Where The Time Goes

I used to enter Mr. Panty Waist’s time in our company’s electronic timesheet partly due to his complete technical incompetence and partly because he couldn’t be bothered to do something as mundane as account for his doings, or lack thereof, all day, by himself.

His timesheet was a constant source of annoyance to me mainly because he’d insist on leaving it for several weeks unattended despite nagging, then have a hissyfit when the Cobra, a constant thorn is his side on just about every matter, started getting shirty about the fact they couldn’t accurately bill the client until they had this information. This in turn would make me snort with indignant mirth because “accurate billing” were not two words usually found in the same sentence at The Company of No Hope. Anyway, Mr. Panty Waist would get in a tizzy, sulk, stomp around and demand I “take care of it”.

Since there were no job codes in the system for “Slept till noon”, “whined for two hours then commenced sulking”, or “read Wall Street Journal for 30 minutes while pinching a loaf”, we always had to take a little artistic license with his time and where we billed it to.

He therefore would have me bill his time in what I can only describe as “corporate code”. You see, when I say I’ve never really had a truly creative job, that’s not entirely true. Mr. Panty Waist’s timesheet was a work of fiction worthy of a Pulitzer.

His work day, according to his timesheet, would look thus:

2 hours – Description: Confidential Project
Translation, “I don’t have even the remotest inkling where the time went on this day or what I did with it. I’m sure it was important and involved sighing incessantly and farting. I know I slept till 11 a.m. I also know I arrived in a cab and it took a long time.”

30 minutes – Description: Strategic Materials
Translation, “I read Time Magazine while straining on the pot then crop-dusted the corridor on my hasty way back to my office, leaving people for the rest of the afternoon commenting on ‘that stench of rotten broccoli'”.

3 hours – Description: On-site support
Translation, “Went to the client’s and whined, ate a $100 lunch with a shot of scotch at “Pietro’s” with said client where I whined some more, mostly about people who hate me, which is just about everyone. Naturally, I will bill the client for this meal.”

30 minutes – Description: Video Work
Translation, “Talked to SBAS for about five minutes and may have mentioned the word “video” in passing, in between whining about other employees and the other partners and how they all have it in for me.”

30 minutes – Description: Conference Calls
Translation, “Actually one call. And it was less a conference call and more of a ‘call to a friend of mine at the client to discuss how Democrats are Satan and I’m totally beat because I work too hard.’ Also I arranged to meet for drinks later in the week for some more “on-site support”.

1 hour – Description: Edits to Materials
Translation, “Watched some news. Scratched head fruitfully producing impressive cloud of dandruff. Changed one word in a document, argued with The Passive Aggressive Blonde Chick over the color of the blue font and had The Guv’ner attach the Word document to an email because I am a giant camel’s scrotum who wouldn’t know how to find his own ass with both hands and a cattle prod.”

30 minutes – Description: Creative work
Translation, “Thinking bitter thoughts about fellow partners, in particular “Mr. Vagina Chin” and how he gets all the praise and yet does absolutely nothing all day unlike me, who gives it his all.”

My good friend, the Evil Queen, who worked in finance, sat diagonally opposite my desk. You could always tell when she was reviewing Mr. Panty Waist’s timesheets because I’d hear her snort fruitfully and an IM would pop up on my screen that said, “So by ‘Media Practice’ you mean, he watched baseball all afternoon don’t you?”

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10 Responses to “Where The Time Goes”

  1. the Secretary Says:

    I think it is so disgusting to see men take the newspaper into the bathroom at work. Man, do you honestly think I’m touching that paper after that? I think NOT!

    However, it’s nice to know people are so comfortable here in the office they can “pinch a loaf” while reading, “crop dust” at will, and never wash their dirty dishes. Probably just like being at home.

  2. The Lady Who Doesn't Lunch: Says:

    My old boss, who was otherwise charming and a perfect gentleman would disappear into the mens room each morning from 10 to 10:30 with the newspaper. I soon learned not to put his calls on hold during this time and instead would say he was in a meeting.

    He once called me on his cell phone from in there when there was no toilet paper and I had to send one of the guys in to rescue him.

  3. pistols at dawn Says:

    Wow. No wonder I never made it in the business world – I never spent half an hour in “production meetings” on the can.

  4. The Guv'ner Says:

    Sec: I know, there’s nothing quite like advertising that you’re going to drop a deuce than disappearing for 20 minutes with a newspaper. URGH!

    Lady: HILARIOUS! “Hello? Can you bring me some *whispers* toilet tissue? Toilet tissue? *yells* TOILET PAPER DAMMIT!” :):)

    Pistols: Well at least “production meetings” is sort of an accurate description of time spent on the potty. Depending entirely on what you produce, naturally.

    Ick.

  5. Leonesse Says:

    I love the creative license. If they put that much time and effort into their jobs, they would run the company and take me with them. Stupid bastards.

  6. The Guv'ner Says:

    You know that part in Office Space where the guys says “I only do about 15 minutes of actual work in a week”? That’s Mr. PW. I’m not sure 15 isn’t being generous either.

  7. The Idea Of Progress Says:

    How do I get his job?

  8. Chris Says:

    The print shop where I work has two restrooms. One is just off the shop floor, and is a utilitarian sort of restroom — one toilet facing the door, a broken sink next to it, a plunger, and a roll of sandpaper hanging on the wall. This is officially for “the guys,” but in practice it seems to be for everyone who falls into the “I don’t own the building or have perky tits” category. It’s guarded by an annoying pressman who stands at the press nearest the bathroom door making loud jokes about everyone who has to use the facilities.

    The other restroom is located near the front office. It’s well lit, carpeted, has a nice mirror, a trash can, a sink with running water and paper towels, and fluffy nice Cottonelle hanging on the wall. This may be used by four very distinct people. Anyone else caught entering this restroom WILL be spoken to by management.

    I used to wear contact lenses. One day one of the lenses went whacky on me and hurt like a sumbitch… So, hand over my eye, trailing a steady stream of tears and muffled curses, I went scampering upstairs to the office. “Is there a mirror in there?” I asked. The secretary nodded. I scurried into the forbidden privvy and proceeded to fix my errant contact. When I came back out blinking in relief, all four of the Privileged Class were standing there, gaping at me like I’d just shot their puppy or something.

    Within minutes I was summoned to the boss’ lair, and was lectured that “it’s against decorum for shop personnel to be seen by the customers.” When I pointed out that I’m on a first-name basis with 90% of the customers and meet with many of them on a regularly, and that all I needed was a working sink and a mirror, the boss got mad at me and told me quit simply to stay out of his bathroom.

  9. The Guv'ner Says:

    IoP: Well it seems to me you first have to be middle aged, set in your ways, dumb as a plank, able to whine for hours on end, have a complete inability to understand other people and what they say to you, own no social skills whatsoever, hate everyone, not know one end of a computer to another and basically just suck at everything all the time. I doubt you could ever hope to gain all those qualifications, sorry.

    Chris: It makes me fume just reading your comment because I have seen SO MANY people treated this way by undeserving apes. How dare you consider tainting our pleasant environment with your dirty, undeserving self? They are the equivalent of my copier nazis, guarding over some one tiny thing they feel they have power over. DICKS. Should’ve gone in there and clogged their toilet. 🙂

  10. The Idea Of Progress Says:

    Don’t count me out yet!

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