"Be calm" was my motto and goal this morning. "Don't break anything" became my new goal by 11:30, which switched to "Don't strip down to purple underpants" by close. To paraphrase (read: misquote) Meatloaf, one out of three ain't bad. Now I make a lot of strong statements about the apparent mental instability of my co-workers.  Since it makes up so much of these entries, and thus, sadly, my life, I figured I'd introduce you to the cast of characters I somehow force myself out of bed in the morning for.

The Boss (let's just call him Junior): The man who signs my disappointing paychecks is a seventy year old architect and engineer who has long since passed his prime. Having amassed a fortune rivaling that of the combined cast of "Jersey Shore" and apparently about as much brain damage he spends most of his day doing bad Pakistani accents and telling old Cuban Aesops with about as much wisdom as your average Pop-Tart box. For my first assignment he told me to do a report on Mungo Jerry.

Yup. That's about all I found. When he's not sending me off to research obscure pop musicians or muscle ballet instructors out of their rent checks he spends most of his time barking unintelligible order to his two sons...

Son A (let's just call him Tony): Tony is a skilled and competent contractor with a fairly firm grasp on responsibility. This leaves him with the twin duties of basically running the company and stopping the other employees from eating paint chips. As a result, this leaves him busier than Wilt Chamberlain at a singles bar and more stressed than Shaq at the field goal line. A typical encounter with Tony leaves me with a shit-ton of work. You would think this makes me nervous to see him, but instead it fills me with joy because it means I get to avoid these guys...

Son B (let's just call him Paulie): Paulie is also, in theory, a contractor, in practice however, he is a lunatic. He and I also have the lovely bonding experience of sharing an office. Today, and today alone this subjected me to listen to him sing not one, not two but three songs about masturbation, all apparently made up on the spot and all extraordinarily uncomfortable. Here, for your enjoyment and scrutiny is the first (and best) of these diddies, word for word.

I liiike to massturbaaaateee eveeerydaaay
I liiiike to masstuurbateeee when it's laaaate
(repeat chorus twelve times or until it degenerates into gibberish)


He also holds the dubious distinction of being the oldest person alive to still read everything aloud. Since Paulie never really gets around to real work, this included the Q&A column of Bodybuilding magazine, a spam e-mail about a male enhancement pill and on an odd note, several verses from Leviticus. He also really enjoys having similar "conversations" with our accountant...

Accountant (let's just call him Fredo): In addition to burdening me with the shitty project to end all shitty projects, Fredo also manages to be impressive by being even lazier than me after an ounce of 'dro. According to all sources, Fredo has never done so much as lift a finger unless it's to signal me towards a stack of work. He also earns my respect for, while technically being our accountant, outsourcing our tax filing to a company in India. Making him just lazier and sleazier than the guy who invented slaves. But it's not all awful...

Receptionist (let's call her Carmela): Carmela not only manages to cover up Fredo's slack and keep Paulie from chopping his hand off with the fax machine, she is also a perfectly capable receptionist, letter-writer and decent human being. Carmela has been with the company eleven years now meaning she either was built exclusively of patient bones or the part of her that allows her to feel frustration was lost in a childhood accident.

And then there's me. But I talk enough about myself, and besides, you might be about to eat and I'm the last thing you want on your mind.

Until next time...