Bring Your Cat to Work Day

"The bitings will continue until morale improves."

“The bitings will continue until morale improves.”

Can we expense kibble?

I ask because recently New Cat has been trying to climb into my car every morning before work, and I am starting to think it would be easier to just let her tag along.

I mean, really, would that be so crazy? I’ve worked in plenty of offices that allow dogs, and dogs require constant supervision, are more prone to accidents, and bark at your boss – you know, the one who can’t step foot in a Zoo without making the animals go crazy because they can smell the evil from a mile away.

In fact, I’d be willing to bet that not only would New Cat be a welcome addition to our corporate team, she would also manage to synergize workflow, increase productivity, and maximize profits, simply by greeting others with her signature Back Flop Belly Rub maneuver.

Of course, Cat would be a different story entirely.

If I were to make the futile mistake of bringing Cat to work, the office would be transformed into a Kafkaesque sweatshop within five seconds.

Instead of salaries, our primary source of motivation would be ankle and wrist bites, and the dim overhead lighting would cast Cat-sized shadows (perfect for skulking).

Our health insurance would only be good at certain veterinarian practices, and the only celebrated holiday would be Cat’s birthday, which has no date, since Cat is a preternatural demon.

So, in summary, if I bring New Cat or Cat to work, they will either outperform me or drive me to madness, respectively.

Remind me to never do that.

Where the Wire Things Are

The horror.

The horror.

I’m tied up.

I’m not talking about my fabulous new magic act, The Incredible Escaping Human Pig Boy, in which I dress up as a human potbellied pig hybrid, pretend to have just gained consciousness in the laboratory of a crazed biological engineer named Klaus Von Vinterschnapps, discover that I am bound by chains to a refrigerator full of old National Geographics (Klaus is a hoarder) and make my breathtaking escape through the ventilation system by greasing myself up with non-stick canola spray. All told, the performance is about two hours long. I still have to work out some of the choreography. More on that later.

No, I’m talking about the snare-net of wires, cables and peripheral lines that trips me up every time I make the mistake of touching my feet to the floor underneath my computer desk.

It’s almost as if I am some sort of Cable Farmer growing a horrible patch of black rubber ivy to be submitted to the World’s Worst County Fair. First prize is a Starbucks Gift Card with $1.50 on it. Second Prize is a gallon of spoiled milk. Third prize is a punch to the gut.

If only there were a way to get my cables under control WITHOUT getting down on my hands and knees and exerting my fragile pig boy heart. Surely someone has something called a Cable Genie or a Wire Wizard by now, right?

If not, let’s get on that. I’d love to see that infomercial.

A House for My Business Cards

Future coaster.

Here’s my card. But don’t ask me what you’re supposed to do with it. Perhaps you could use it as a coaster, or round the edges with an exacto knife and turn it into a small frisbee. Better yet, you could hand the business card back to me and we can pretend that this little exchange of ink and compacted tree fibers never happened. For reals, now, does anyone actually use business cards? I have a pile of perfect strangers’ business cards on my desk, and an even larger pile of my own business cards in my desk, and I have never – not even hoo-wonce – used them towards any purpose other than tricking myself into thinking I am of a least a corpuscle of importance in The Business World. You know, I bet it would be more cost effective, not to mention environmentally friendly, if we all agreed to exchange five dollar bills at meetings, conferences and post-armed-robbery-safe-houses. And, just to be clear, I am in no way condoning the defacement of United States Currency, but if Honest Abe should happen to be wearing a top hat and monocle with a dialogue bubble coming out of his mouth with the caption, “Four score and seven jobs ago, I gave Nailsbails my full endorsement as a Handsome Titan of Industry,” you should probably take down the contact information on the reverse side. After all, you never know when you’re going to need seven hundred jokes about cats…fast.

Under File

Help me.

File this. Where, you ask? Try “Messy” or “Disorganized” or “Clerical Nightmare.” I don’t know. I’m not a Natural Born Filer. Maybe that explains why the filing system for my home office consists of shuffling papers from one pile to another, back and forth until the document I am actually looking for presents itself or my eyes cross and I faint, whichever comes first. Granted, this is almost entirely irrelevant because the only “documents” I ever go looking for are either near expired pizza coupons or near expired pieces of pizza buried beneath horrible totem poles made of bills and receipts. But there is the odd occasion when I really need to get a hold of my birth certificate or fake pilot’s license, which, by the way, has gotten me out of more than a few jams with the National Guard. Now, I’m not the kind of guy who is quick to lay blame on others, but IT’S ALL WIFE’S FAULT. If she would only be more diligent about keeping me in line and making sure I’m not leaving messes everywhere, all the time, perhaps I would be able to establish a clear and concise filing system. But nooooooooooo. Due to HER refusal to constantly nag me about putting things back where they belong, I’m a complete and total slob. Thanks a lot, Wife. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to dive headfirst into this wading pool of manilla folders. I could have sworn I saw some candy at the bottom.

A Farewell to Armchairs

Ergonomic rock.

I hope you’re sitting down. After all, who reads standing up? I’ll tell you who reads standing up: jury foremen and dictators. Are you a dictator? If you are (and I guess I grossly underestimated the diversity of my readership), then, “Hello, dictator! Please don’t send a couple of bodyguards wearing MC Hammer pants and brandishing scimitars to kidnap me and make me your royal comedy monkey!” If you are not a dictator, congratulations on not being a dictator!  And assuming you are sitting down, notice anything strange about the ergonomic posture chair or fair-trade hemp hammock your butt is planted on? That’s right…it’s NOT A REAL CHAIR! Has the world gone completely mad?! Whatever happened to high-back, red leather armchairs with copper nail-head trim and bear claw arm rests? I’m talking about the kind of chair you hatch schemes in while stroking a one-eyed cat with mechanical fingers. Oh, really? You’re a rebel computer hacker and internet outlaw who inspires fear in the hearts and minds of corporate webmasters all over the planet? You’re sitting on an exercise ball, for crying out loud! I don’t care if you are a gaming grandma or conspiracy blogger or internet forum troll – there is no excuse for depriving your backside of the sweet pleathers (LOL, get it???) of a stately armchair with ample cushioning and high quality craftsmanship. And don’t you dare spring for one of those cheap fabric upholstered armchairs. That’s bush league! Think of your chair as a car. Do you want the Mercedes with fine leather interior? Or the crappy one? Exactly. Now all you have to do is come up with $3,000!