Disappointingly enough, I’m working again. I had hoped to die unemployed, but hey, that may yet happen.
The new gig is at a huge world-bestriding corporation, the absolute antithesis to my previous job at Buffalo Bill’s ISP And Massage Parlor, discussed earlier.The boss here appears to be a relatively normal and fairly likable human being, and the colleagues are OK.
What strikes me is that nobody gets an office any more. You sit at a bench. Behind you there’s a walkway and a half-dozen other bullpen-rats. No more Internet porn for you, Smith — the only thing that’s made work tolerable for the last twenty years.
You even have to kinda sneak checking your personal email. They try to prevent us from doing that, even, with a heavy-handed Web proxy censorship thing — but ve haff vays.
Of course all the desktops are Windows. Q: Can I load Linux? A: Are you kidding?
This started out as an introduction to Teabagger Bob, who sits catty-corner to me in the bullpen. But it’s already too long, so this is just a tease. Stay tuned and you will meet Bob.
Apologies for stealing a wonderful phrase from Ernest Thesiger for my title.