Mea Culpa

Yesterday, having drunk too much, I was intoxicated as to pass all bounds; but none of the rude and coarse language I used was uttered in a conscious state. The next morning, after hearing others speak on the subject, I realised what had happened, whereupon I was overwhelmed with confusion and ready to sink into the earth with shame. 

-- a boilerplate apology from the Dunhuang Bureau of Etiquette, 856 AD.  This is one of thousands of great letters you can find at Letters of Note, a great blog I highly recommend.

A Christmas Message from the Boss

As we gather together for this small celebration, we should pause, if only for a moment, to reflect on all the great things we have accomplished over the past year. We've had some good times, but we've also had a few rough times. For the most part, we have accomplished much of what we set out to do. And in those few cases where we had to backtrack, or re-think a goal, we have usually ended up with something that is better in the long run for all of us.

It reminds me of that old joke about the three henchmen, and you'll have to forgive me if you've heard this one before, but I've always heard it's best to open with a joke. Anyhow, it seems one afternoon these three henchmen walk into a bar. The bartender asks, "What can I get you gentlemen?"

The first henchman was the smallest of the three. He was only about the size of a large van. He was also a bit of a newbie, so he immediately mutters, "Gimme all your cash."

The bartender sighed and gave the other two henchmen a look of disapproval. Ignoring the demand, he turned to the second henchman, and said, "How about you, sir?"

Trying to show the newbie how it's done, the second henchman, who was about as big as two vans, or maybe a bread truck and a compact sedan, slammed his fists down on the counter so that every glass in the bar shook, spat on the floor, and growled at the bartender, "Listen barkeep, you're going to do just what I tell you to do, or else!" He slammed the bar again. "Put all the cash in a bag, then fill that box over there with the best scotch and bourbon you can find in this lousy place, and if your quick about it, I might not have to kill you, got it?"

The bartender smiled, just a little bit, and turned towards the cash register. As he started filling up the bag, he asked the third henchman, "And what do you fancy, fine sir?"

The third henchman was larger than the biggest UPS truck you've ever seen. Most people, when seeing him walking down the street, don't only cross to the other side, they often move out-of-state with no forwarding address.

The third henchman curled his lip, glared at the first henchman, then the second. Finally, he looked at the bartender and said, in a high, squeaky voice, "I just came in here for a Rum and coke."

The point of that little story is to remind all of you that when we sometimes don't get what we want, we may still get what we need - a good drink and the company of our peers.

Moving on.

The most obvious recent accomplishment to share with all of you has to be the completion of our new, state-of-the-art anti-intrusion system and its successful implementation around the entire perimeter of our evil-lair island and resort spa. Kudos especially, to our minefield developers. They managed to come in under budget and two weeks early.

On a side note, Gus, remember to give my condolences to the families of our four stalwart munitions placement professionals. It's always a tragedy to lose anyone on this great team, but remember; they died doing something they loved. And on the plus-side, the four remaining team members will get a much larger Christmas bonus.

I don't want to forget to mention this year's corporate challenge team. I share the team's disappointment in finishing in third place. I guess we all know that we had a first place finish in the bag until we were betrayed in the improvised poisons event by our former head of the BMF Gun research lab. Let me just say that beheading was too good for him, which is why I am delighted to present Dirk Crandall, Poisons team captain, with this Spirit Award recognizing not just his hard work, but the ingenuous method of death he improvised just for the traitorous scoundrel. I had no idea a grown man could turn so many different lovely shades of color. Well done, Dirk.

Moving on. We had some good times this year -- wonderful times. We got to flex our muscles a bit in the competition, our latest line of designer cudgels and brass knuckles is feeling the positive impact of the economic downturn, and against all predictions, our new line of apparel, Nefarious Nightwear, directed at the fairer sex, is doing fantastic, Some of this is probably due to the tie-in with our new designer perfume Nefarious, a beautiful scent that, when ingested, can render a person immobile for up to half an hour, with few lasting side-effects. It was especially gratifying to learn that none other than Dick Cheney is a regular Nefarious Nightwear customer. He apparently has a penchant for our Tazer Bra, the Nefarious Nipple Neutralizer. Luckily, Tom Stephens, director of the Nefarious line, had the foresight to order all these products in Plus sizes.

The other big project in the pipeline is our PeopleSoft implementation. Now I know a lot of you are asking what does an evil-genius like me, or a dreadful league of professionals such as ourselves need with an enterprise resource planning tool? I'm not real sure myself, but there must be some way I can use it to advance my evil schemes.

