Lately at work, The Cub has been driving everyone absolutely nuts. Just turned eighteen, this is her first "real" job, and her age shows. She's constantly booking off time to go to concerts, comes in late four mornings out of five, dicks around texting when she should be working and is the object of much male attention. There is always at least one, sometimes two, young guys buzzing around her desk like hopeful bees waiting for the flower to nod in their direction.
One of the dispatchers is especially sweet on her. In typical high school flirty fashion, he opened Word on her screen earlier this week and wrote, "LOSER" in 72 point Ariel.
She screamed at him in that faux-indigantion tone girls her age use and stalked off. When the coast was clear, I walked over to her desk and added, "BUTTMUNCH" to the page.
When she discovered that, she ripped the dispatcher a new one. But she didn't close the program.
So when she wandered off to check her hair in the washroom or file something incorrectly, I went to her desk again and added, "BACK ALLEY CRAP MUFFIN."
It didn't matter what the dispatcher said, she was convinced it was him. I had a really good time at work that day.
For the past week and a half, she's been obsessing over the tattoo that she plans to get on her foot this weekend. She's been asking a lot of questions, like "Can I go drinking afterwards?", "Will they tie my foot down so it doesn't jump around?" and "Will it bleed?"
We've heard about as much about that fucking tattoo as we can stand. So this afternoon, when she went for lunch (for which she was missing for an hour and a half, when the rest of us get half an hour), I pulled up her email and sent this to all the billers and Springsteen:
Subject: Available Now!
Okay, so like in order to help pay for my wikked new tattoo, I've had to start a little job on the side. For a limited time only, I will be selling and intalling inflatable nuns! Perfect for the home, garden or work, inflatable nuns make a perfect gift for that hard-to-by-for someone in your life!
Please contact me for rates and prices!
Thanks, like, a lot, 'kay?
The Cub
In the meantime, her mother (NOT in on the joke), told the Biller I Like that she feels bad for The Cub, cuz she's "trying really hard" (srsly?) and was chagrined because "now I'm gonna hafta buy one."
When The Cub sauntered in from her extended lunch, she was initially unaware of the email, until Springsteen called her into her office and said, "You're kidding, right?"
So, The Cub naturally blamed the dispatcher who has been hitting on her for two weeks now, but after he vociferously denied any involvement, she sent out this response (and this is copied directly from her email):
Soo guys, please disregard this email, this was NOT ME. Im not sure who was messing around with my email, but its NOT TRUE .
Thank you ,
The Cub.
Confusion? Mayhem? Disorder?
My work here is done.
4 comments:
There is a simple two key command that the Cub needs to learn to prevent that sort of fun. I, of course, wouldn't show it to her for all the world. But it locks your computer and requires a password to get in.
Ummm, I just realized this place is probably so primitive that they don't require a password.
Good thing that kid isn't my employee. That's all I can say. After a week, she'd be begging you, outright on her hands and knees BEGGING YOU!!!! to have the stuff you write on her computer be the worst thing in her life.
Shouldn't that be "Email Hijack"? Heheheh ... way to twist the minds of tomorrow out of shape!
You are so...deeply...awesome. But she should have known no one connected with her, srsly, would be that creative.
Good times! Srsly!
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