Further proof that all twats have a button.

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.

13 thoughts on “Further proof that all twats have a button.”

  1. Dammit! I’m an admin. And although I was amused by your story and can associate with your admin’s brief power trip – our only job perk at times – I should let you know that not all of us knit stockings and sing carols.

  2. You are correct, good little admin. I should not corral all admins into the same pen. In fact, there is another admin in our department who is the coolest chick around. And believe me, when shit goes down, she’s the first one I call. I’m sure you understand – this was written in a fit of rage. 🙂

  3. I hate it when that happens. The ID card thing. I think that maybe we need to collectively plan a way for you to get back at admin. Hmm. Remember that pooping post about being polite while someone else is in the bathroom?
    Ignore your rule about it. Eat lots of beans and asparagus and other nice things, hold it in until you know she is in there, and just let out a dump in the stall right next to her and let her suffer for a few minutes. You may have to bring a different pair of shoes to conceal your identity. But I think this could work…yes…yes it could.
    Is that weird?

  4. Another slacker trick:
    You have a project due and have to prove that you worked reeeeal hard and did the overtime. Change your PC’s local time e.g. from 3.00 p.m. to 11.00p.m. and give final save. The last modification date will change accordingly.

  5. you have re-enacted every one of my Monday mornings while I dig for my keys to get in the damn door while everyone inside (literally) sits there and watches no doubt taking bets on how long it will take. next week, i’m hopping that damn desk.

  6. What is it with Admin? I’ve worked in four different offices since I graduated from college and every single one of them was a certifiable b—-. Maybe it’s the low rating on the job satisfaction scale or the fact that they take everyone else’s shit.
    I personally like John’s idea. Good thinking on the shoe switch.
    Oh, and if you need help – brocolli works wooooonders…

  7. OMG! I absolutely hate the badge. Like, why in hell would I want everyone to know who I was? Especially if I’ve fucked something up recently. Oh well, guess it is all in the name of safety, wouldn’t want any terrorists coming in and blowing up the coffee machine in the breakroom or anything important like that. 🙂

  8. Just another way for us to all be “tracked” and “tagged”…. Corporate robots SUCK!!!!

    I used to be an ADMIN many years ago and what I discovered is that most Admin’s choose that position to help feed their sick needs to feel superior to those in “charge”… AND to gleefully search out the mistakes of others….

  9. Fuck me! At MY work if you forget your badge, they take punitive measures. The second time in 6 months, you have to go home on your own time and get it. The third time you have to go home and lose a day’s pay. The fourth time they charge you $50.

    But even the first time, the securi-dudes suddenly act like they have NEVER seen you before, despite the fact that we say hello to each other at least 8 times a day and they know my name. Without the badge, it is suddenly “WOOP WOOP Invader in Sector 3!! Alert!” They get all nervous and jumpy and demanding “Sign this! Call your manager!! Who is your manager???”

    Then they give you the inferior badge that only lets you in an out of your own section, so if you have to go to the cafeteria the securi-dude over there (Samuel, he also works at Home Depot on weekends and has a 1 year old son, see how little we know each other) has to make a phone call BACK to your section to make sure you aren’t a terrorist on the loose.

    I am not sure WHAT it is all about, but I am pretty sure it ISN’T about security.

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