Closing

I found the e-mail I sent to myself on the last day of work. It seems now all I have to do is copy and paste it - so I will. Hope every last soul out there enjoyed hearing how blessed my cursed life is.

Closing Ceremonies:

Finally, my tenure at the helm of this battleship has snapped shut. No longer will I pass under the shadow of the Chrysler tower – the crow’s nest. No longer will I trounce and prance about ship, putting off my work, until someone tells me to stow my whistling and scrub the deck. No longer will I cram myself into the moldy corner of the bathroom stall and cry over the loss of my innocence and my will to live. I have gained a respect for the inability of cubicle walls to contain sound. I have gained a bumper sticker which reads “Yeah, its got a Hemi.” I have gained a crooked neck and a hatred of the phrases “per your request” and “per our discussion.” I have misplaced several ounces of my vision, and I doubtless need a new prescription.

I got three strikes while I was here but somehow I didn’t strikeout. My first misbehavior was not tucking in my shirt on a casual Friday. Then I asked for internet access… twice. I think my asking a second time offended some and put off others. So there I stood with two strikes for the longest time, almost until the end of time. The day that Greg was returning to Oh, Hi! Oh I helped him pack up and leave. This required my leaving at 3 PM, almost an hour early. Needless to say, when I returned on Monday I found an e-mail detailing how unprofessional I was. As far as I can tell that adds up to three...

No. No. Please someone come reverse time, so I can walk away before hearing what I heard. Today is not only my last day, but others as well. Two ladies are "retiring" today and there is a big cake celebrating the fact that they, like me, will never step foot in Chrysler again. As I stood eating my cake, the topic of inducing labor came up. One woman in the cubicle is pregnant and was talking about how she is due next week. A lady offered up questionable information: that cod liver oil can help to induce labor. Mummers of “Gross!” passed from the crumb-covered lips of many in attendance. The man standing next to me, under his breath, whispers “What got my wife going was Red Lobster and sex.”

I can’t eat any more cake, and bagel day is ruined.



I wrote this to Erica this morning, trying to convince her that our boss was really mad at me. After reading it, she was convinced that I was going to get fired. I had to remind her that today was our last day. Here is the e-mail:

Erica,
I got an e-mail back from Steve this morning after I sent out the daily Issues report. I don't know what I did wrong...
_____________________________________________________________________________________
Wes,

No, that report is wrong, please do it better next time. Learn from your mistakes.
Do you think you are above rules; do you think you are bigger than the company?

You are not, this report is bigger than you. It is worth more than you are. Please take this lesson and plant it in the barren soil of your mind. Cultivate it; return to it daily. If you do not water it with your attention, things will never change.

Whet the dull knife of curiosity. You are letting yourself go, but you are still locked in a cage. This is a duality which cannot be overcome by time but by measured resistance against a life devoid of clarity. Take your alacrity pills and buy a discount motivational quote book. Take a direction and stick to it.

Regards / Saludos.

Steven M. Voorhees
Manager
Truck Product Team Forecasting & Scheduling
email: SDCVS61@Chrysler.com
Tieline: 182-1168
Outside: 448-592-1168

____________________________________________________________________________________

Some people are so gullible... I wrote the e-mail and pasted his signature tag on the end.

And I wrote this poem about our exit interviews, which were today. It lasted only a few minutes, and I just talked to Jody about pictures of her kids and how one of her girls managed to get blue eyes while her and her husband have brown. I tried to waste as much time as I could there, but I was kicked out after only 10 minutes.

Exit Stance
here is the
send-off schedule
the lineup
of excuse-me's

find the right room and
say the right things
and you just might
get out of here
alive

what know you
of exit interviews?

i've done it before

well…
maybe not
but at least i have
my laurels
and my ironed will
and khakis

should i go down
before they need me?
that would show quickness
of thought
pride in ethic
and forecasting

but it might also confirm
that im anxious to leave

dont be dumb
its nearly done
cant you just put off
being stupid
for 2 more hours?

sometimes i swear
but other times just think
how you are the essence
of a devolved being

you were born in a cave
left to die
and
instead of doing the world a solid
you joined a tribe of shrewds

i can see it in your face


here we go
its our last day
and no one’s clapping
or laughing

they’re just spinning
counterclockwise

on a
torture table

wearing expansive labels
to cover their collective
intrinsic deficit of
moral fiber

just put me in the ground

All ready?

Awhile ago - Almost the End

Since last we met, I have been rustling around like an orgy of crispy brown leaves in the slithering moonlight of an Autumnal Equinox. I’m always here not There, but when I’m here, my mind is There, my hair is fair, and my stare is bare of emotive flare. Repetitive keyboarding tasks collect their daily toll by allowing me to speed in and out of Carpal Tunnel. Aside from the busy work, I had to prepare for my “Management Trainee” interview which took place at the end of last week, and then I had to actually do the interview.

Feedback on my presentation has been doting and embarrassingly flattering. Sachin’s Big Dawg boss, Fred, told Sachin that he thought my presentation was one of the best, and Jody, the head and shoulders of College Recruiting, told me that the judges thought I was an attractive mixture of comedic, professional, and romantic. She took back the romantic part (OK fine, she never said it) but did say that she thought I had “just the cutest little personality.” I told her if she ever talked down to me like that again she would find herself living on a black fiberboard torture table in the middle of the Gobi desert. Jody happens to be my favorite Chrysler representative, what with a persona that could make an orphaned and clipped-winged titmouse chirp with pleasure.

My interview went exceedingly average. I didn’t really develop a repertoire with any of the ladies that questioned me, but I made them believe what I wanted them to believe. During the first of the two meetings, I was asked what skills I had planned to work on during my time here. I responded, quite quickly, with: my Communication skills, my Organizational skills, and my Political Savvy as it pertains to Office Olympics (Office Politics.) I talked about both communication in the workplace and my adeptness at thrashing my drowning body around the corporate kiddie pool, and wrapped up my thoughts quite nicely. They said “what about the third thing you mentioned.” What thing? Organization? I had totally forgotten what I wanted to say about organization, and the following is what I came up with on the spot: “Well I have a bad habit of being unorganized. So, coming into this summer, I wanted to work on that flaw. So I made myself keep the left side of my work area very neat and organized. I let the right side go wild, papers everywhere, but, again, the left side is very neat. Also, I keep the files on my computer in different, specific folders.”

I slammed my head into the conference room table and prayed for death. The two ladies exchanged glances of incredulity and just flipped to the next page in their book of questions, having just sat through what may come to be known as The Worst Answer Ever Given During an Interview. During the next half hour meeting, the only stupid thing I told my inquisitors was that I have bad handwriting. As you can see, I have a habit of undermining myself when under pressure. I don’t stammer, and I never blush, but I’m not afraid to say “Hey, look at me! I have freckles and bad handwriting and I was born in Vermont.” Enough said.

July 24th - August 5

It’s been awhile. I have been up to so much lately I have been feeling down. The other day I had to vacate my desk and take several deep breaths out in the hallway. The software changeover that I hinted at in early May, and which the department has been putting off for 6 months, is finally here. Today is officially the last day we can go back into the old system to do our job; we are required to be totally independent of it by Monday. Thank God and his many schoolmates that it is the weekend.

This entire week has been a buffet of stress-related tasks. With our end-of-summer presentation coming up this Monday, I was pressured by Sachin to meet for one hour everyday to practice. This unhappily coincided with the busy work week of the summer thus far. The end of all real thought hangs like a convicted criminal, just days out of reach; after the presentation on Monday, I refuse to waste time on ideas or conscious reflections through the remainder of my time here.

