Song of the Day: "Can You Hear Me Running" by Mike + The Mechanics

I've just discovered that I will be asked, via voicemail, for the fifth consecutive weekend, to spend my days off quite literally living in my office so that a 550 page catalog can go to press two weeks early. When it isn't ready. Not by a long shot.

The CEO of this fine organization has bought himself a woman (imported, not domestic) and intends to spend as much time with it as he can. Bully for him.

Yet the net loss is not his time but mine, as I will spend roughly 30 hours over Saturday and Sunday trapped in a windowless hell attempting to proofread Spanish translations (and I am monolingual), take digital photographs (using technology that would make George Eastman disgusted) and fighting the urge (unsuccessfully) to make everyone else conned into coming in as miserable as I will be.

Sadly, the whole "life, libery and property" thing promised to me by our Founding Fathers and the Englightenment philosophers apparently doesn't apply to Marketing Communication Gods like myself.

Woe is me.

Maybe I'll just make long distance calls all weekend on the company dime. Or go randomly rearrange the files in the Credit Department. Or drive the floor sweeper machine around the warehouse recklessly.

Or, most likely I'll be spending the time shackled to my Windows 98SE supercomputer trying to keep Adobe Pagemaker from crashing, still trying to sublimate my aesthetic sensibilities over this trainwreck of a catalog and ask myself:

WWJD ... What Would Joe Do?

The magic of that statement shall set me free. After 30 hours. With no television. Or hot food. Or sleep. After I realize that "Joe" would likely be doing the same thing, and thereby coming to grips with what could well be latent MPD, I'll be fine. And maybe I'll splurge and have a smoothie.

Sigh ...

Stupid evil puppets ...

Not really a rant ... more of an observation. Not that I encounter evil puppets on a daily basis. Unless my coworkers count.

So I'm using this as online therapy, trying to vent frustration before I go all postal and start lobbing Liquid Paper grenades at the people I work with. I love the smell of Liquid Paper in the morning. And the sound of purchasing agents and customer service representatives screaming in mild agony as the white liquid slowly glues their eyes shut, effectively eliminating the errors that make up their petty little lives. It truly is "correction fluid" since I'm simply choosing to enforce natural selection. I consider it my divine right.

Because I am Joe, God of Marketing Communications.

Beware my wrath or I shall smite you. With venemous press releases. And a memo that requires you to fill out forms. Or ... god forbid ... a survey.

I've become determined to do two things during my regular work day: use no less than 50% of my time to seek other employment via the Interweb that is actually intellectually and spiritually rewarding (or just lucrative ... I'm little more than a common whore at this point) and second ... to use the other 50% of the time hiding in the server room, unused offices, under unused furniture ... possibly the bathroom depending on my biological needs.

"Will Market For Food". Ahh, good times.