I WORK WITH THIS:

Ergonomics and the Importance of Mental Health

Fellow co-workers, the office is a mad house. Nothing but stress, anxiety…work really can be a terrible strain on our mental health. Often we’re encouraged to either act out or seek seclusion any way we can. We’re uncomfortable, fidgety, and for this reason Ergonomics have found their way into every day life at the office.

Exhibit 1: The space-age, less than useful, ergonomic keyboard amidst a mountain of clutter.

I’ve got no beef with new-age ergonomic wonder science. But I do have a beef with this son of a bitch. And a bit of a beef with the hired Ergonomic Specialist that brought in a slew of devices, chairs, and remedies for our “subject” here. And please, do note the sharpened pencil. It can only be there for two reasons:

1. To show us there really is nothing between the severed keyboard. Like passing a hula hoop over a levitating woman to show that there are no strings. 
2. The keyboard is entirely useless and the subject secretly uses the pencil exclusively.

Either way, after a long day of typos and a rate of 12 words per minute, its probably a good idea to do a little something extra for yourself. You know, to keep your brain calm, collected, and serene. 

Nothing wrong with buying yourself flowers. Girls do this all the time to boost their self esteem and beautify their desks. Hell, even I’ve had a daisy or two sitting on my desk for a day or so. Again, no beef. Let it be, right? Wrong! Because these flowers aren’t from any shop—they were ripped from the supple earth of the business park grounds. More specifically? The planters in the lobby. 

But I digress! We all seek beauty and sometimes that beauty is too much for us to handle. So what do we do?

We cry our eyes out, stuff the snotty tissues into an open drawer and make a nice, cathartic tea from our own tears. Face it, we’re all working too hard, right? WE ARE WORKING TOO HARD…and need a break. 

So the next time you’re clacking away at your blog on Houdini’s dual-dialing, space keyboard, just steal some lobby flowers, have a good cry and ask yourself: Are you working too hard?

Hygiene, or The Taming of the Crude

Fellow co-workers, I return to thee after a short hiatus to bring disturbing photos from the front. I put myself at great risk to acquire these because, as you know, the corporate jungle is treacherous and the corporate animal is fucking gross.

Staying hygienic is a top priority. Thats why most of us staple wet rags to our cube walls, right? RIGHT?

Wrong. This is sooo incomprehensible to me! I mean, I seriously thought to myself, Shit-Christ. This has got to be a workout towel or something. Then again, I’m not seeing any work place pilates happing over there. No squats, pulls, rips, rolls. No Shake Weight! Not even a Hawaii Chair:

I’ll assume the bastard’s using it for some sort of clean up. Maybe when he falls asleep at his desk he suddenly wakes from night terrors and needs to sop up all that lip sweat. Or maybe its for something more simple, like cleaning up after those erotic bananas (See ON HOARDING). Really, if you’ve got any insights I’d looove to hear them. 

But, whatever its for? It makes more sense than this little gem:

Dentak dental tool in a gummy wad of Kleenex. *Pause* Stained. Stained with what I can only hope is mouth blood and not ass blood. I mean, I get it, sure. You’re chillin’ at work, cranking through some SalesForce, maybe shootin’ Boss a Peanuts eCard while chomping some popcorn and BAM! Stuck in your teeth. Who wouldn’t want this mother fucking industrial grade dental hygienists power tool to dig out all those pesky corn kernels? I know! Someone eating this instead:

That cheese-ridden meat gruel isn’t getting stuck between your teeth any time soon. Least of all, the Finest canned Beef ‘n Mac this side of the Mississippi. And you know how I know? Because wedged behind it is the official Dummies Guide to Beef ‘n Mac. All the secrets to sneaking this pitiless “food” into your digestive system are in there. And anyone that ever makes it to the final chapter dies of a massive coronary or busts their god damn o-ring. 

The Magic of the Bubble Wand.

Fellow co-workers, in all of us there is a wizard, a magician, a soothsayer. Deep in our psyche the confounding magic of creation eludes us, beacons us like infant lambs into a whirling vortex of magic, mysticism, and pixy dust. Yet, naked are we that journey into the occult ill-equipped. This is why every wizard has his wand. And every tech support employee must have his fucking wand as well. So with out further adieu…BEHOLD!

The Bubble Wand: 

Well, well, well…where in the hell do I even start? Seriously. God damn tell me. Is it with the wand itself or the fucking bubbles, that in this very picture, slosh around that translucent knob? How about neither! Check out the rippling muscles on that Men’s Health magazine. Kinda looks like the dude on the cover’s holding that wand like his own johnson right?