In the middle of the week, just as I was beginning to reflect on how busy I had been lately, a nice gentleman from some neglected corner of the office materialized out of the air and informed Erica and I that we would be working on a new project. As we were acquiring the necessary information to do our jobs, the question came up as to who had taken care of this project before. The answer was no one. Of course, the follow up question was whether or not anyone would use the information we would gather. The answer was no. I narrowed my little snake eyes in a visible disgust and vowed never to trust again.

The roommate and I are burrowing over to the western coast of Michigan for Coast Guard weekend. After we whale-watch on Saturday, we will be attending a conference on the evaporating concept of monogamy in the spirit community titled Ghosts, Gods, and Fast Women: The Lure of the Mormon Lifestyle.

Just finished the presentation and overall things went over with the swiftness of a slamming file drawer. I talked at a pace nearing the speed of light, but I think my demeanor and class-act will win the judges over and they will give me a good score. My joke was one of only two on the day that got a laugh out of the judges table, the other being one Greg told, which I gave to him. I’m thinking they should hire me as a speech writer for the CEO or at the very least offer me a severance package never to stab their ears with my horrible humor ever again.

July 17th - July 23rd

This last week has been an era of preparation both for my upcoming internship presentation and for my ability to allegorically sell emotionally abused Rottweilers to dog-bite victims. My charge is to get up on stage and in less than three minutes convince the audience that not only did I add value to the company over the summer but I also spent each and every minute of my time helping Chrysler to become more competitive in the market. In an effort to hide the fact that I may not have been the busiest prostitute in the whorehouse I plan to use a shock-and-awe strategy. No, I will not be shooting off fireworks or reciting the names of the Presidents in order from cutest to nudist, but I will start things out with a self-effacing jest. I will lull them into a sense of camaraderie and then smack them in the jowls with backhanded (crit and witt)icisms; the end result hopefully being that I don’t insult anyone enough to get a bad reference, but still leave them sufficiently chastised.


The only other job-related happenings in recent history were the wind tunnel tour and the offering of a full-time job to Sachin by Chrysler. Being a moderate supporter of financial stability, I was interested in the difference between how much he would be paying for law school vs. taking a job and classes at the same time. Seeing as Chrysler pays for school if you are signed on with them, Sachin could potentially end up making 200K+ as opposed to spending 150K over the next four years. Interesting as this information may be, after consulting with relatives the curry-lover has decided that it would be very hard to do school and work simultaneously. Most of our financial discussion took place while we were on the wind tunnel tour.

The caverns beneath hold many a treasure. It felt like we were touring the remnants of some fallen spaceship. We walked into the darkened square mouth of the tunnel, around curves and meshed doorways, until finally arriving at a fan the size of a gargantuan Mexican shanty. Other parts of the basement held massive antennas which shoot frequent frequency bullets at any vehicles in the testing phase. One testing room was snowing, and another was blowing 125 degree air. These test vehicles live a passionate life devoid of reason. One minute they are being singed by giant microwaves, and the next they are thrashing around on a snowy concrete floor.

Over the weekend Greg and I tore over to East Lansing to spend some time with my family. We went out to a pizza dinner with my sister’s volleyball team, half of whom I didn’t and still don’t know. Looks like Big Red (my sister) is growing up, she is second in command and the idea of her at the helm should scare the most iron-hearted soul. My siblings, Greg, and I were able to convince one of Vanessa’s more gullible teammates that Greg was a foster child whom my family had adopted and sheltered during high school. The story went: Greg and Vanessa almost got married during Greg’s senior year, but had to call the wedding off because I suffered from severe bouts of jealousy and what doctors discovered was “Full Nest Syndrome,” the lesser known step-cousin to Empty Nest Syndrome. Greg then decided to go to school out of state, and we (Greg and I) didn’t talk for two years, but then shockingly ended up not only getting the same internship but being placed in the same apartment. We managed to make up, but not before I put Greg in the hospital with a gun shot injury to the knee. Greg showed Vanessa’s teammate his recently acquired knee-scar, and the story’s validity was successfully cemented.

My family, excluding Big Red, followed me back to Auburn Hills to allegedly relax but more realistically to eat. The next night we rolled in and out of Chinese food rivers, covering our bodies and coating our colons in sodium-laced delicacies. I pointed out to all who would listen that the Powers That Be had recently decided to put stop signs on top of the speed bumps that spend the days humping the roads of our apartment complex. In an effort to show my solidarity to the anti-stop sign movement, every time I go over a bump I come to a compete stop right after my front tires hit. As I stare into the sky and wonder why the stop signs are necessary, I cross myself and say a simple prayer to the lesser Godlets of Michigan asking that stop signs be disinvented. After I finally get out of the neighborhood, I blow every stop sign and stoplight that I can find and laugh at my own sincere disregard of the State’s laws. You can spell S-L-A-W with LAWS, and I’ve always hated slaw, cole or otherwise, so please bring me a tastier side dish, legislators.

Salvador has unwittingly revealed one of his few flaws to me in recent weeks, and I have yet to figure out how to use it to my advantage. The first few times he committed the foul, my brain skipped over it, losing the meaning of his slip because of his accent. When I finally realized what he was saying, I very nearly laughed at his face (which coincidently, according to Greg, resembles Mario). Sal pointed at his computer screen and said, “See this asteroid here? This means… ah, what is this? Show me another screen!” The computer, of course, doesn’t respond to his verbal cues, and just sits there, not showing him another screen. I failed to see the asteroid, only seeing an asterisk. And then it hit me. He continued, “When you see the asteroid sitting at the end of the body model it means it applies to all vehicles. The asteroid means… the asteroid. You see?” He then turned to me seeking acknowledgment, but I was already sprinting to the nearest hallway to squeal in laughter. My laugh floated off into space, only to be narrowly missed by a passing asterisk…

(Chess record 16-2)

July 10th - July 16th

At the center of the puddle, close to where the issue lies, floats a packet of mustard. The packet requests more responsibilities, receives word that more tasks are forthcoming: Maybe a job with a ballpark pretzel, says the boss. Perhaps a partially nude hotdog will come along in need of some flavoring. The mustard acquiesces, swelling with a sense of self-worth.

Weeks pass. The puddle is drying up. Plants that have sprouted from the puddle are shutting down or shedding unnecessary limbs. The mustard floats unused, but never unkempt. After an indefinable length of time, another meeting is called. The boss asks the mustard how things are progressing. The mustard was raised to bleed honesty, and tells the truth. The truth sets the mustard free.
_____________________________________

I wore a yellow long sleeve today. I look like a squirt of something that came from the condiment line. Yesterday I was called in by my boss’s boss to talk over how my summer is trotting along. Rumor is I might get some more work. This vicious if not ephemeral rumor has plagued my life before. I reserve the right to get excited. Let’s just say that right has yet to be exercised.

Last night was Frisbee night, the two week anniversary of my arm injury. I played with enthusiasm for two hours, and my legs are bowing and thanking me today for the great workout. Unfortunately, it is hard to walk when your legs are paying you penance by flopping lifelessly against the floor.

Last Friday I invented something that will be remembered by historians as the single greatest addition to office productivity this century. It call it Excel Chess. Excel, which is normally used for spreadsheets, consists of a screen of cells (the jail theme just won’t go away!) that hold either formulae or numbers that “business” people use to “make decisions.” I resized all the cells to be square, and alternated the non-colors black and white in each row. I used clip-art images for chess pieces, and sent the template of the chessboard out to several in-mates. The simplexity of it all is that you just send the moves over e-mail, and the games commence. Side note: as of this writing, my record is 5-0 ladies!

