitching, seemed somewhat terror-struck. He pitched wildly, hitting tree branches, shrubbery and ants. When he pitched more accurately, Irritating Guy didn't fare any better. He got dispatched worse than me and suddenly I didn't feel so bad. Five runs were scored, making it 7-0 before the inning ended. We needed eight runs to win.
Irritating Guy batted first. Surprisingly, he did a good job of scoring a hit and putting me in batting position. This was my chance to make India proud.
Unfortunately, Russian Guy, who was pitching, had a craftier ball than mine. His technique was to make the ball appear slow and lethargic and it would waft up to you and you would be having a casual conversation with it and then suddenly, it was in your face and whizzing by, leaving you saying "where... what?"
To make a long story short, I hit air. It was embarassing. So much so that I did it twice. I was out. And then, I did it again during my next at-bat. Russian Guy owned me completely. We lost the game. Russia 1, India 0. I was ashamed for bringing wiffleball disgrace to my motherland.
Well, both teams get friday off in order to allow us to recuperate and enjoy what the rest of this city has to offer. The season continues on monday. I hope to practice hard through the weekend. Unless of course Irritating Guy turns out to be my opponent on monday. I am fairly confident of beating his ass blindfolded and drunk.
Friday, December 07, 2007
Boxes
You get all excited about moving to a new house and while you are in the throes of that excitement, you tell all your colleagues about the move. And then what happens? You begin to receive moving boxes from everybody and their uncle. Everyone's like, hey, Amazon sent me these books, they came in this box, should I throw this box in a dumpster, nah it's too cold outside, oh I know what I'll do, I'll just give it to that Indian guy who's moving, that will probably make him so happy he'll need another box just to hold his tears of gratitude. Here, I have a box for that too.
It doesn't seem to matter that sometimes, the box they are giving you is so small that the only thing it could be used for is the transportation of your toothbrush, and that too, only after stripping it of its gum-massaging bristles.
But still, people continue to visit you in your cubicle day in and day out and when they leave, there is an additional box in your cubicle. Or two. This ritual begins from the time you tell them about your impending move and continues right upto the time of the actual move, a period that could be as long as a couple of months. In the meantime, your cubicle turns into an office supply warehouse and you have to look for bigger boxes to help you move these boxes to your home.
Now there is the possibility that it is just goodness of nature that makes people bestow upon each other a plethora of unsolicited moving boxes. Because, obviously, cardboard boxes are not something you can find in just any moving supplies store that sells cardboard boxes. But to my jaded and cynical mind, when a person gives me a box, I feel like he is telling me, dear gawker, the box that I am giving you at this moment, a moment so far removed from the actual moment of your move, does not merely represent my benevolence towards you, but also the fact that when you will be lifting it up, I won't be around to give you the box then or assist you in the lifting of the same.
Nah, I guess I'm just being a prick. It's probably just goodness of heart. Thank you for all the boxes. Really.
It doesn't seem to matter that sometimes, the box they are giving you is so small that the only thing it could be used for is the transportation of your toothbrush, and that too, only after stripping it of its gum-massaging bristles.
But still, people continue to visit you in your cubicle day in and day out and when they leave, there is an additional box in your cubicle. Or two. This ritual begins from the time you tell them about your impending move and continues right upto the time of the actual move, a period that could be as long as a couple of months. In the meantime, your cubicle turns into an office supply warehouse and you have to look for bigger boxes to help you move these boxes to your home.
Now there is the possibility that it is just goodness of nature that makes people bestow upon each other a plethora of unsolicited moving boxes. Because, obviously, cardboard boxes are not something you can find in just any moving supplies store that sells cardboard boxes. But to my jaded and cynical mind, when a person gives me a box, I feel like he is telling me, dear gawker, the box that I am giving you at this moment, a moment so far removed from the actual moment of your move, does not merely represent my benevolence towards you, but also the fact that when you will be lifting it up, I won't be around to give you the box then or assist you in the lifting of the same.
Nah, I guess I'm just being a prick. It's probably just goodness of heart. Thank you for all the boxes. Really.
Thursday, November 29, 2007
Funnies of the day
Funny number one :
While driving around with a couple of colleagues, one of them spots a newly installed traffic signal at an intersection which is temporarily disabled and merely flashing yellow.
Colleague 1 : "It's only flashing yellow now, but soon it will flash all three colors."
Colleague 2, feigning amazement : "Really, you think so? You're so bright your father calls you son."
That was nice. I hadn't heard that one before. Bright like the so(u)n.