But seriously, you’re not going to sport Schwarzenegger guns playing with your bubble wand during work hours. You need to whip that wand out at home. Squirt some bubbles.

Frankly, its cool. I’m cool. Fact that the wand’s been there for what 3 years now? Creepy? Naturally. But, look…busy work days don’t leave much time for recreation, am I right? Sometimes you have to bring a little bit of your playtime to work. I play online scrabble. You might update your Facebook status. This dude has a fully locked and cocked bubble wand that could blast soapy balls of joy into the ultra-airconditioned, windowless office space at any given moment.

Rocks right? I don’t know. Lets ask the oracle cards:

Sorry, its a little blurry, but clearly, clearly you can see that this box of oracle cards will inspire you to be an Ascended Master. Don’t believe me, lets track down the P.H.D. that drew these puppies up. And as for the Dummies Guide feller in the corner?

Voila!

Fact: 50 million copies of this book have been sold. Wizards, dude.

Dr. Miracle and his Hot Gro.

Fellow co-workers, no one likes to be bald except for “Stone Cold” Steve Austin and white supremacists. Seriously though, baldness is fine, cool, natural. Hell, baldness is even “hot” if you’re Bruce Willis or Gandhi. And, if you can’t deal, I totally accept that if you’re on your way to becoming captain cue ball—some Rogaine might be in order. However, please…please, for the love of Christ and his one to four bald apostles—don’t bring your crazy, voodoo, miracle balding gel to the workplace.

And so we introduce Dr. Miracle’s Hot Gro:

Dr. god damn Miracle’s Hot Gro (no “W”). Now, I know its blurry so I’ll do you a solid and post the product picture too:

Thar she blows, the “Feel It” Formula. Well, Doc. I feel you. I feel you punching me right in the dick. But who am I to judge the quality of this $4 hair growth cream? Lets hear it from their loyal consumer base:

“Places where my hair was thin is coming back alive.”

and…

“I bought the product over the weekend, used it on Monday - enjoyed the tingling for the first 5 minutes. Then mt scalp started screaming for help!”

and…

“Tried this just at my temples. It looks, feels and produces the same result as vaseline.”

and finally…

“I HAVE USED YOUER PROUDUCT, AND IT REALY WORKS MY SISTURE GAVE IT TO ME AND I SAY IT REALY WORKS ITS A MIRICAL GROWTH TO YOUER HAIR, IT AINT NO LIE YOUER SCALP CAN FEEL IT WORKING ITS A COLD FEELING IN YOUER SCALP.”

Verdict is still out. But thats basically it. Oh and this:

Why the fuck is nothing spelled with a “W”? Seriously, I work with this.

Middle Age and the “Super Saiyan.”

“Super Saiyan (超サイヤ人 Sūpā Saiya-jin) n. An advanced transformation assumed by extraordinarily powerful members of the Saiyan race in the Dragon Ball franchise.”

Fact 1: Single, childless men in their fifties don’t know what hell Dragon Ball Z is. Scratch that—single, childless men in their fifties SHOULDN’T know what Dragon Ball Z is. Thus today’s exploration. Also, Fact 2: Dudes that watched Neil Armstrong walk on the goddamn moon do not know what Dragon Ball Z is.

But…for the laymen in their 20s and 30s, Dragon Ball Z is a children’s action/adventure cartoon that follows the exploits of one Goku, a fantastical, extra terrestrial Saiyan in search of Dragon Balls, which apparently grant wishes. An obvious double entendre. The show originally aired in Japan in the 80s and found great popularity in the United States during the 90s—and has since swelled into a forties plus fandom obsessed with ‘catching them all’ or whatever the fuck. 

Anyhow, here is how our conversation went:

THE PLAYERS

1. Me = Me
2. Bystander = Innocent Co-worker
3. IWWT = Him, or The Subject of this Blog i.e. The “This” in “I work with This” 

MIDDLE AGE and the SUPER SAIYAN: A One Act

Bystander: Does anyone else want fajitas?
Me: What was that?
Bystander: The cafe down the street. The special today is fajitas.
Me: Oh, yeah. Sure, sounds good.
IWWT: Someone say Vegita?
Bystander: *Perplexed*
Me: He said fajitas…(Note: I knew where this was going yet again.)
IWWT: Oh no, no. He’s like a badass Saiyan.
Me: Wait…
IWWT: He sometimes goes SUPER SAIYAN. It’s from DBZ.
Bystander: What are you Sayin’? (Note: Bystander is 61 years old and thus cannot know what Dragon Ball Z by the reasoning of Fact 1 and Fact 2.)
IWWT: *Absently* Vegita fights Goku on Planet Namek, Goku’s a Saiyan too. They charge up like badass and glow, hella hot until they’re in true, Super Saiyan form. Then they can toootally release the power. Whoever wins it gets to look for the Dragon Balls and make wishes. 
Bystander: Of course.
Me: Dragon’s Balls?
Bystander: *snicker*
IWWT: Yeah! And there are seven of them and whoever can find them in the entire universe gets a wish from a Dragon. 
Me: So they are the Dragon’s Balls.
IWWT: Yeah.
Bystander: I wish…for a fajita.
Me: Haha.
IWWT: VEGITA!