I asked for a résumé review from the Office of Career Development at the B-School and got the feedback from them yesterday. They gave me a lot of bread-winning tips which should propel my piece of paper from the middle of the stack a little closer to the top. It seems like a losing battle, but I have to keep in mind that I am winning the war. I have and experience that no one else does: I’m writing this from an office cubicle with a ruler balanced on my head. Nobody else can say that. Nobody.

I have only 30 working days left in an assignment that started out with 115. I’m thinking of extravagant ways to celebrate. At the moment, I’m leaning toward having a costume party where everyone must dress as their favorite car. Those cars that have nothing to do with Chrysler will receive a taser upon entering. No one will be allowed to leave until the tasers run out of juice. Anyone thirsty?

July 3rd - July 10th

Playing Frisbee on Tuesday night (July 1^st), I successfully put the masses to shame with my courage and ambidexterity. Diving for an errant throw, I planted my right arm on the ground, felt my shoulder shake loose of its socket and break for the exits, and landed on my stomach. When I rolled over to get up, my shoulder came back and sat back down in its fleshy hollow. I held my arm at my right side for the rest of the game, throwing accurately but without much pizzazz. To finish the game I made a diving catch in the end zone with my left hand, and everyone celebrated except for the other team and the neuronal pathways that carry pain messages from my limbs to my brain.

On Wednesday night I drove Greg to the Detroit Metro airport so he could flee the state of Michigan and gain asylum under the waiting breast of California. When he was getting out of the car to leave, he tried to give me a hug, and I had to remind him that he was going to be gone for only three days. He wasn’t going to war. He wasn’t even going to the zoo, where he could potentially be mauled by a wily animal. Because of all this, and the fact that I cringe at the slightest human touch, I kicked him with my steel-toed boots when he extended his arms. No one was going to check his carry-on bag if he was crying and acting as if he had just had upper thigh surgery, so I feel safe assuming I did him a favor.

While it is untrue that Greg has ever had thigh-work done, there was a quietly sinister medical melodrama playing out in our apartment on Tuesday night, two nights prior to his departure, which ended up involving some microsurgery. Right before the Frisbee game was to start, Greg and I were bouncing a volleyball back and forth to each other, practicing our soccer skills. The ball rolled under our glass table, and Greg, for some reason lost on me, tried to crawl over the table to get the ball. Instead of gliding over it like the fairy he thinks he is, his knee smashed through the glass. His knee produced a laceration approximately 1 inch in length, and Greg jetted off to the nearest medical clinic.

____________________________

The weekend pounced upon me with a patriotic viciousness. I knew that we had Friday off of work but it didn’t dawn on me until late Thursday evening that it was going to be Independence Day. On the 4^th, I ended up sitting on the edge of a dock with Bert, gazing across the river at colorful explosions of phosphate and some other chemicals I learned about when such things pretended to matter. At some point during the show two drunken gentlemen floated up to us in a canoe, docked the boat as if it was their spot, and proceeded to take 15 minutes to stumble onto land. One offered us an oil-spotted can of beer. We declined. They walked the length of the weather-beaten boardwalk, shoulder to shoulder, and disappeared into the night. When the fireworks ended, I heard one of them shout something that had more of an idiotic than patriotic bent. Something like “Merry Intern Pendants Day.” Sometimes my ears hear what they want to hear.

On Saturday night, I watched a kid's Pixar movie about a debonair rodent chef. I’ve seen the movie twice, but for some reason I can’t remember the rat’s name. The movie was well-attended, having been set up in Bert’s backyard with a bed sheet and my projector. On Sunday, I watched my sister play volleyball for 4 hours. I ate the better part of a bag of sunflower seeds and pondered how God decides who among a family is going receive a full dose of athleticism. For example, how come He decided to give George Bush a rock-strewn set of abs and the reflexes of a harpoonist, but Jeb got the shafted end of the stick? At some point during my pondering, I must’ve crept too far into the sun’s deadly rays, because when I awoke on Monday morning my lower lip looked like it had been put through the business end of a meat grinder. See Below…

…I have a history of having very odd reactions to the sun. Four years ago, at a Michigan football game in late October, I melted. I did not realize at the game, or even on the way home, that I had ingested some foreign poison which was to change the way I lived the next four day. The next morning my face felt weird, collapsed and exploded at the same time, so I glanced at the mirror. I then locked the door and dove under the covers of my high-school bed and vowed never to come out. My face! The sweet, previously unblemished love of my life. It looked accursed. You could barely see my eyes. My cheeks appeared to be stuffed with slices of pizza. My skin, from the neck up, looked victim to some exotic jungle virus; Ebola, perhaps, or face-AIDS.

Forward, to the present. The sun had baked to life a crustacean claw where my mouth used to be, but what made the injury notable was the salt from the seeds had that seeped into the cracks. White scabs, not dissimilar to what you might expect a Yeti's knuckles to look like, became prominent on my lip. Only now, four days later, does it appear to be healing.

Work is very quiet this week, but I learned at a very young age that silence can throw a tarp over the worst of life’s problems and then release them when you least expect it. These next two weeks mark Chrysler’s mandatory two-week vacation time, where 70% of the workforce is forced to take vacation. I’m very used to the rules not applying to me, but this time it is to my disadvantage. No boss creeps nearby, both a blessing and a curse. Just when I start to stretch out and wonder if I am going deaf, an order roars out from somebeast two cubicle rows over, telling me to get some work done.

I really wish one of my slacking co-workers looked more like a druggie so that I could make a joke about which was more fulfilling: free-riding the waves of a slumping company and collecting ridiculous wages for doing nothing, or free-basing off a cafeteria spoon in the unisex bathroom at the headquarters of one of the biggest companies in the state? Immediately after wondering about this, I realize how much time I really have on my hands. And then I wonder: how could time be on my hands?

a cuter, smaller bert.

July 1st

I’ve gotten a wider load of busy work, but it still only manages to make me wet until lunchtime, drying up quickly after that.

Yesterday, the interns received a reprieve for the second half of the work day; we participated in the last intern event, which was a tour of a car plant in Sterling Heights, Michigan. Safety glasses glued to our demure eyes, we slid from one side of the factory to the other in a pimped-out golf cart, making jokes about how hard the robots were working and watching as cars went from being just pieces of gray metal to lumps of color that, if Chrysler is lucky, 1 out of 60 car buyers will consider purchasing.

Greg is fleeing to Sand Diego for this weekend – the 4^th. California fireworks have lower emissions, I’m sure, so I hope he goes especially environMental in front of his girlfriend’s parents. In the apartment, we have moved everything out of the living room to better play soccer with a volleyball. Everything is fluid when you are my age, even floor space.

June 23rd - June 26th

Much basketball has been played recently, with varying levels of competition. The most challenging games I have participated in have been either against myself or against Greg. When I played Greg, a Midwest basket-thrasher if ever there was one, I was generally horrible, with streaks of fiery dominance. I went down 7-2 in a game to fifteen, hit six 3’s (which counted as 2’s) in a Kobe-like midgame performance, and then lost 16-14. I dare you to try and coach talent like that, Gene Hackman.

On Monday, June 23^rd, I had a one hour meeting with the director of my department – a Harvard grad and a man I could relate to. He advised that I consider this summer a three month interview; both in my questioning the company and the company’s torture of me. I told him I’d keep him on speed dial. I also told him that I am currently utilizing the parts of my brain that formed during the years when the only clothing brand I wore was Huggies. He assured me that I would get more projects. The jury is still out on that, and they might not get back in because the door is locked and I left the key in my other pants. I also have a bumper sticker that says “My other pants are a short skirt with no pockets.”

