Book #2: Chapter 9 - Dingleberry Bunghole

"I'm going to blow my brains out." It's a common refrain I hear from people that call me. I do technical support for managers in my company. And I write and maintain computer programs. And sometimes, if I have to, I'm an amateur suicide counselor. I have to reassure them. "Well, I don't think you want to do that. The printer's just out of ink."

"Will you fly out here and shoot me? I think they'll approve it."

"I .. no, I can't do that."

They wouldn't approve it. Even if all they had to pay for was the bullet. And they were the life insurance beneficiaries. They would never approve that.

Sometimes I wonder if the people making these statements are sincere. I just work to afford rent, internet service, and pudding and tacos and stuff. I don't want to have feel guilty for the rest of my life because some middle manager didn't know how to fix their email.

My phone rings again. It's one of the them. One of them. She's about 65, and the kind of lady that you know probably has a few grandkids and tells their parents to leave them alone, they're just being kids, bakes them pies and stuff.

"Hello Dingleberry, how are you?"

"Um, alright, how about you?"

"Well, I'm about to shoot myself in the head. KAPOW!"

Basically, I think that if your job drives you to tell your coworkers about your impending suicide, you should leave it. No job is worth that, no matter how much you make or extra vacation days you get. Or health insurance, vision, 401k. Sick days. Maternity leave. Paid holidays. I can see why people would be driven to suicide for paid holidays.

"Yeah so you just, change that setting and that'll take care of it. …"

"OH MY GOD IT WORKED! You're my savior! Next time I see you, I'm going to have to bring you some cookies!"

Sounds great. "Thanks for saving my life Jesus. Here's some oatmeal raisin cookies my grandkids didn't like." Thankfully she was 500 miles away, and I never had to meet her.

My coworker walks in. His name is Brian, and he's in way over his head. Not work wise, but in regards to... working here. He can't handle our supervisor. Then again, neither can anyone. I might also mention that Brian is openly gay. Not that there's more than two or three things wrong with that. Four, tops. One thing wrong with it is that our supervisor, whose name is Henry, can't help but bring it up on a daily basis. The second thing is that Brian isn't very comfortable discussing it. The third thing is that Brian's family hasn't spoken to him since he told them.

Our supervisor's name is Henry, and he is a strange, strange man. He walks in the door.

"Alright you bitches, let's get this shit developed!"

Brian stares at me, wide eyed, and goes and sits back down in his cubicle. His first instinct is to run. My first instinct is to be a dick.

"Well, we were working on it, but we were taking a break. Since we got here two hours ago, and you're just showing up"

"Yeah yeah, you bitches, just get me this client site by the end of the day or I'm gonna stick my balls on your face"

Five hours later, we have a problem with the website. "Alright who broke it?! I'm going to rape whoever it is that broke it!" As you might guess, Brian did it. And can't figure out what to do. He runs in my office, in a panic. Sometimes I think Brian believes he's really going to get raped.

"Dude! This thing was working five minutes ago, and I tried to upload the changes, and now it won't show up!"

"Well, let me take a look at it..."

Two minutes later it's fixed and Henry never finds out about it. In fact, he's busy eating a Kit Kat in the bathroom, and singing "Don't Stop" by Fleetwood Mac.

Henry never thinks about what he's saying. In fact, he doesn't really mean anything by it. Nor does he consider who he's talking to when he says it. He is, basically, just retarded. And lacks any sort of internal censor. He thinks the IT world is a men's locker room. But he wears a tie to work, even though we can wear jeans. He wears the same Hawaiian shirt every Casual Friday, and natch, he eats candy bars in the bathroom while combing his hair.

We had a new graphic artist start the next day. He seemed like your typical young IT guy. The art version; the "I have Illustrator memorized but don't know what an integer is" version. Henry was not his supervisor, but Henry came in and we introduced them.

"Hum um, hi Henry, this is our new graphic artist Andrew. Oh um, do you prefer Andrew or Andy? This is the software development manager Henry Asquith".

"Andy's fine, good to meet you Henry, how are you doing today?"

Rule 78: Don't ask Henry how he is. He'll think you're talking about his genitals.

"I'm doing it long and lazy, me on bottom and your mom on top! Ha! Shit man, I gotta go to this fuckin meeting with the exec with the tits, hey nice to meet you there Handjob"

".............um

what was that about"


"That, Andy, is the craziest sane person you will ever meet."

Everyone in the department - except me and Brian - called Andy "Handjob" for the rest of his tenure with the company.

He lasted about two months.

Labels: A Book for Oprah's Book Club, Chapter 9, Dingleberry Bunghole