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Oct. 22nd, 2008 10:23 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
froodleLately I've been trying to convince myself that even though working at the House of Gas is slowly destroying my will to live, it's really not a good idea to leave before I've found another job. So this morning, Grantil and I were making the dread journey in together, amidst our own pitiful attempts to shore up each others spirits in preparation for the soul-sucking morasse of pain that awaited us:
Grantil: Well, we do get three days off every week. I mean, that's not bad, most people don't get that.
Froodle: Yeah, I actually sat down and worked it out, and we spend more days of the year away from work than we do at work.
Grantil: Seriously?
Froodle: Yeah, it works out as 180 days on, 185 days off. I mean, you have to count bank holidays and vacation time, but still.
Grantil: But how many vacation days did you add? 'Cause they say 23, but it's really less than that because they count eight hours as a whole day.
Froodle: Yeah, that's 19.89 days for us.
Grantil: Oh my God, you actually did it properly! You should be on Numb3rs.
Froodle: I should. I'd be like, "Using science and fucking retarded analogies I have calculated an algorithm that scientifically proves that our jobs are shit and we should all bunk off and drink coffee and then maybe gang-bang Charlie."
Grantil: That would be the best episode ever.
Froodle: That's what every episode is like anyway. They don't say it explicitly, but it's pretty clear the whole point of Numb3rs is that everyone wants to gang-bang Charlie.
Grantil: We need to go and work for the FBI.
Froodle: Seriously. We should say that in our exit interviews. "Qutting due to lack of gang-bangable mathematicians."
Grantil: Awesome. I'm putting that as a "suggestion for improvement" on my next Employee Engagement survey.
I didn't want to bring him down by pointing out that King Gas and the Royal Court of Price-Hiking Money Grabbers Who Can't Even Buy Us Decent Computers never listen to those suggestions, so I changed the subject to "non-fatal accidents we could get into that would prevent us from going to work." Incidentally, if somebody wanted to bomb the Crown Point around 9.40 tomorrow - I will love you forever, if I survive.
God, I hate my job.
Grantil: Well, we do get three days off every week. I mean, that's not bad, most people don't get that.
Froodle: Yeah, I actually sat down and worked it out, and we spend more days of the year away from work than we do at work.
Grantil: Seriously?
Froodle: Yeah, it works out as 180 days on, 185 days off. I mean, you have to count bank holidays and vacation time, but still.
Grantil: But how many vacation days did you add? 'Cause they say 23, but it's really less than that because they count eight hours as a whole day.
Froodle: Yeah, that's 19.89 days for us.
Grantil: Oh my God, you actually did it properly! You should be on Numb3rs.
Froodle: I should. I'd be like, "Using science and fucking retarded analogies I have calculated an algorithm that scientifically proves that our jobs are shit and we should all bunk off and drink coffee and then maybe gang-bang Charlie."
Grantil: That would be the best episode ever.
Froodle: That's what every episode is like anyway. They don't say it explicitly, but it's pretty clear the whole point of Numb3rs is that everyone wants to gang-bang Charlie.
Grantil: We need to go and work for the FBI.
Froodle: Seriously. We should say that in our exit interviews. "Qutting due to lack of gang-bangable mathematicians."
Grantil: Awesome. I'm putting that as a "suggestion for improvement" on my next Employee Engagement survey.
I didn't want to bring him down by pointing out that King Gas and the Royal Court of Price-Hiking Money Grabbers Who Can't Even Buy Us Decent Computers never listen to those suggestions, so I changed the subject to "non-fatal accidents we could get into that would prevent us from going to work." Incidentally, if somebody wanted to bomb the Crown Point around 9.40 tomorrow - I will love you forever, if I survive.
God, I hate my job.