Bert visited the rolling hills of Auburn town from Monday night to Wednesday morning. She ironed my shirts, cleaned the kitchen, and didn’t drink my milk – a textbook example of a symbiotic relationship. I bought her two pieces of white meat from the Chicken Shack, and suddenly my floors were clean. That is a cause and effect chain that would leave any chap jealous.

Yesterday (June 25^th) I checked in the Red Cross hotel about an hour before work was over. A lady named Trish asked if I’d ever eaten syphilis-injected Mexican strawberries, or something like that, and then I gave her a significant portion of my blood. She commented that I had an unusually high amount of hemoglobin, which was a “good thing.” I told her I was no country bumpkin, so if she could just refrain from telling me my blood was full of rainbow-hugging goblins, we could move on. The oddest thing happened when she stuck me with the needle. I barely felt it, and I was staring intently at the ceiling of the Chrysler Tech Center, three floors above. I was studying the lighting, and I suddenly started laughing. As the blood drained out of me, I smiled unflinchingly, and giggled often. I have no idea why. I felt great all day afterward; an odd contradiction to what people told me would happen. Trish asked me, “Did you know you just potentially saved three people?” I looked at the smallish bag of vampire juice she held, and laughed again. At the most, I thought, one person with a nosebleed, or a colony of mice that had all just received paper cuts. I smiled the rest of the evening, but the only other time I laughed was when I took off the bandage before I got in bed. I should let my blood out to play more often.

June 14th - June 23rd

Since last we met, many cataclysmic events have taken place. We have seen the rise, fall, plunge and subsequent collapse of the economy, the increase of the length of my hair, and the stagnation of the spirit of a young man from Michigan (unnamed, but we share a bed.) The entirety of the last five days of work has been a whirlpool full of dirty laundry that Chrysler should have taken out years ago. Last week included a “Town Hall” style meeting where we “played” Chrysler Jeopardy, and another where we talked with the man behind (or pinned underneath) the $2.99 gas deal. Some agent of chaos released a caged report last week saying that the amount of vehicles bought in the US this year will be around 12.8 million. Chrysler’s plans from January were based on 15.5 million, and their estimates were the lowest in the industry. It just goes to show that even if you are the least wrong in answering a question, you still suck and will probably go bankrupt. Anything other than perfection belongs in the diaper disposal.

Last Monday Greg, Sachin and I attended a speech by Mr. Barack Obama. The light in the Joe Louis Arena must have been faulty, because from where I sat the man looked much darker than me, almost black. There is a possibility that I was in the wrong place, because in other speeches I had heard, the man sounded very white. He may be a shape-shifter, which explains the motto “Change you can believe in.” Maybe it is because I’m not a conspiracy theorist, but a man proclaiming to be Barack and shifting skin colors is one change I just can’t believe. Whatever was up there speaking, promising, and gesticulating, it was very good at it.

I’ve started an in-mate stock game, where people are messaging me throughout the day to tell me to buy or sell a stock for them. I am the broker, and manage $100,000 for each person. It helps to fill in the downticks throughout the day, and the uptick is that I get to practice being the go-to man for stock advice and trading tips. I have to keep up-to-date on the price of about 40 stocks, and have a program set up that tracks the value of each person’s portfolio.

Greg went kayaking last weekend and burned the skin off of his right shoulder. I gave him some Aloe Vera gel and watched as he slathered the stuff on a desiccated patch of skin, which, unnervingly, resembled the unmentionable regions of one of those shaved Egyptian cats.

My sister grew a year further from birth - as we all sometimes do - and Sachin also had a birthday this week. One of the two is class C, and the other is classy, but when you say both out loud, there is really no difference. Happy celebration of your exodus from the womb, sister and co-worker.

I stayed in Auburn Hills for the most recent weekend to see how my in-mate friends spend their leisure time. It turns out they spend in on Canadian Gentlemen. I should point out here that it is a brand of whiskey, not a collection of north-of-the-border males. I crossed the border into Little France (Windsor) on Saturday night and found a parking spot near a back alley pizza joint. Greg wanted food, so we entered. He swiped his American debit card and collected his goods. As he munched, he walked to the back of the restaurant to see if the bathroom was available. When he was upon the threshold of turning the handle, the door opened, and out came a gentle gentile. He blocked Greg’s path and told him that if he wanted to enter, he must give up a slice of his warm (but not hot) pizza. When Greg said no, the adolescent just laughed and walked past him, coming into my field of view. Turns out the kid was my cousin, Nathan Jacobson. It has been said that odd coincidences come in cardboard coffins. Good thing, because I almost dropped dead right there.

The rest of the night was uneventful, and I accompanied one of my fellow interns to Caesar’s casino and watched him play roulette and blackjack. Of course, I tried to clear my mind and pinpoint the numbers for him as he bet, but my psychic prowess lacks real muscle, and he should never have trusted me. I slept on the floor of a hotel room from 6 A.M. – 10 A.M., and returned home upon awakening. My weekend activities may lead to the proclivity to question my true identity, but please, practice brevity in your insults of my modernity.

June 13th

At the Tigers game, we sat next to a man who prattled on about cattle prices and blue jeans and barbed wire. On the other side sat two recently hatched chicklets peeping for hot dogs, soda pops, prezzles, apple juice (?), cotton candy, and respect. Much to my surprise, they got all but that latter and the juice; grandpa was paying and the concessionaires were preying. I’m almost sure that if one of the inbreeds would have requested spaghetti with angel dust pasta, permission would have been granted. I’ve also heard that PCPizza builds strong muscles and that Crack crackers have a astoundingly low amount of trans fats.

Greg and I crashed (slept, not came down from a drug-induced high) at Sachin’s apartment in downtown D-Town. I slept on the floor with a thin blanket for warmth, but the heat from the bullets flying past my head kept me balmy. Thursday at work was busy and for that I can count my blessings in a batch. When I stay busy the day goes quickly, I feel like a valuable member of society as opposed to just another cattail in the shallow pond water, and I feel comfortable in giving God a thumbs up as I lay me down to sleep.

This wonderful Friday morning I was able to pinch a bagel between my teeth before jetting to the Intern Picnic. What else did I do, you ask? Well, not much, aside from helping to orchestrate the perfect prank…

Greg, two days ago, went down the medical center because he was having muscles spasms in his leg. He was convinced he was dehydrated, the told him to go pee in a cup. He just went to the water fountain, and kept the cup. This morning, he called me over to his kingdom to announce his possession of the cup and ask for my help in using it in a prank. I agreed, and returned to my computer to type the following:

Mr. Puri,

Human Resources have become aware of an alleged use of illegal substances by several members of this year’s intern class. As a precaution, to protect the image and reputation of Chrysler, we will be letting go any individual who fails to pass the required battery of drug tests. You are one of seven required to take the screening.

If you have any concerns over the testing, please contact your Human Resource representative. The contact information is in the packet you should have received your first day. Failure to take the test on 6/13/08 will result in immediate termination of your employment here at Chrysler.

Please contact the following representative before 10:30 AM for information on where to take your sample:

D. McDonald, RN

Tieline: 722-1079

We are aware of an intern event today, and request that you provide us a sample before leaving.

