31 January, 2007

PC load letter? WTF does that mean?

co-worker: "Hey, where's the stuff I printed out?"

me: *blank stare*

co-worker: "I printed out a document earlier. It's not here."

me: "Oh, right. You were in here like one-and-a-half hours ago, waiting for the printer to warm up. Then it printed something, you took it, and left. I figured you were done with your transaction."

co-worker: "Well, no..."

me: "But apparently not. Because an hour later, I went to print out a two-page document. The little printer icon on my desktop told me that printing had failed. That made me sad. The print spooler tries so hard, y'know?"

co-worker: ....

me: "Never mind that, though. I checked the printer, and it was out of paper. Annoying, yes. But easily fixable. So I searched for about 10 minutes to find some paper in this building. They hide it well. But eventually, I was victorious.

So I brought the paper back, loaded tray two with fresh leafs of bright, white paper. Closed the tray, and printing began almost immediately. 'Joy,' I think to myself. 'Soon I will have my printout'.

Alas, it was not to be. Because it wasn't my print job that was executing. It was the remainder of yours. I would approximate anywhere from 90 to 100 pages. I watched it print for quite a while."

co-worker: "Great. Where is it?"

me: "I threw it in the big recycling bin out in the hallway."

co-worker: "But why?! I needed that."

me: "No, obviously you did not need that. Or else you would've taken the time to find some paper to finish your print job. I mean, surely you would have noticed that you were missing 100 pages of your document! Especially within an hour."

co-worker: "But you can't do that!"

me: "Why yes, yes I can. Do you want to know why?"

co-worker: .....

me: "Because FUCK YOU, that's why."

29 January, 2007

Welcome back, Kotter

Ah, one whole week away from my office. It seems like a dream, now. And I've only been back for about two hours.

Already, three four phone calls, and one in-office meeting. 100+ e-mails to sort through.

And my favorite part: While I was gone, a request came in for a more specific web analysis report for a component. Now, normally, this is no big deal. I would get the request, set up the report, and process the data. It takes a couple of days. No big whoop, right?

Yes. Big whoop, indeed.

Two people, who know nothing about this whole process, managed to send an estimate in to our über-boss of 100 hours. And that it couldn't possibly be finished until February 28th. Yay, brilliant. Even better, über-boss sends me an e-mail asking if the estimate was correct. What's a guy to do? Support his "management chain", and stick behind their fucking loopy estimate that they pulled out of their collective asses? Or give a realistic estimate that makes him look better in the eyes of the über-boss?

Yeah, you know what I did.

"I can get this done in about 1/3rd of the time. Do you know why? BECAUSE I AM AWESOME!"

And so after all of these phone calls, I can sum up the morning with this IM conversation with a co-worker:

[09:27] me: she is trying to manipulate the task so that it looks like it is close to 100 hours of work
[09:27] co-worker: heheh

[09:27] co-worker: yeah, cuz' she doesn't want herself look bad by listening to T's advice
[09:29] me: the best thing to do in that case?
[09:29] me: don't take T's advice!

Only six more hours to go.

22 January, 2007


The Discworld Reading Order Guide

March for life

Apparently it was Roe v. Wade day in DC. Or maybe it was March for Life.

Actually, it should just be Ugly, Retarded Hicks for Jesus day.

And I usually enjoy working downtown, when I get the opportunity. I can take Metro in, and not have to deal with traffic. I can wander around during my lunch break and get yummy food. All oddly relaxing for me, for some reason.

But not today.

Today, all I could find were large groups of people, holding up signs, espousing their beliefs. "Justice for all, born and unborn". "Abortion stops a beating heart." "Are you going to eat that cheeseburger?"

Seriously, shut the fuck up, people. Ain't none of you need to be having any kids. Supernintendo Superintendent Chalmers had it right: "Class after class of ugly, ugly children." We need to put a stop to this.

