Cow-Orkers VI: It's Not Supposed to Taste Sour
It was only after receiving my team manager's single word response that I knew why I'd heard his laugh from across the room.
For six years I've been hounded by Ripa and her whining, REC! You HAVE to HELP me!. Six long years of her insistent prattling on. Six years of her demands that I drop whatever I'm doing and answer her questions. Six years of her pissing and moaning to Vera if I don't write her answers for her.
It was finally my turn. Revenge would be mine!
After a smoke break, I walked up to her desk and said her trademark phrase, in her style.
Ripa! You HAVE to HELP me! The COOstomer has a PRAWblem. You work with $component! You HAVE to HELP me now!.
Sitting across from her Paul just lost it. At the neighbouring desk even Egghead, the quietest, most patient yet stoic man I've ever met cracked a smile.
"REC! Stop it! Go back to your desk."
"No, seriously. I have a problem, it's in your area and you have to help me now."
It took her 20 minutes to babble through a vague explanation which Drew could've answered in two minutes. As I walked away, Paul was still laughing and Ripa called out, "You have to give me Assist!"
Most of us help each other out; tickets have an Assist field so that we get credit for this extra work and effort in addition to our own tickets. I'm expected to average two Assists a week, not too difficult thanks to my Unicode specialisation. Ripa has never once had an assist.
On my ticket.
The irony of it all. Never hung poison on a fouler toad.
I'm a fuckwit.
x-posted to HuSi, sans poll.