We procured the help of an office worker to play the role of D. McDonald. Greg asked Sachin to go get some tea with him at 9:30 AM, and which time I delivered the letter and the cup to his desk. We all went back to our desks to secure the hatches for the oncoming storm. Sachin conversed with Greg, asking him about the letter. Greg said that he hadn’t gotten one, but that another of the in-mates, Stacy, had. She asked Sachin to go down to the center with her. At the same time, I e-mailed him asking if he had gotten a letter, claimed that I had already gone down to pee in a cup and provide a sample of hair. The hair sample is what scared him.

I then sprinted down to the lowest floor and hid under the escalator and waited for Stacy and Sachin to come down for their test. As they stepped out, I followed behind them in stride. Right before we got to the door, I tapped Sachin on the shoulder and told him not to worry and that I had gotten his name off the list.

“What are you talking about, Wes?”

“I got your name off the list. I told them you don’t do drugs.”

Stacy and I then started walking away, not looking at him because we were starting to laugh. When he finally put it all together, he sprinted at me and tried to give me some kind of trick Indian kick. He laughed and panted the whole way back upstairs. We found out afterward that he had been so scared because “his roommate had made some brownies” a month back.

June 11th

This is the fourth day in a row that I've had a peanut butter and honey sandwich for lunch, due in no small part to the lack of non-perishable food at home and the fact that I am the love child of George Washington Carver and Winnie the Pooh. My eyes are torn up from reading by candlelight for forty minutes last night (I just had to finish the book.) Since last Tuesday, one week, I have finished three books. I think I need to take a break – but, in full disclosure, I am starting the fourth after work. What else can I do with no electricity and… I just remembered, I am going to the Tigers game tonight. Sachin had an itchin’ to watch grown men hit the stitchin’ out of some leather balls, so off we are. I’m guessing about an hour drive. I hope they have electricity.

I had a slow morning at work today, but for the last three hours or so I have been rolling right steady. Two reasons: Tim Robbins is out for the day, so I got assigned one of his plants, and I have had several requests to provide backgrounds for my in-mates. The reason I didn’t get assigned Tim’s job straightaway is because Sal never bothered to check if he was here, and didn’t realize his mistake for four hours. Sometimes you get the feeling that Work Ethic spent, at the very least, his teenage years working for this company, but that he split a long time ago. As for the background requests, this refers to the picture on the desktop of every computer. I have been perfecting mine for the last month; adding to it pictures of Jeeps, eco-friendly concept cars, inspirational (haha) quotes, the Chrysler symbol, and, of course, baby seals. One of the in-mates asked for her own personalized version, and she is from the Ross School of Blindness, like me, so I threw in some photos from school and this:

So, now I have requests pouring in. This will keep me busy during down times, so I’m not complaining. We ate lunch outside today. I worked out before work this morning, and for the last week and a half. The monotonous days are melding together and I hate to see Chrysler controlling the blender. On an up note, I was looking at job postings on the Business school website last night, and it looks like all the interviews are in October. So, by Turkey time, I should know where I am working next year, or whether or not I want to administer the lethal injection of MBA. Thoughts???

June 9th

After I prepared my daily morning report and handed it to Sal, he said “no activity for the day.” I am unsure whether or not I can take this as a recommendation to take off, so I’ll tentatively stick around for now. The fact that I have been delegated the task of sitting and staring at the computer screen for 7 hours does little to excite me. I noticed over the weekend that my eyes are starting to weaken. I’ll be ecstatic if they can make it through the summer with some semblance of their former selves. Some time ‘round August, I might be in the market for a seeing-eye dog, so keep an eye out for me.

This weekend, I returned home for my baby cousin’s graduation party, and ended up eating more than I bargained for. Such is the curse of finger food. Several thunderstorms practiced their ballroom dancing skills on the skies of Michigan, striking fear into the hearts of women and children. Ms. Elizabeth Mikrut rolled her ankle trying to outrun a lightning bolt. The resulting pain made her curse the stork that delivered her to this world.

The last four hours of my Friday were filled with heat, humidity, snack foods, professional drivers, and wet backs. This is not a racial slur – it is a physical condition that manifests itself in wind-whipped interns that accept rides in cars with strangers. Braid my hair and call me Brenda, but dem boys know how to drive.

To ignite our twenty-year-old engines, the event started off with a speech from a man who looked like a turtle – sans protective shell. While we dined voraciously on taco salad, he showed us the fallacy of our belief that Chrysler was not the #1 company in the world. By emphatically PowerPointing us in the right direction, he shone a light into the dark corners of the future and told us of glories to come (none of which we will be here for.) As we interns moved on to our pudding-like desserts —our glassy eyes reflecting any relevant information away from our brain — our instructor continued to speak. He challenged us to believe in the CHALLANGER!, the future of our company. I’m not sure if my legs are strapping enough for that hop of faith.

While we waited for a shuttle over to the testing track, a previously unseen in-mate explained to us the past of “Intern Day.” Not entirely convinced of the validity of his statements, I and four others sat, casting arctic glances through the sizzling air, and listened. “Four years ago two interns totaled a very expensive car. You have to have your driver’s license to be out there. Give them to me. Give me your badges.” He was instantly shunned and labeled a radical.

Five minutes later I was whipping around the track at 140 MPH at the mercy of a “professional” driver seated to my left. He tried to make idle conversation, but I politely asked him to snap his trap and pay attention to the road. This ride was followed by three hours of the same. One intern is said to have reached 230 MPH in a “street illegal” vehicle.

Today marks my first full day without electricity at home. This morning was a stumbling dance characterized by a downsloping tempo and cold breakfast.

release me from this cage of sorrow, assure me that, tomorrow,
the sun will rise and cure my eyes of these aching cries,
i dont want to shower in the dark,
any more than a handicap wants to park - close to the entrance,
im sick of reading by the light of the moon; this is no cartoon,
this is serious, im so querulous,
i might start a fight with any of the many Chrysler lemmings
or buy a Ford, just to Escape
the static grip of failed electricity

June 6th

As a rule, I keep my enemies in front of me and always have my back to a wall. This eliminates surprise attacks and helps me on my path to becoming a forward-looking individual. This also leaves me susceptible to backstabbing.

I had, with the deliberate slowness and irrationality of a timid-by-nature individual, let Sal slip out of my field of vision toward the “friend” zone. Over the last few weeks, I had slipped into a pattern; bounce into work with my hair slicked back, work for a few hours, approach sleep in a square root formation (never quite reaching it – kiss my asymptote sleepiness!), and then treat the afternoon with less respect than Judas got from the pawn shop when he tried to trade in his thirty pieces of silver. Yesterday, Sal betrayed my trust. He loaded me down with busywork during the last hour of my day, when I was poised to perform a prank on a fellow intern. Now, the jolly folly must be delayed till next week.

Today is the Ride-n-Drive, the intern event of the summer. All us bacon bits must report at 11am sharp for lunch, a speech, and, subsequently, three hours of feeling important. We are slotted to cruise around the track in all the latest and greatest achievements of Chrysler, Jeep, and Dodge.

June 4th

Nothing to report. Office prank in the works for tomorrow.

The biggest news of the day is that I brought a picture of Bert in to decorate my workspace. Brightened my day right up, let me tell you.

June 3rd

I have spent the last 7 hours reading, talking, munching, smiling, traipsing, and yawning. None of the above was significantly related to working here at the #1 company in the world. I blazed a path through my daily allotment of labor in three quarters of one hour and since then I have oscillated between Fiesta and Siesta mode.

I inexcusably and unknowingly took part in a team building experience this morning. During the mid-morning hours, when I was just hitting my “looking busy/sexy while doing nothing” stride, my neighbors spontaneously combusted into conversation. The catalysts for this cataclysmic event were severe malnutrition of actual work, colorful commentary from the mouth of Johnny C, and the untested but dynamic social skills of yours truly. Sadly, Erica made the mistake of strolling by during the infant stages of the volcano, and, in the end, was the most severely burned.