Funny number two : The Times of India, in a news article about the unfortunate British teacher who was arrested for allowing her little students to name their teddy bears "Mohammed", inserts the following journalistic masterpiece :
(via Patrix)
Lest you mistake what just happened for something else, a reporter for one of the leading Indian daily newspapers just called someone pudding-faced in an article.
That is all.
While driving around with a couple of colleagues, one of them spots a newly installed traffic signal at an intersection which is temporarily disabled and merely flashing yellow.
Colleague 1 : "It's only flashing yellow now, but soon it will flash all three colors."
Colleague 2, feigning amazement : "Really, you think so? You're so bright your father calls you son."
That was nice. I hadn't heard that one before. Bright like the so(u)n.
Funny number two : The Times of India, in a news article about the unfortunate British teacher who was arrested for allowing her little students to name their teddy bears "Mohammed", inserts the following journalistic masterpiece :
On Thursday, four days after her arrest, photographs of her round, pudding-like face continued to be plastered across the British press, alongside anguished reports of her plight “locked in a cell in a police station…her toilet is a hole in the ground, her window a small, barred opening high in the wall.
(via Patrix)
Lest you mistake what just happened for something else, a reporter for one of the leading Indian daily newspapers just called someone pudding-faced in an article.
That is all.
Wednesday, September 05, 2007
Manager's euphemism of the day
"Cook in one's own juices" : The culinary process involved in the creation of a piece of software designed as if for his own use by a developer, thereby rendering it completely useless to the client it was actually intended for.
Thursday, August 09, 2007
Sitar
During my last visit to India, I purchased a miniature fake sitar souvenir in Bangalore for one of my office colleagues. I did this because whenever the topic of India comes up during our conversations, this colleague has a habit of raising his arms as if he were holding an imaginary sitar and uttering the phrase "tingalingaling". If you feel that the novelty value of this behavior would likely wear off after just a couple of performances, you haven't seen him impersonate 1.> an Indian flying carpet cab driver, 2.> a snake charmer having HR problems, or 3.> a snake charmer playing the sitar on a flying carpet.
So anyways, today my colleague informed me that he was pleased to report that yesterday his two year old daughter took her first baby steps towards becoming a sitar virtuoso by learning how to play the fake sitar souvenir. I guess Anoushka Shankar will be having some stiff foreign-born competition soon.
So anyways, today my colleague informed me that he was pleased to report that yesterday his two year old daughter took her first baby steps towards becoming a sitar virtuoso by learning how to play the fake sitar souvenir. I guess Anoushka Shankar will be having some stiff foreign-born competition soon.
Monday, April 16, 2007
Morbid monday
For those of you who were not able to discern the connection between an Indian driving license and the fatness of a wallet, an Indian driving license, unlike an American one, is a pamphlet of sorts, containing as many pages as, say, the Bible, without all those sections on sodomy and bestiality. Or, to be fair to the Christians, as thick as the Bhagvad Gita with sodomy and bestiality thrown in. Or the Koran with ... I forgot what I was going to say.
Speaking of Christianity, there are a few drawbacks to not being a follower of this religion in this country. For example, if you've asked your boss for a day off on Good Friday and work piles up through the week leading up to Friday and your boss wishes she hadn't given you the day off, the fact that you are not a Christian works against you. Because when your boss calls you on thursday and says, you know what gawker, can you work tomorrow, she is able to do so, being armed with the knowledge that you definitely did not have any Crucifixion re-enactments scheduled for that day. And you, being a non-Christian, cannot provide any valid rationale for taking the day off despite the request.
And so, I postponed my Good Friday vacation to be consummated on Morbid Monday. That is, today. But when I woke up this morning, I knew it was not going to be a nice relaxing morbid day for me. First of all, when I looked outside, expecting to see grass and flowers and pregnant trees, I saw snow instead. Snow in April. As a rule I like solid precipitation but having snow in April is like going Bigfoot hunting and finding the Abominable Snowman instead. Sure the Snowman is nice and hairy and as terrifying but you were really in the mood for some Big Feet.
Ok, so snow it was. And not only was there snow, there were train cancellations and downed power lines. So the assignment of dropping Mrs Gawker off at the train station ultimately turned into a project to drive her to her workplace, an hour's drive one-way. Actually, the drive wasn't too bad. The Amish have maintained this part of the country really well, God bless their horse-drawn souls.
Anyways, I have decided to spend the day drinking home made car bombs. When I went to buy the ingredients, I decided to get this Irish whiskey one of my office colleagues had recommended me, saying it doesn't give you hangovers or drunk weeping fits. So I went to the liquor store and asked the guy, do you have tellamordor?