On Hoarding.

“The sage does not hoard. Having bestowed all he has on others, he has yet more; Having given all he has to others, he is richer still.” - Lao Tzu

Fellow co-workers, trolls are real and they work in tech support. But what defines a troll you say? Hoarding. Specifically “unnatural” hoarding.

We’re all familiar with the playful chipmunk, collecting acorns and apricot pits, french fries and waffle cone bits—this is natural, chipmunks hoard for winter. But co-workers? 

The food hoard:

We all love a bowl of microwaved butternut squash soup a work, and who doesn’t dig lentils. Hell, I can recall plenty of times I nuked clam chowder and dug in with a fist full of saltines—but what in the Christ is with all the canned fish? Folks, this is just a sample. Seriously there are like eight more boxes of soup. And for the love of Pete, this son of a bitch must be oozing with omega 3s from canned salmon and anchovy tin. I’ll forgive the tuna, but that olive oil has no business being there and I can’t even fathom what its for.

I don’t know…maybe it has something to do with these fucking bananas and bottles of lotion:

Bushel of bananas? Fine. Great. Who doesn’t love a nanner every once in a while? Thing is…I’m almost certain these are the only food items hoarded in this cube that aren’t for eating, or at the very least, aren’t for being hoarded in anticipation of some copy machine cataclysm that forces employees to form post-apocalyptic, scavenger tribes. Evidence you say? How about the bottles of moisturizing lotion and cocoa butter, nestled snuggly beside that dented Kleenex box? You know what I’m getting at? Wake up and smell the canned salmon!

Ladies, gentlemen—I firmly believe that lotion, butter, and olive oil is for nothing less than masturbating those bananas.

On Filth.

Fellow co-workers, here is a brief introduction to my co-worker’s cube. I will categorize his behavior three ways: Filth, Hoarding, and Behavior.

Today I’ll focus on Filth.

Filth is self explanatory in itself, however in regards to a co-worker whose very life is bound eternally to his cube, filth can manifest itself in many forms — for the sake of our subject, Filth will be broken up into three primary sub-categories:

1. Food
2. Refuse
3. Crystals (This will be addressed in the future post: “The Power of Stones”)

Here is an example of food.

Note here that the empty tub of Reese’s brand peanut butter has been eaten with a spoon. I assure you there is no bread and there are no crackers. Also note that the tub seems to be powered by Alkaline batteries. Revolting, no? Really, where does one get Reese’s peanut butter. Our best guess is Big Lots! or an equally embarrassing place to purchase peanut butter.

On refuse. Exhibit A:

There is no need for explanation — but for the sake of being thorough, lets look at some of the details: First off, cleaning staff empties the trash twice per week. Two times. And I have never seen it empty. You’ll also see a dozen or so decommissioned Gold Star computers (cannibalized for I don’t even know what) stuffed beneath the eastern table with what looks like a stack of ice cube trays, whereon there is an assortment of paper towels, folded (neatly) Trader Joe’s bags, and an assortment of wax fast food wrappers. Beneath the western table, do note the full tub of Reese’s brand peanut butter.

Good Christ, the filth is fucking rampant. In fact, I am not the only one to vocalize my point on said filth. 

For example, this particular cubical evokes strong reactions of disgust and disapproval. In the case of our subject, its interesting to note that witnesses were immediately spurred to blasphemy:

“Jesus Christ! Doesn’t this guy have any respect for himself?” 

“Christ almighty, look at this shit.”

“What in the Christ…happened here?”

Now, as for crystals?

I need you to close your eyes for five seconds. Good. Many moons will pass before you’re ready for crystals. You aren’t strong enough. Yet! Until then, contemplate emptying your cube’s trash once in a while and eating fucking Skippy or Jif. 

Next Week: “On Hoarding.”

CO-WORKERS of AMERICA.

First off, I am not here to vent. I am here to explore. I am a professional. I work and I live:

These things are separate, my work and my life. But for some co-workers the line is blurred. I consider myself tidy and average. I consider myself decent. Help me explore why I work with this: 

Sigh. And away we go.