The spark was the topic of violence in video games. Johnny C. filled us in on all the gory details; how you can beat, stab, run over, spray with bullets, whip, or curse passersby in the video game Grand Theft Auto IV. He’s never played, but all those who have are condemned to lifeguard the fiery puddles of not-Heaven, according to him. Through some clever twist of words which I am yet to completely interpret, he was able to blame Erica for these egregious acts – presumably because she is majoring in Digital Media.

John was in full plumage, flaunting his true feathers and claiming his son had “soft hands,” when some older gentleman came by and insinuated that John liked Martha Stewart and owned one of her baking aprons. Third generation Italians, apparently, don’t like to be emasculated, and John went to get his lunch two hours early (9:30am.) With the devil’s favorite advocate off to eat, the woman across from John’s desk grilled Erica and I on our backgrounds, with a flagrant emphasis on our outdoor skills. I lived up to her standards, being from Colorado, but the same can’t be said for Erica. I awkwardly tried to ask if anyone had ever heard of the parasitic bacterium that can take over a rat’s brain and control its functions (making it attracted to the smell of cats), but it came out wrong and I just sounded like an idiot. After my attempt, the conversation smoldered, finally dying; unarguable proof that I’ve got skillz that killz – both conversations and the dreams of the young.

I took a post-lunch walk around Chrysler with my only Indian in-mate, Sachin. We were successful in wasting the better part of an hour and avoiding socially relevant thoughts.

What do a teenage plankton’s diary and a Chrysler’s business plan have in common? Both dwell on how hard it is to survive at the bottom of the food chain -- and how unfair it is that life’s raspberry sundaes are doled out only to relevant members of society.

June 2nd

My weekend closed along with my eyes last night in the early hours of Monday morning. I left the Lakeshore late, after attending graduation ceremonies for the class of 2008. This left me little time for sleep. This would be a problem if I worked in a fast-paced, thought provoking, or intelligence required environment.

I have spent the morning splitting needles and finger painting my mind into a corner. My away message on our interdepartmental chat platform reads “I am away artfully drawing the most beautiful blank you have ever seen.” I am carefully considering cultivating at least one split personality to help me pass the time; someone to take my mind garbage out every few days would be nice.

Like the raw passion between a chicken and its egg collector, I just want someone to come and take away my ovally white hate of all things work related. I have read nearly all articles that have ever been posted on MSN.com. I now know everything; including, but not limited to, “8 things that will make your eyes skillfully implode” and “25 things not to say to your supervisor when pigeon birth rates fall below the Mendoza line.” Most of my inactivity stems from the fact that most plants are now completely scheduled in reference to the ’08 year – and we don’t start scheduling ’09 cars for a week or so. The remedial tasks that are thus asked of me in the meantime could easily be completed by a moderately clever medieval pitchfork.

Word has it that an intern Ultimate Frisbee game is to take place tonight on the campus of Oakland University, providing me opportunity to exorcise my hauntingly sedentary spirit-friend Cellulite. For those of you who don’t know what Ultimate Frisbee is, it is football for people who

A) Were dropped as teenagers

B) Were born North of Texas and didn’t grow up in a cornfield

C) Don’t view hair as something that needs cutting

D) Prefer soy milk to steroids

E) Can count

W. King’s Monday Advice: Don’t take stabs in the dark unless you are a Slow Loris or in a serious relationship with a bag of baby carrots. There are very few nocturnal visionaries in this night and age.

May 29th

A Lessen in Talent Acquisition

I lay circuits of ineptitude
In undulating spirals:
A pond frond with a wand, if you Will: I Am

The murky liquid
Ubiquitous and sinister
Ministers to high-heeled harlots:
Susurrations that fail to scintillate

May I interest you in a scorching?
Your eyes; a torching?
A bent soul makes kinder tinder
Than a roasted ghost

The diversion of short division
Has the half-life of an opiate:
Our intellect stays anesthetized
Inside our sterile minds

To disinfect our disrespect:
Delete the square root of Thinking,
Drown the “Tasks with Meaning,”
Then dole out, slowly, the remaining.

As you can see from the poetic outburst of the week, today went by with an unsubtle slowness that stripped me of both my resolve and my diaper harness. Up until today, I had been ziplining about the office with bright eyes and a silver tongue. I have effectively been grounded today though, strapped to my chair by boredom. No man is an island, I know, but I would argue that if your emotional moat is thick enough, there is no difference.

During the last of my many trips to the water fountain on this fine day some liquid got all up on my khaki threads in the equatorial region of my anatomy, making for an embarrassing stitchuation. I tried to look powerful and confident in my wetness but only pulled off an “I’m 21 and my bladder misbehaves every so often” look.

Highlight of my day: and e-mail exchange early this morning. Some HR lady named Linda tells the interns that she has set up an e-mail group to make it easier for us interns to contact each other. She says this is in response to many requests from the interns for her to provide us master list full of intern contact information. I promptly delete the e-mail. 10 minutes later:

Hi Linda,

For some reason I am a member of the InternMailList group. I should not be. I have worked at Chrysler for 14 years.

Please remove my name from this group.

I did not start receiving these "Intern" messages until this morning.

This is when you know a company respects it older employees. I don’t blame the guy for raising his hackles though, those “Intern” messages are hard to decipher and even harder to relate to.

May 28th

After a frenzied 20 minutes of early morning reports, we interns peeled off to the W.P. Chrysler museum for an indulgent breakfast of BAGELS! and muffins. When I had my orientation there were 30 interns trolling the room, lackadaisical in their approach to brown-nosing; there was not a broken spirit among them. Now, we number 60, and more then half of us harbor the kind of spite that can only be bred in 21^st century working conditions. During the first couple of weeks, all we could do was complain about how we were expected to take 2 hours of work and stretch it into an eight hour day, every day. Now, if any of us is asked to do anything that we haven’t done up to this point in our young careers, the bitching and bemoaning of management is only surpassed by the feeling that our universe has fallen prey to the hawk called Entropy.

We had a mini-conference where we were taught how much Chrysler cares about going green, how much they care about customer service and how much their interns mean to them. I figured they had about $600,000 worth of worthless interns in the room, so it was appropriate when we spend 20 minutes doing a team building exercise involving pipe cleaners. The pale faced leader of the presentation then told us how his leadership style was that of a cheetah: family oriented, speedy, agile, and predatory.

They gave us markers and half a sheet of paper to write down what kind of leaders we were… This is what I wrote.

What kind of leader are you?

A CRAFTY, RAPACIOUS

GROUND HOG

When the lady collected my card, a few kids in my row saw my writing and busted out laughing. The main guy started reading responses, droning on and on about being “morally focused, enthusiastic, charismatic, enrapturing, and respected.” All of a sudden, he sees my barbaric scrawl reading “Crafty Ground Hog,” and pauses. The guy to my left is writhing in his chair, and my face is turning red, but the guy handles it well and just moves on to read the next generic statement. Only a crafty ground hog could get away with writing the only non-serious statement in a room full of comparatively hard-edged malcontents. Up to that point, I think I had been known as the guy who had a fever last week. At least now I’ve laid brick for future traversing on Intern Mountain.

Aside from the breakfast, this day has been quick and unproductive. Sal is gone, apparently because a tire blew up in his wife’s face when she was trying to inflate it. Nobody else dares handle me without oven mitts or a bee suit, so I have once again effectively slipped through the teeth and disappeared straight into the mouth of the enemy.

