This is Earth. This is how we roll.
studying the console
coffee_critique
T and O finally got back from their trip to Spain to investigate some reports of talking plants. I'm not fooled. They basically went over and Owen had sex and Tosh followed after like a lovelorn puppy. I keep telling her - or at least I keep thinking of hinting in her general direction - that she could do so much better.

You can always tell when Owen has gotten laid because he leaves a trail of rubbish in his wake. This time around, the trail was wide and long, and please don't like think like Sir about that because I get quite enough of that, thank you.

In other news, T reports she found some flaws in our translator units and has fixed them. She tweaked mine so that I now know seven ways to say "Move your bloody car, you lazy fuck!" in Spanish. I'm thinking about changing the horn on the company car to a mariachi theme. That would certainly get people's attention.

Though they still likely wouldn't move out of the way quickly enough.

Sir is still distant, and I am almost but not quite ashamed to admit that I am now following him in my off-hours. Just a little. Just a bit. Not enough to get arrested for. I am going to find out what else he has to occupy his time, and if they're lucky I stungun them in the face.

Not what I planned
oh fuckbugger
coffee_critique
Sorry for leaving for so long without notice. First, after my counterpart found a Dalek in a pond, I decided to take care of that with the Boss. Instead of ending in sex, as I had rather anticipated, it ended in paperwork. Which I had also anticipated, but was something of a let-down after everything else I had anticipated.

So I've been feeling more down than bitchy lately. I made the mistake of thinking the Boss (just going to call him Sir from now on, seeing as how I've nearly done it so many times all ready and it's shorter and saves time and such. Much more efficient. And this paranthetical was never supposed to be this long) would like Hairspray, the musical, not the movie, so I got us some great seats, and we got to see the Weevil disgrunted stagehand take a bite out of the lead up close.

Sir was very miffed, as he couldn't get a clear shot at it, and I'd left my comms in the glove compartment, along with my gun.

So Sir and I went tearing after it. And the romantic evening ended with paperwork.

O has noticed. He complained about the coffee. I put a little extra something in it for him. He won't complain again.

It's called Google, dipshits
what kind of fuckery
coffee_critique
Okay, I'm going to be up front here. This isn't a critique of someone's lack of parking skill (I left you a diagram, and not only do you still not park correctly, but you drew sex positions all over it and gave it back, signed with a smiley face). This is, rather, a strong suggestion about how you can help me help you.

I will be the first to admit I don't work with the smartest person. One person routinely puts themselves in deathly situations, another gets kidnapped all the goddamn time - fuck, even paralyzed by lip gloss once, and another climbed into a nuclear reactor. Yeah, guess how that one worked out? Stupid twat. He's still bitching about it.

The only smart person other than myself? Not here at the mo. Bit of near-death trouble. And yes, I do miss her. T knew how to do things. She was neat, she was smart, and I don't mean this in an ungentlemanly way, but she looked good from any angle. Not that I saw her from any angle. I- Ah. I digress.

The point of this entry is Google. For fuck's sake. It's one word. I've already put it in everybody's bookmarks (which I organize every other day, because my boss bookmarks a bunch of porn and it gets mixed up with the BBC news and national security links). Stop coming to me and asking me who that lady who played the lady's second cousin who stabbed the person in the back with a letter opener on that soap. Google it.

Recipe for manicotti? Google it.

Weather forecast? Google it.

Sale on edible underwear? Google it. By all means, consult me before you order it, because I have a sneaking suspicion what will be done with it.

But the fact remains, I have other things to do. Or do you not see me holding your trousers and the keys to the company car, waiting to go dry clean and press your clothes before running other errands. I can't stop every thirty seconds to hear your pointless, meaningless questions about who won Strictly Ballroom last year or the year before and who is that guy my handsome boss looks like again?

Speaking of which, they do look rather similar. And they both have a habit of taking out certain parts of their anatomy and waving said parts about. I makes me wonder whether or not there's a side to my boss none of us have seen. Probably the sane, sensible, less-sued-for-harassment side.*

* Though to be honest, he isn't sued. Ever. He has ways.