He looked at me like I was a hobbit.
Uh...I said, uncertainty creeping in... telemurder?
Do you mean Tullamore Dew, the clerk asked me with the gentleness one usually reserves for the mentally incapacitated.
Yes, that's it, I said. Give.
So anyways, now the power is back on and I checked my freezer and none of my ice cubes appear to have melted. It's probably because I made them from Deer Park spring water from Maine and Maine water is the best. It's got something to do with the deer urine.
And now, on with the car bombs.
Speaking of Christianity, there are a few drawbacks to not being a follower of this religion in this country. For example, if you've asked your boss for a day off on Good Friday and work piles up through the week leading up to Friday and your boss wishes she hadn't given you the day off, the fact that you are not a Christian works against you. Because when your boss calls you on thursday and says, you know what gawker, can you work tomorrow, she is able to do so, being armed with the knowledge that you definitely did not have any Crucifixion re-enactments scheduled for that day. And you, being a non-Christian, cannot provide any valid rationale for taking the day off despite the request.
And so, I postponed my Good Friday vacation to be consummated on Morbid Monday. That is, today. But when I woke up this morning, I knew it was not going to be a nice relaxing morbid day for me. First of all, when I looked outside, expecting to see grass and flowers and pregnant trees, I saw snow instead. Snow in April. As a rule I like solid precipitation but having snow in April is like going Bigfoot hunting and finding the Abominable Snowman instead. Sure the Snowman is nice and hairy and as terrifying but you were really in the mood for some Big Feet.
Ok, so snow it was. And not only was there snow, there were train cancellations and downed power lines. So the assignment of dropping Mrs Gawker off at the train station ultimately turned into a project to drive her to her workplace, an hour's drive one-way. Actually, the drive wasn't too bad. The Amish have maintained this part of the country really well, God bless their horse-drawn souls.
Anyways, I have decided to spend the day drinking home made car bombs. When I went to buy the ingredients, I decided to get this Irish whiskey one of my office colleagues had recommended me, saying it doesn't give you hangovers or drunk weeping fits. So I went to the liquor store and asked the guy, do you have tellamordor?
He looked at me like I was a hobbit.
Uh...I said, uncertainty creeping in... telemurder?
Do you mean Tullamore Dew, the clerk asked me with the gentleness one usually reserves for the mentally incapacitated.
Yes, that's it, I said. Give.
So anyways, now the power is back on and I checked my freezer and none of my ice cubes appear to have melted. It's probably because I made them from Deer Park spring water from Maine and Maine water is the best. It's got something to do with the deer urine.
And now, on with the car bombs.
Tuesday, March 27, 2007
Please go ahead
Yesterday as I came in to work, I saw a couple of cop cars parked in front of the building. Okay, something to look forward to, maybe a burglary, or oh man, dare I dream, could it be...arson, I thought to myself as I carefully parked my car in such a way that my blown headlight would be hidden from the long viewing proboscis of the Law.
Inside was a blaring alarm and a police officer interrogating a woman who, it seems, had set the burglar alarm off by letting herself into the building but omitting to enter the code for its disarmament. So it looked like it was going to be a normal day after all, at least for me. I moved on.
Today as I drove in to work and got out of my car, I saw the same woman standing outside the building with her keys in her hand. Obviously, she was going to make a reattempt at entering the building without setting the alarm off. She looked at me with hope in her eyes as a knight who would rescue her damsel ass from the alarm dragon. But I didn't feel like being interrogated by cops so I decided that this would be a great time to do the dime check on my tire treads. I knelt down. After waiting in vain for me to materialize, she resigned herself to her fate. Keys in hand, she walked into the bowels of the building.
I guess I took the coward's way out but what to do, frequently that is the only way not lined with thorns, loud blaring noises and prison cells.
Inside was a blaring alarm and a police officer interrogating a woman who, it seems, had set the burglar alarm off by letting herself into the building but omitting to enter the code for its disarmament. So it looked like it was going to be a normal day after all, at least for me. I moved on.
Today as I drove in to work and got out of my car, I saw the same woman standing outside the building with her keys in her hand. Obviously, she was going to make a reattempt at entering the building without setting the alarm off. She looked at me with hope in her eyes as a knight who would rescue her damsel ass from the alarm dragon. But I didn't feel like being interrogated by cops so I decided that this would be a great time to do the dime check on my tire treads. I knelt down. After waiting in vain for me to materialize, she resigned herself to her fate. Keys in hand, she walked into the bowels of the building.
I guess I took the coward's way out but what to do, frequently that is the only way not lined with thorns, loud blaring noises and prison cells.
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