May 27th

I received chastising on Friday for not tucking in my shirt. This was much to the chagrin of my “fly by night ego” and the event, in part, kept me from labeling Friday as my best day here so far. Bagels, a diminishing sickness, and casual dress day all combined to pique my perceived significance and whet my sense of self-worth. When I was called out for looking homeless, I vowed to myself that every “Casual Friday” from now on will find me in the customary dress of the elite; a suit and tie. Come to think of it, I might have actually looked like I drank my dinner from a wine bottle and made my knightly castle in an alleyway behind Applebee’s – I was pale and emaciated from my battle with a supervirus, hadn’t shaved all week, and had a look in my eyes that said “I need food. You spare coin for me?”

Greg wanted to go the gym before work this morning, so we agreed to get up at 5:40 and subsequently roll out in fox-like fashion. I was up, I was about, and G took his semi-sweet little time rousting. We worked out for only 20 minutes, sleeked up, and padded off to our day jobs.

M&M emergency (10:50 – 11:15 A.M.)

With a plate full of remedial tasks, a stomach full of air, and a head full of dreams, I snuck off to the M&M machine. Earlier in the morning, I had a discovered a worn dollar bill in my workout shorts, an odd occurrence indeed. This cashless society, of which I am a part, places little importance on paper money and even less on its bastard children, coin. I wanted to rid myself of the bothersome bill through the purchase of one pack of Peanut M&Ms. The machine gladly sucked up the bill, dropped me 15 cents change, and started gifting me my snack. A literal hang-up, though.

The machine, seeing my greedy smile and extrapolating my intent for the bag of chocolate nuts, decided to withhold my goods. I banged, begged, brayed, and balked, but to no avail. I pandered to Greg for spare change, but none was provided. An Indian woman was whispering sweet nothings to someone on her cell phone, so I couldn’t come right out and kick the machine like I wanted to. I finally decided to love and let live, returning to my cubby. I scraped up 61 cents from my backpack, and borrowed 20 cents, netting myself two bags of candy. My taste buds tell me it was well worth the effort.

The computer decided not to recognize an important constraint name, effectively leaving me in the laundry room with no clothes on. My office mates made some phone calls to tech people, and the error was erased. Problem is, I now have to start over on something I finished this morning at 10, and it is 2 o’clock. I am strangely and slowly evolving into those around me; it takes me an entire day to do a two-hour task…

I miss the good ol’ days, when my brain cells weren’t intellectually bankrupt and in danger of insubordination. Only impolite dendrites need apply.

May 23rd

Oh, what a splendid day to be alive! I can finally swallow again, and this morning I had my first taste of solid food in the last 2.5 days. I whistled in the shower, gave Gregory a morning hug, and did pushups in the parking lot. But enough about me, lets talk about you!

You left me two days ago; a battered shrimp slowly and unenergetically looping a noose at the end of his rope. It turned out that someone or something had my rope and slowly nursed me back to my health. Those somethings were: tea bags dipped in hot water, apple cider vinegar, hydrogen peroxide, oranges, and aloe juice (gag me.) Notice that all of the above are normally only ingested through the mouth, and, as the mouth bone is connected to the throat bone, this caused me much heartache. I also impressively injected 5000% of the daily recommended value of Vitamin C into my body on Wednesday. None of this really helped, but it felt good to support the fringe herbal remedies industry.

If you would have been perched politely on my Wednesday shoulder, you would have joined me in rocking back and forth in my lunch room chair, eyes closed, shivering. You would have then gone back to the cubicle with me, where we both would have lost 10 pounds through sweating tactics developed in a greenhouse laboratory; a lab with a black floor and located on the equator. If you were still on my shoulder after all this, you would have then witnessed a miracle; your best friend, Yours Truly, rising slowly into the air, weightless, and spinning quickly in tight circles. This would have continued for most of the afternoon, the worst part being that my skin felt more sensitive than a farm-raised and privately-schooled salmon is to derogatory remarks. All my usually graceful movements were handicapped by my feverish state, and on the walk out of the building I would pause every few seconds to just slump against the wall and regain my composure.

Thursday morning bid good day to me by backhanding me across the esophagus. The fever had left, apparently for more exotic shores. I literally had to curl into a ball whenever I needed to swallow, so I brought an empty water bottle with me to work. By using this to relieve my mouth bladder whenever saliva built up, I was able to save myself a good 1000 swallows throughout the day. I had to whisper whenever spoken to, but, as much as possible, I just stuck to the shadows and planned my comeback.

Today is a great day, as I’ve already said. I threw a little gel in my hair this morning (Casual Friday requirement,) wore a pink shirt in support of Greg’s one hour bout of pink eye, and called the Throat Rape hotline and told them to withdraw my complaint. I dedicated myself to a day of hard work and stuck to that credo. I scheduled about 20 total plant days today and fielded 2 calls in regard to John Pickford. I picked off TWO bagels from the Bagel Club and choked them down with cranberry juice at lunch (I’m still not at 100%.) When Sal pulled me aside to tell me I’m doing a great job with plant scheduling, he got so excited that his salt-n-pepper mustache started quaking and I think I heard him say a few uplifting Mexican phrases. If I can’t get him to adopt me by the end of the summer, at the very least I am going to break his will. And if you don’t get what that means, consider this, surely estate and death taxes are lower in Mexico than they are here…

May 20th

Hands cramped, eyes bushed, posture pathetic, headache exquisite, throat hoarse, face slack. The back of my throat feels like Julia Robert’s character in all of her movies; indisputably wronged and not afraid to snivel about it. I cite climate change as the reason for my inability to swallow. The climate change occurred betwixt dusk and dawn, and it was undoubtedly man-made. I woke up this morning not to a breeze, not to a whipping wind, but to a maelstrom. My knickers frozen to my legs by a force called molecular bonding, I made like a mitochondria and powered myself into the living room. The porch door sat ajar and the heating system showed that the air flowing from the vents was at or near 49 degrees. To fight off the oncoming frostbite, I drew up what I hoped would be a shower of magma. It was lukewarm because Greg was also cleansing.

He had two comforters on his bed; I had naught but a sheet. He must’ve had a reason to commit his icy betrayal, but, as the victim in this crime of passion, I’m at a loss. To make penance, he offered me some Vitamin C and a Cincinnati smile. Now I sit here, reflecting on that smile, staring into the pond of forgiveness… but all I can see is ripples of scorn, promulgating from where my horse throat attempted to hydrate itself.

May 19th

I galloped homeward this weekend only to find that my quarter horse now operates not on coins but on dollar bills, 3.97 of them to be precise. I ran into a cavalcade of omnipotent mini-van drivers on the way home; all of them seemed to know the precise moment I was to change lanes and they were all skillful at executing their life goal of keeping me from getting home. When I finally coerced myself past the blockade and into Spring Lake, I spent my evening catching up on The Office and exchanging good-natured remarks with Bert. Saturday was prom for this small sibling of mine, and I also got to visit a red-headed ghost from my past.

I have been officially assigned dictatorship over the St. Louis North plant. Any complaints may be amiably directed to my secretary at 616-638-6504. Only call if you have more than 10 minutes of your day to spare, but don’t be surprised if you have to set aside a larger block of time to complete your conversation with my oft quirky and longwinded associate.

I told Greg that I might let him come to Grand Haven/Spring Lake during one of the Coast Guard weekends, and he flushed with gratitude and perhaps some form of Pink Eye Fever. There are no beaches in Ohio, and I would not be remiss if I claimed that, if he tags along, it will be the first time he has ever seen water.