I'd like to take the time to go into a reasoned monologue about why abortion should be kept legal (as it should). But fucked if I want to right now. All of those hicks make me want to scrub my eyes with lye, just so I never have to see them again.

21 January, 2007

Mmmm, mmmm good

Churros + Spanish hot chocolate + Battlestar Galactica = AWESOME!

Thank you, Jenny, for the deliciousness.

Snowpacolypse '07

Dear Fuckwits of NoVA/The Greater DC Metro area:

It's only snow. There isn't even all that much of it. JUST KEEP DRIVING.

Sure, slow down a bit. That only makes sense. But for fuck's sake, safe driving speed DOES NOT equal moving at 5-10 MPH.

Also, please get the fuck out of my way. If you suck that much at driving (much like everything else in your life, I'm sure), your sorry ass should not have been out on the roads in the first place. Stay inside and do whatever the fuck it is you do while waiting for the sweet, sweet embrace of death, the only thing to look forward to in your pathetic, suburban lives.


16 January, 2007


"Hey, we have another of those Vaguely Defined Projects."

"What does this project involve?"

"Ummm *looks* Posting something to the homepage."

"Wow, yeah, that is pretty vague. You got any content to go with that?"


"A link?"

"Not as such. There's reference to this being a press release on another site, that we need to link to."

"Hmmm. So, we don't know what needs to go on the homepage or what it actually links to. Do we even have someone In Charge associated with this project who can answer questions?"

"Yes, but she's nowhere near a computer right now."

"Ah, nice. Well, let's give this one to James. He doesn't deal with enough stupid shit everyday."

*me, looks up* "Huh? Wuh? Oh, fuck me, mate. Thanks."

Past, present and the future

The way I see things, there are three temporal versions of everybody. For example, me:

  • Past James

  • Present James

  • Future James

Now, I don't know if this is true for everyone else, but in my case, Past James really fucking hates Future James.

Sure, some of it because Future James can be a real dick. Every Friday morning, as I stumble in to work, thinking about another eight hours of tedium, Future James is sitting at home, laughing at (Past) me. Wake up with a hangover? Future James is already feeling better. Reading a book? That bastard already knows the ending. You get the picture.

So it's come down to this: Past James does stupid things, as a way of getting back at Future James.

  • "Why yes, I think I will have another beer!"

  • "Sleep? Why would I possibly need more than three hours of sleep before going to work?"

  • "That unicorn tattoo sounds like a great idea!"

And the like.

But something doesn't quite fit. There's only one person who been at the scene of all of these crimes. Of course! It's really that bastard, Present James, doing all of this shit. The beer. The unicorn. The hooker named Phil. Everything. It all adds up.


And he's going to keep getting away with it, and continue to pin the blame on Past James. He is a diabolical one, he is. Is there nothing that we can do to stop him?

A hole in the head

It's taken 140 years, but Lincoln jokes are now acceptable:

(And funny!)

11 January, 2007

F you, Baltimore

Best. Advertisement. Ever.

Complete and totally NSFW.

(And yes, Ron, I know you love Baltimore. It's not actually a slam against that fair city.)

05 January, 2007

At least the weekend is here

So I'm walking down the hallway in my office building. Friday afternoon, and it's fairly quiet. Just got done with yet another meeting.

I see two people talking in the hallway. I don't think I've ever seen them before.

Maybe thirty feet away.

I speed up to a quick trot.

*click* I engage my pen, making sure the pointiest part is available.

The two men continue talking. Then the guy who's facing me realizes something's just not right.

But too late. My arm is up. And then down.


Right into that other bastard's neck. The blood is copious. So warm. So full of the life that this jerk so formerly had.

And then I snap out of it, and realize I'm just standing still in the hallway. Eyes glazed over. Idly clicking my pen. In. Out. In. Out. *click-click-click* The two guys are watching me, suspiciously.

I'm so glad it's Friday. Two whole days away from this horrid place.