Water Cooler Conversation - SHUT THE FUCK UP!
oh fuckbugger
coffee_critique
Ironic I should use that subject line, as I loathe it when people use all caps.

Listen. I know I'm just the peon here who happens to be fucking the boss. I know that it doesn't come with as many perks as it could (everyone else he's slept with is dead, after all). I still have to make the goddamn coffee.

Though if I may say, it is excellent coffee.

Back to the point - and I will digress for now on what happens when the office mascot shits on the coffee machine, and I was having a bad day and left some in the cup when I poured the boss's coffee (What? It's not like it was going to kill him) - there has been some water cooler conversation going around the office lately.

Here's the thing. There is a time and a place for water cooler conversation. The time: During break. The place: The water cooler. Not at the coffee machine. Where I have to be, most of the time, by the way, because these people are addicted to my coffee (perfectly understandable given some of the things I put in it).

Talk somewhere else. Outside on the roof, for instance, like the pompous prick you are. Or go out with your fucking husband to an Indian restaurant on yet another night you're taking off early, leaving me here cleaning up bird shit and trying to amuse the boss with naked hide-and-seek (Harrassment, that's all I'm saying, if I so desired and weren't worried about having my mind wiped and walking around in some godforsaken place like Nebraska thinking my name was Ron) in order to distract him from that other thing in the basement - which thank God no one's found out about that.

Where was I going with this? Oh, right. But with the water cooler conversation? Yours is stupid. Incredibly, unbelievably, please-pass-the-axe-so-I-can-put-the-pointy-end-in-my-head stupid. It is punctuated with "likes" and "buts" (or in one person's case, "butts" and variants thereof), and talk about reality television. Given what we do all day, I suppose you could make a case for escapism, but Big Brother is going too far. I don't want to hear that shit. I'm too busy rereading Moby Dick and fake-laughing at all the innuendos my boss makes about it.

God, are there a lot of innuendos. I'm really starting to hate that book.

They're official documents. For the love of Christ.
what kind of fuckery
coffee_critique
I do not pretend that the documents where I work are devoid of errors. I am sure they are rifled with their share of typos and grammatical fuck-ups. But I also know that none of the documents I have written up look like that. Why? Because they are government documents. We leave records to our successors on what we have seen and how certain obstacles may be overcome. I take my work seriously, seeing as how if you muck about you can inadventently destroy the universe or get shot or get a spot on your tie.

I found a delightful series of old documents today in the archives. Apparently, Torchwood used to have things called "mettings," wherein they discussed things like the "compnesation" of "those Tory puffs" for the "runway weavil."

The worst part is that it looks to have been written in my boss's handwriting. I hope he was drunk at the time. He always does certain... things... when he's drunk.

Between the Lines, Please
what kind of fuckery
coffee_critique
Dear Mr Boss Captain Mr Boss,

The company car is two or three times the size of a normal company car. I understand this makes it difficult to park, and you are not always very bright, so I'm going to try and help.

There are these THICK WHITE LINES, yes? In theory, the car should go between them. There is are concrete supports on either side, yes. Welcome to the parking garage. There are concrete supports. They are supposed to be there. The next time I catch you complaining about them and trying to knock them down with the company car, God as my witness I am going to cut all your ties in half. I'm the one who has to fix any damages to the company car and the parking garge. Me. Not you. I am the one who is inconvenienced, and if you knock over the support? I can tell you right now: Windex and a bit of elbow grease is not going to fix it.

Anyway, yes. White lines. They are thick. They are on the ground. They do not move, so quit telling me they must have fallen through a temporal shift of some sort right as you came up to park the car.

No where - I repeat, NO WHERE - does it say, in any shape, form, or fashion, to park the company car behind my car, thus delaying me in getting to the drycleaners so I can retrieve your trousers.

I can't believe this is what my life has become.

Parking. You're doing it wrong. Please see the diagram I left on your desk for further details.

Signed,
Me

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