Wednesday, June 21, 2006

Cow-orkers IV: The Memory of a Goldfish

Ripa again. I'm getting so much mileage out of her that I'm wondering if I'll ever get around to any of the others.

Ripa's taken to talking to herself more and more. Out loud, non-stop droning on. Except that she's not always talking to herself. Sometimes she's talking to one of us and gets pissy if we don't answer immediately, yelling at the unfortunate object of her attention, "I asked you question four times now and you are not answering me!" Even one of our most patient monkeys who often accompanies her to lunch so that she doesn't have to eat alone let off some steam at a gloriously Ripa-free cafeteria table on the day the following occurred.

* * * *
"What now?" Don't bug me, bitch. I need more coffay.

I'm the Duty Monkey today. A lot of tickets are in the wrong areas and they belong in ours. As the Duty Monkey it's up to me to determine if some ticket should indeed be transferred over to our team. Conversely, I try to transfer tickets which we shouldn't have out to other Monkeys who fight back almost as hard as I fight them. None of us want more tickets.

"I have teeket here from COOstomer about support for version. Do you think it's for your team?"
"I don't know what team it's for. You have to tell me.

I stare at her in disbelief. The office goes quiet, everyone waiting to see what's going to happen next. Because they know... they know.

Ripa, until a few months ago, had been in our team for some three or four years. She'd been the Duty Monkey once a week. Surely she...

No noise leaves the other cubes as my response is eagerly anticipated. Phone conversations stop. Typing stops. Even someone's Flash game clicking has come to a halt. The only sound is the droning hum of the drinks refrigerator. Will REC scream? Will his head essplode รก la Scanners? Will he finally strangle the woman?

"You're kidding, right? Right?! Did you not work in our team for four years? Do you seriously not know which damned team a stupid question about supported platforms goes to?!"

"But you are Doo-ty Monkey of group. I have to ask you where it should go."

Titters, smiles, a few signs of mild disappointment. I manage not to rip her head off her shoulders or even spew a stream of curses that one would only expect from a man whose ex-wife already got everything in the divorce including 80% of his future income after he finds out that she was screwing her lawyer, the judge and his own lawyer, too. That kind of anger.

That's the reaction everyone was expecting. However, my way of handling this round has ensured I won't be fired for my response nor arrested for manslaughter (though I'm sure I could get it knocked down to justifiable homicide) and I've managed to get my point across in a way that everyone understood. Everyone but Ripa, of course.

I sit down at my desk.

"Are you going to take the teeket REC?" she hollers again.

The my-head-shaped-dent in my desk welcomes my forehead.

x-posted to HuSi sans poll.



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In compliance with $MegaCorp's general policies as well as my desire to
continue living under a roof and not the sky or a bus shelter, I add this:

The views expressed on this blog are my own and
do not necessarily reflect the views of $MegaCorp, even if every
single one of my cow-orkers who has discovered this blog agrees with me
and would also like to see the implementation of Root Cause: 17-Fuckwit.