03 January, 2007

Google Reader

So I've been slowly working on transferring the feeds I read from Bloglines to Google Reader (hey, I've pretty much sold my soul to Google...what's one more service?)

One of the more interesting features is the ability to share links of blog articles that you find, and make them available for others to peruse (and even subscribe to that as an RSS feed). You can find mine at http://www.google.com/reader/shared/10605254425022528773.


I just don't think I will ever understand the sock industry in this country.

Of course, that is a bit of a misnomer. The textile industries of America have become nearly non-existent, and I know perfectly well that the socks I've been buying for most of my life have probably come from a sweatshop in Kuala Lampur or Bangkok. So I guess I should say that I will never understand the people who import the socks into our country.

This all comes up because today, I went into the local Target, looking for socks. Now, I certainly have plenty of socks, but they're all of the white, athletic, tube-sock variety. Perfectly good, yes, but they do look a bit silly when I'm wearing khakis and a pair of brown shoes. (And yes, I know...GAY) And I do, in fact, have a few pairs of brown and black socks which I typically wear with my khakis and brown shoes. But they are getting old, and I've lost a few to the ravages of time.

So, I need "real" socks. Target seems like as good of a place as any to get some, particularly since I was already going there to buy some pants, toilet paper, facial stuff (more gay, I know), &c.

[And as an aside, I do so enjoy buying jeans now that I've lost some weight, and actually have a bigger selection of jeans to choose from. I look forward to hopefully needing to buy more pants later on that are even smaller. But the most amusing thing about losing weight is when friends/family/co-workers notice and say something about it. Because often, they don't know quite what to say. "Hey, I notice you're not quite as much of a fat-ass as you were before...kudos!"

Or my favorite: "You look like you've lost some weight...are you trying to?" There's always that internal debate of should I respond with a) "No, it's the cancer" or b) "Yes, I've been working on an eating disorder. It seems to work so well for the kids these days".]

And I find myself going through the sock "department", and running into a problem. And that problem is, one size does not, indeed, fit all. There are approximately 100 different styles of socks to choose from. Of those, I could find only one that fits into the "you have big feet, motherfucker," category.

Yes, my problem with the sock industry, if there is in fact anything that can rightly be called a sock industry, is that for some unknown reason, the standard size for mens' socks go from six...to twelve. I wear a size thirteen. [These are all, of course, the shoe sizes that go with sock purchasing. A secondary mystery would be why the fuck can't they just size socks the same way they size shoes?] It's as if this is just one of the universe's little digs at me: "Oh, look, James. Socks! So many wonderous socks, of all styles and colors and comforts. But, OH! Sorry. You don't get to have any."

Not that I can't wear the socks that max out at a twelve. I can and have, because, shit, it's what I've had to deal with for the majority of my life. But every so often, I get treated with the wonder that is big-and-tall socks. And they're so nice. They fit just right.

I could, I guess, just go to a big-and-tall type store, and look for socks. Or possibly find an outlet store somewhere that specializes in socks. Maybe even find a society that has a sock-based economy, in hopes that they would offer custom-fitted socks.

Or just order socks off the internet. But damnit, I'm in Target already. Why not get my damn socks now?!

But Target, in it's infinite wisdom, has given me only one package of socks that are larger-sized, and they happen to be the gay little short-socks. You know the ones. They might as well have the fruity little pom-poms on the back of them, to make you feel like a pretty, pretty princess.

Now, of course, this is mostly market driven. I'm sure the average shoe-size for American men is something like a ten or eleven. But for the love of Bob, would it be so fucking difficult to just make the standard sock size go from six to thirteen? Sure, they'd still be a little uncomfortable, but at least they'd be close.

I don't think I really had a point to all of this. I mostly just wanted to write about socks. And I do, in fact, have new socks. The Gold Toe casual socks, which are kind of like dress socks but not quite, at least go all the way to twelve-and-a-half. So at least I've got that going for me.

Which is nice.