It was a Monday morning, and I was late for work (as usual). I arrive at the office door, and proceed to dig around my briefcase for the omnipotent security badge that gets me in and allows me to move about the cabin freely. My inner Gary Busey tells me that this same security badge also provides my boss with a detailed report of my comings and goings, which means I really should re-think my mid-afternoon trips to Target and all those emails I schedule for sending at 6:47 p.m. on Friday night. What’s that you say? You didn’t realize you could leave work at 4:30 and have emails send out at 6:30? Why, it’s one of the oldest slacker tricks in the book. I believe it’s on page 7, to be exact. But that’s another post.
When my badge failed to come up for air in the first 10 seconds, I realized that it was time to put out an Amber Alert. So I dropped all other belongings on the floor and proceeded to rifle through my briefcase like a crackwhore looking for her last eight-ball. Badge? Last week’s grocery list. Badge? Lean Cuisine. Badge? Hot Wheels. Fuck. Me. Why can’t big brother just surgically embed a tracking device in my skull or a microchip in my retina? I decide that this here is the reason they make break-away lanyards — they’re afraid people will hang themselves with them, having lost their ID one too many times.
As my arms flailed about my person in a big circular blur, ala Roadrunner, our evile admin sat at her post, not four feet away from me. Judging by the cocky, pleasured look on her face, she must’ve taken time on this particular morning to shove the requisite yard stick squarely up her cooch. Her eyes were fixed on her work (i.e. the latest issue of Prevention magazine). But I could tell that she was watching me, and loving it. Fucking whore. The button that would open the door for me was but a few inches from her fingers. How difficult would it have been to PRESS THE GODDAMNED BUTTON! Finally she relents and lets me in. “Thanks,” I say, while she barely lifts her eyes from an article detailing the secret connection between yams and menopause. Why the attitude, I wonder. What did I ever do to her, besides the majority of her job? I don’t get admins — and I never will. They do these nicey nicey things, like make everyone Christmas stockings to hang in their cubes. But then, when no one else is looking, they piss in your peace lily and steal your stapler.