diver-shitty

i rule. i so rule.

Visitors to this date
United States: 75
Canada: 41
Bangladesh: 36
India: 28
United Kingdom: 11
Hong Kong: 3
Russian Federation: 2
Germany: 2
Australia: 2
China: 1
Kuwait: 1
Italy: 1
Singapore: 1
Finland: 1
Switzerland: 1
Tanzania: 1

with the addition of tanzania, i can now proudly claim that my blog is read on 5 inhabited continents in the world. the 6th continent really doesn’t matter. only pat robertson cares about south america, and who the fuck cares about pat robertson?

the referrer of the month award goes to prufrock who took a solemn vow to increase my traffic, and therefore caused the untimely death by reading of 13 poor souls.

in second place is gawker, who, although he did not take any such vow, killed 12 other innocent souls by adding me to his “indian blogger” list.

huh.

i am sure that the politicians of this great land will soon brand me as one of the following:

  • anti-liberation
  • pro-liberation
  • anti-india
  • pro-india
  • anti-bangabandhu
  • pro-bangabandhu
  • anti-fundamentalism
  • pro-fundamentalism
  • etc.

if you are looking for something to brand this blog as, try the following:

  • anti-abstinence
  • pro-blowjob
  • pro-murdering-dumbasses
  • anti-mugger
  • pro-nudity
  • etc.

anyway.

i realized lately that i hate my job. and not in a platonic “i hate my job but this is what i want to do for the rest of my life” way, and not in a freudian “i hate my job but i’m not good at anything else” way either. i know for a fact that there are many things i would be good at that i’d rather do for the rest of my life. the list includes, in no particular order:

  • getting laid
  • marrying aishwariya rai, keira knightley or mena suvari
  • banging either of the above
  • being rich and famous
  • getting a blowjob

no. i completely, truly, utterly hate my job. first of all, i’m nothing but a glorified typist. i have written approximately 76582 letters, at last count, over the 6 months that i worked at the present job. not one of these letters was signed by me – instead, they were all signed by my boss. in fact, i’m certain now that i have written enough letters in his name to be able to claim myself as being him. which would rock. my boss has the most active social life of any human being on the face of this planet. if there is a meeting, dinner, reception, inauguration, party, dance, ball, festival, pie-eating competition or pornography-screening anywhere in this country, he will be there, sitting in the front row with a strange smile on his face, talking pointedly to all the pretty girls present. if, by some sheer misfortune, an employee of his is also present, he will take great delight in making fun of the employee, usually in front of the pretty girls. needless to say, the employee, whose sole motivation to stay alive throughout the mindnumbingly boring proceedings is thinking about how to make the pretty girls fall in love with him so he can bang them, is suitably embarassed and runs off to a corner to curl up into a foetal position, suck his thumb and cry softly after the verbal barrage. i speak from personal experience.

did i say personal experience? i meant the experience of colleagues.

yes i did mean that.

so what if you don’t believe me?

go fuck yourself.

moving on…

it’s not just the letters. in addition, i have to devote months of research to writing papers that he passes off as his own, giving him the opportunity to travel to different exotic countries to tell people about his research. of course, after i do write a paper, he doesn’t so much as read the damn thing. in repayment, the most exotic thing i get to see is the huge ass-crack of the fat guy who sits in front of me in the bus with most of his body hanging out of his jeans.

finally, my job description seems to entail the responsibilities of several different full-time people at the same time. as part of my job, the things i have to do are:

  • manage a multi-million dollar project
  • design and update the website
  • provide all forms of technical support to the organization, because the existing “expert” is a dumbass and has only one solution to all computer problems: “rishtart, plij”
  • answer all of the boss’s personal correspondence, because aforementioned expert, who also happens to be his personal assistant, is less english-literate than my 3 year old nephew
  • ensure that good karma and peace reign throughout the organization.

the last part of the above list is not made up. here’s what my job description says:

