The Crapolla According to Fek'Lar

You Know You're DOOMED When...

your Sex-Ed teacher wears his collar backwards.

You've stumbled onto another issue of The Crapolla, a journal written for software professionals. No not the managers; I mean the people who do the work.

This Crapolla is sponsored by...

In This Issue...

What's the shelf life of a Twinkie?

A Definition

There is a great debate a WTHAIS.

You may have noticed that I have not been complaining about my pin-head manager. That's because I haven't got one. About a year and a half ago, WTHAIS assigned my group its fifth manager in my then two and a half years with the company.

Since everyone except Bobb who is mentioned in this rag gets a code name, I need one for the boss. I'll refer to her as the Twinkie, in her words she's yellow on the outside and white on the inside.

I wasted no time in informing the Twinkie that it was July, and she would be gone by Christmas. Then I proceeded to name her predecessors. The average manager lasted six months.

She thought about this for a moment and tossed back, "The common denominator in this is YOU!"

In the next few months we had some really great fights. Both of us needed to be convinced to trust the other. After a very long time, we came to the conclusion that we did want the same things for our group. I began to feel as if my 12 plus years of experience in the field were being listened to when I warned of cliffs we were about to go over. Christmas came and went. The Twinkie stayed.

Over the past year and a half my group has solidified. We did let go of people who couldn't get the job done, and brought in others who could. Game faces started to go away. We now have a very well qualified group, who works in the real meaning of a team. People also feel free to kid one another.

The trouble was, my psycho-terrorist techniques were getting rusty. You know, horrible gags like when Trouble and I sent Bobb the red roses anonymously, and Bobb called his fiancee to thank her. The worst I had done to anyone in the past two and a half years was to have anonymous strangers call a friend of mine to wish her a happy birthday.

Each person would deliver their message, and then my friend would ask who they were. The caller would tell her that she did not know them. They just saw the ad in the paper. This would raise the hairs in the back of my friend's neck. What ad? Each caller had been given the name of a different newspaper that would be difficult to acquire in Sillycon Valley.

I was very proud of this gag because my friend spent the better part of the day wondering what was going on. But this gag aside, I hadn't really nailed anyone in a long time. It was time to stress the Twinkie.

As luck would have it, the Twinkie's birthday was approaching. I enlisted my co-workers in a conspiracy. All options were put on the table. Should we just trash the Twinkie's cube? Silly String her ceiling?

The first idea we explored was to attempt to panic the boss. The birthday was on a Monday. Perhaps, over the weekend, we could set up cubes in the furthest point of the building, then call in sick, but secretly sneak in and work. The Twinkie would arrive to work with no one at their station, and lots of voice mail from people faking a vomit into the phone. Unfortunately, we could not enlist the cooperation of the IT department.

Plan B was a very different idea. It was to get everyone in the company to wish the Twinkie a Happy Birthday, in the most embarrassing way. Twenty posters were placed throughout the building depicting the Twinkie as a Nun, with the caption, "Sister Hurts-A-Lot says, Be Sure to Wish The Twinkie a Happy Birthday!"

This was a very effective prank. The posters didn't last long. Several people took one and asked the Twinkie to autograph it. But since the Boss didn't freak out, something more was needed.

One day, the Twinkie forwarded a voice mail to me. I was to handle the VIP who had left the message. This was not unusual. Amongst my other duties, I often deal with sensitive situations. I called the VIP back and found a co-worker was already helping him. My phone rang. It was the boss was calling from her car to talk about a different subject, then she asked about the VIP.

"Everything's fine, but he was very disappointed that you didn't call him back personally," I said. There was a small pause.

"You're kidding," she said.

"No," was my dead-pan reply.

"I don't even know who he is!" The Twinkie was beginning to stress. I had her.

"Well, he certainly knows who you are," I mentioned.

There was a longer pause, a slight sigh, another pause. She was twisting in the wind. Now time to light her fuse.

"Oh get off it, I'm kidding!"

BANG! I heard her tires squeal in the background.

"What? God damn it! You suck! I almost shit my pants!"

Gotcha! Pleased with myself, I cracked open a fresh Diet Coke. I happen to see my Director walk past. I mentioned to him what I had done. He had a devious grin. We agreed that when the Twinkie is reincarnated, she's definitely coming back as a fish.

This was a gift that kept on giving. The next morning, the Twinkie cussed me out again. It turns out the Director (her boss) decided to build on my previous work. He had called her in to complain that the VIP had called him complaining about her. Witnesses had seen her gaping jar hanging in the wind. She had been had twice on the same prank.

This leads us to the on-going debate. Am I evil or, as a co-worker who is about to become a Lawyer says, simply incorrigible? I'm not really sure myself, but I think a T-shirt with the simple word "Incorrigible" would be really cool.

This Issue's Headline submission to the National Daily World Enquiring Globe.

Wacko Jacko Alert!

Chimp Files for Custody.

Let's play, "Who said this?"

Heard in the halls of various software companies.

"Can you call back in a year?"

"This was like having root canal on the Bataan Death March."

"Are you getting cheap with your wife? Come on! It's only once a year!"

"Beware Managers bearing gifts."

Excuse Me

I need a box of Ho-Hos.

Fek'Lar
(The Last Honest Geek)

Remember: The Crapolla contains my personal opinions. That's right they're mine, so get your own! And you kids get off my lawn! This whole mess is copyright © 2002 by LowComDom Performances, all rights reserved. Wanna send this to your friends? Go ahead and pass out the URL.

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EOJ

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