Well, I don't want to take up anymore of your time, but before we open the buffet, I would like to say what a pleasure I get out of working with the best team of henchmen, evil side-kicks and general technicians and brainiacs you all are. As we begin the New Year, let's approach our jobs with a renewed determination. If we can stay on-target with our schedules, and the economic downturn continues I am certain that this year we will achieve world domination.

Oh, and one last note. Please remember to stay out of sector 17. We don't want any more mishaps with our genetically engineered crocodiles.

Thank you again, and good night.

Life in the flatlands

A couple of years ago I had this horrible job. It wasn't really terrible, It just had certain elements that made it horrible. It wasn't dangerous, I wasn't exposed to harmful chemicals, or forced to perform degrading acts of sexual depravity. It wasn't even a dirty or smelly job. In fact it was such an easy and laid back job, it was kind of ridiculous that they paid me an hourly wage. And I would have been happy except for one thing (yes, that is clearly hyperbole on my part) -- the job required interacting with that unwashed mass of idiot rabble called the general public. To make matters worse, the majority of these brainiacs were students at a private (and of course disgustingly over-priced) party school that has been coasting on its reputation for about twenty years.

So, my expectations were low. Hearing these kids complain about finding a parking space for their Cadillac Escalades, or watching them bounce past my office in their designer sweats and leased tans grated on my nerves. Listening to them talk about philosophy or literature as if they had discovered something no one else had heard about or could understand was simply embarrassing. But I persevered, and found a certain joy in relating some of the more ridiculous episodes to my quickly shrinking circle of friends.

Still, one day I found out what writers mean when they say a person is dumbfounded. "Shocked," "surprised," "astonished," not even "flabbergasted," could describe my amazement to discover someone dumber than the dumbest thundering dunderhead I had ever met.

Perhaps I've oversold this story.

Let me back up and preface this story by saying that I live in a very flat state. The building I worked in does not sit on rolling hills. It does not overlook a lake, or a canyon. In fact, I would bet there is no change in elevation within 20 miles of this site, if you don't count the concrete canyon cut through the middle of the city for the interstate highway.

We are talking about a lot of flat flat farmland. Let me make myself absolutely clear, I want to stress to you, gentle reader, that there is no hill or hummock or steep grade or meandering staircase up which a person must climb to enter the front doors of this building.

On this particular afternoon a student entered the front door of our establishment. He stepped up to the worker at the front desk and asked, "Is this the second floor?"

When he was informed that no, this was not the second floor, and would not be considered the second floor in Britain, or any other backwards culture, he asked, "Where is the second floor?" The stairs behind the worker were, perhaps, too obvious a clue.

I must admit that there is a slight, very slight rise, as one strolls up the Ashley Taylor* Promenade (courtesy of her loving husband, a famous war-criminal) in front of the building. But in no way would a normal person believe he or she was entering a split-level ranch house overlooking the Pacific Ocean, or that perhaps we had a hidden network of terraces dropping down the slope of a dormant volcano on the opposite, hidden, side of the building.

So, no, the worker told him, this is not the second floor.

I sometimes wonder about this poor lost soul and ponder on what kind of world he must live in. It reminds me of my own days in the heady world of academia where I was introduced to the strange and mystical world of certain eastern philosophical schools of thought. Apparently there was a group of Indians, I think they were called Charvaka Materialists (I'm sure that spelling is wrong), who held the odd belief that one cannot make inferences about the world around them. I guess they had to experience anything for it to be considered real. So, for instance, if they were off in the woods collecting mushrooms and saw a giant cloud of smoke rising from the vicinity of the temple, the would simply consider that they were seeing a giant cloud of smoke. Just because every time they saw large billowing clouds of smoke a fire of not inconsiderable size was found under it, a Charvaka Materialist could not infer that a fire was the source of this black cloud, or that every time a fire burned it would produce smoke

So, their answer to some of the more tricky philosophical questions that have plagued liberal arts majors for decades, were actually quite simple. A falling tree does not make a noise in the forest unless they are there to hear it. In fact, how can you know that the tree actually fell? -- Maybe aliens placed it on its side for unknowable aesthetic alien reasons. Just because it's on it's side doesn't mean it fell. Perhaps it got tired. I like to think the Charvaka Materialist, faced with a glass containing water near its midpoint, would simply drink it. It's not a glass of water until it is drunk, is it?

But I wander. Personally, when it's 2:00 AM and I've been imbibing alcoholic beverages for a considerable amount of time, I find myself remembering the stranger who didn't know what floor he was on. Perhaps he was the last surviving member of this confused tribe of people who couldn't understand that sex brings babies any more than a gorilla (and I don't mean to be unkind to gorillas here) can understand quantum physics.

Good luck young man. Good luck.