  • Create a work atmosphere conducive to teamwork, continuous learning and innovation; building alliances and promoting open communication and collaboration to achieve joint objectives;
  • Maintain high standards of personal integrity; establishing straightforward, productive relationships; treating all individuals with fairness and respect. Influencing and resolving differences across organizational boundaries.

what the fuck?

concerned about all the stress heaped on my poor shoulders, and my ever-thinning sexy and irresistible hair, i told my boss on july 1 that i was giving my one-month notice and was going to quit effective august 1.

it’s now august 27, and i’m still working at the same job. clearly, there’s a communication gap, or my boss does not understand the concept of resignation.

in order to prevent me from resigning, my boss offered me a better package, including:

  • doubling my salary
  • buying me an office-sponsored cell phone
  • getting me a consultant position with the world bank
  • offering to find me a bride.

the last point in this list was offered by him as that would provide me with “ample, post-work stress relief”. clearly he forgets that the last conversation that he had with his own wife that did not involve screaming was in the year 1954, as far as i can tell. since then, it’s been downhill.

while i was initially excited by this heaping of gifts upon my shoulders, similar to the feelings of the baby jesus after the visit by the three wise men, i soon learnt better. as part of the package, i was supposed to work part-time with the world bank, and part-time with my current organization. unfortunately, neither my new boss nor my old boss seem to be able to grasp the concept of “part-time”. i now put in 12 hours of work a day, and commute for a further 2 hours, meaning my personal quality time with my massive penis is now severely limited to 10 hours, of which i spend the requisite 9.5 hours asleep.

in addition, the torture increases. the other day, at 12:30 am, i get the following phone call from my old boss:

me: yes, sir?
him: yeah, what are you doing?
me: i’m sleeping.
him: sleeping? don’t you have any work to do?

clearly, somewhere along the line, the definitions of employee and slave got kind of hazy for him. i won’t be surprised if one of these days i find that he’s gotten in to chains and whips as a way.

it wouldn’t be so bad had it not been for his penchant for meetings. if he has a fifteen minute break anytime during the day, he likes nothing better than to call meetings. he likes to call them “sessions”, which, ironically, is what i call sitting on the toilet with a good book taking a massive crap. either way, both events feel pretty much the same, although i must admit that i am generally wide awake when emptying my bowels.

but it isn’t all bad. i’ve learnt valuable lessons during my tenure:

  • how to pretend to look extremely busy while actually doing nothing
  • how to download all kinds of software from the internet and blame the intern for hogging up the bandwidth
  • how to bitchslap people, which is what i do every time the tech support guy tells someone to “rishtart, plij” in case of a hard drive crash/virus attack/spyware hijack/excessive porn downloads
  • how to sound smart and impressive enough while actually summarizing what everyone else before me just said
  • how to blackmail/guilt-trip my boss into giving me a raise (“i quit” “here’s some more money” etc.)
  • how to bullshit about stuff enough to make a two paragraph summary into a 7000-word article
  • how to add enough stuff to my email signature to make me look extremely important (name, address, email, designation, organization, fax, phone, mobile, bank account number, pulse, heart beat rate, penis size etc.)
  • how to call everyone in the office, including the guy who brings me my morning tea, my “colleague” in all correspondence
  • how to make a six-figure income, then realize that in dollars, it’s actually a four-figure income, and then realize that friends who work at home depot and walmart make more in a week than i make in a month
  • how to earn in taka and yet spent in dollars, so that by the end of the month the beggars on the street are giving me money
  • how to simultaneously suck up to people while stabbing them in the back (a valuable skill in any job in this country)
  • how to make “glorified typist” sound much fancier by calling myself a “senior research associate”
  • and finally, how to get so frustrated and burnt out with your job that you bring a gun to work and shoot all your coworkers.

just kidding. i didn’t bring a gun.

i just stabbed all of them to death. much more painful (for them) and much more satisfying (for me).

fuckers.

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~ by eLeCtRiKbLuEs on August 27, 2005.

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