Erica informed me that on Friday she received a parking ticket which stated that if her car lent its presence to the parking garage again, it would be towed. We in-mates had heard that parking in the garage without a Chrysler approved vehicle was outlawed, but we didn’t actually think they would give tickets or tow the cars. It seems odd, seeing as that one garage is the only one our badges will grant us the right of entry to. So, for now, she has to park here. This alligator, however, won’t shed any crocodile tears because I have a Dodge Intrepid, and it isn’t due to breakdown for another month or so.

When I got back to the cubicle after a lunch consisting of a roast beef sandwich and some fibrous yogurt, I had a phone message (my first!) After half an hour of research culminating in the discovery of the default password for my voicemail, I checked the message. The transcript: “Helllllo. This message is for John Pickford. I was wunderin’ if you was interested in our deal of the week, which is, you know, a, uh, the deal is you buy a 30 minute massage and you get 15 minutes free. If you has any questions or concerns call Tranquil Reflectionz Massage at (313)-410-1874. Ask for Ebony Harris. The deal is good through May 25^th. Have a good day!”

Wherever Mr. Pickford is, I hope it isn’t there.

At face value, the common phrases used around this office are somewhere in the ballpark of half-retarded clichés. The ballpark is located between a rock and a hard place, where the Greatest Thing since Sliced Bread now lives with his sister That’s the Killer. Chances are, back in the day, as far as I know, there was a meet-n-greet that fell short according to the Powers that Be. You know what I mean?

I bought a Brita water filter which is waiting for me at home - and if that won’t hydrate a sardonic salt sucker such as myself I don’t know what will. Sal removed the plastic safeguard from his Subordinate Stinger when he sent out this message this afternoon, “Relevant bullets for today...Erica and Wes already can schedule any Assy Plant themselves..” This is by no means true and I feel Erica would agree. I don’t know what teat Salvador is trying to milk here, but, I assure you, that milk is curdled. Needless to say, several bitter co-workers have told me I can schedule their Assy plants anytime while they surf the ‘net all day. Apparently, egos bruise faster than apples; orange you curious to find out what happens next?

May 16th

Sadly, I am very busy at the moment. I sit here, biting on my badge, listening to my Ipod in one ear, and running some optimization software. It is bagel Friday, but I haven’t yet paid my bagel society dues, so I must watch and drool, for now. I may snipe one later when no one is watching.

Poetic Outburst of the Day (10:30 A.M.)

Daily I gripe and dine
I crawl creepily

Into a cubicle
To be rendered an Emulsion

Each day I mete death in a pair of khakis
I click a furious pattern
I urn my wages
But the wages of sin are salaried casualties
Thus, a casual causality:
Access Denied!

The two concubines across from me, who make up 66.67% of the Cubicle Complainers Club, have not stopped talking about American Idol or Dancing with the Stars for the past three days. Quite possibly two of the worst TV shows invented by the inverts in the TV business, I cringe and squirm the entire time the two mud hens chirp back and forth.

In the last two days, I have finished two full schedules; the first for 3 days, the second for 6. So, I am a pretty camper who also happens to be happy. With a penchant for Chameleonism, I find it very easy to blend in with this company. Why then, you ask, can I not obtain for myself a bagel without being spotted? That is easily answered: they placed a tripwire in the form of a secretary to guard the cache of calories. She/It has to move eventually…

After lunch, the bagels were left unguarded, but I was no longer hungry. So I took two, one for this afternoon and one for the ride home. I then attended the big-wig meeting downstairs and I affected an air of importance the entire time. One guy asked me who I was and I told him that if he didn’t know then he could take the rest of the day off, and, by the way, not to bother coming back next week.

I added this as a signature to all of my outgoing e-mails –

This is from the Chrysler website:

“Chrysler Chairman and CEO Bob Nardelli is in Washington, D.C., today to talk with government officials about the company's initiatives to support the military. Among the many topics being discussed, he is announcing that the company is working with the U.S. Department of Defense and with Labor and Veterans Affairs to bring current and former members of the military together with Chrysler to find the right career opportunities as they transition to civilian life.”

Makes me re-realize how lucky I am both to reside in this country and to have other people risking their own lives so that I can sit in an office all day. I’m glad Chrysler will help to take care of some of them when they come home.

May 15th

Greg (my roommate) and I pledged this morning at 6:40, on the drive over, to make every Thursday the day when we actually focus and do work all day. As Greg so eloquently put it, “So, if I understand what you’re sayin’ right, Thursday is the day we beat asses around the workplace!” I’m not sure whether to view that as a tribute to the sometimes controversial American pastime of spanking or as a genuine interest by Greg in actually surpassing our co-workers in aptitude by such a large margin that we leave them with sore backsides. Either way, it is only 8 A.M., and I am writing this, not working… I mean, Sorry Sir, I am Working on my Typing Skills; I am Working on my Hand-Eye Coordination.

So I have been working hard since yesterday on scheduling a plant all by myself. As I really haven’t explained what I do yet, here goes: basically, I tell car factories, from Mexico to Canada, when to work on specific cars. This is scheduled down to small increments, for example, a guy/buddy/pal in Canada will see a car for 20 minutes, spraying it with blue paint the whole time. And then the next car pops up, he does the same thing. All of it is scheduled. That wouldn’t be so bad, but then constraints are added. This is the best analogy: You walk into a store with 100 dollars (a factory can do 100 cars a day,) you have to spend exactly 100 dollars. You have to spend exactly 29 dollars on fruit (yellow paint.) You have to spend 60 on food, and 40 on thong sandals (60 cars must be Jeeps, 40 must be Trucks.) On top of everything like that, certain percentages, you have the “blocking” constraints. Stuff like, when you put your frozen pizzas through the self-scan, they must go in blocks of 3. If you have 6, they have to be scanned in different groups. On the other hand, it could be something like this -- out of every 10 items you scan, 2 must be toothbrushes (Dodge Vipers.)

Mr. Johnny C., my neighbor, who wears his shirt unbuttoned (but not all the way) every day and sports a golden chain around his well-lined neck, managed to go on a mid-morning rant that lasted for a good 25 minutes. Topics covered: taxes, window washers, his mother’s bronchitis, how crappy our boss is, how crappy our computers are, how stupid car salesmen are, how much he is paying for his basement door to be replaced, Survivor, a libertarian’s place in laissez-faire (hands off) economics (he didn't really say this,) Hil-Dawg and Baracky the Moose. It started when one of the constituents of the Cubicle Complainers Club, of which John is a member, asked when she would get her stimulus check from the Man. John offered that it should be here soon, but that it didn’t matter because she would have to give it back as soon as Hillary or Barack is elected. Keep in mind that this is coming from the mouth of a lifelong union member who had, minutes before, declared that his experiences with the UAW would give him an edge on Survivor.

I had to take Greg home during our lunch break because he has diagnosed himself with a case of pink eye. Needless to say, I will not being showering him with his usual nighttime Eskimo/Butterfly kisses (whichever one is the eyelash one.) That will have to cease, at least for the time being.

I wore my business watch today. It costs more than the lives most of these people gave up to become worker drones. The hive is busy today with launching the 2009 models. I just checked to make sure it is still 2008. It is. I don’t know if I should tell them. Until then, I am the queen bee, laying 3,000 eggs per hour and carving out the future of my colony. The rest of them? They are my bee-otches (Some older folk might not understand this phrase. Reference “slaves, ball boys, butlers, or Mary Wilder, the blind sister that added little value to the Wilder clan.”)