Tip o' the tweed cap to a nice save

It was actually recommended to me in my annual performance evaluation at work that I be more social. I explained that I go to the bar every night as evidenced by all the dry heaving I do in the men's room each morning.

No dice. Turns out, I need to be more social at work so people will recognize me if they need to ask a copy editing question. Great. Meet people to let them know I'm the resident socially maladroit editor. Like there's anyone who can't spot copy editor types a mile away. With our pocket protectors, orthopedic shoes, inappropriate comments, awkward silences, Simpsons minutae and so forth.

But that still seemed like something I could at least think about working up the nerve to consider. And then a miracle happened: St. Patrick's Day. The happiest day of the year. Our office is apparently on notice from the parent corp. to watch unnecessary spending. So we didn't get the beer we thought was coming to us at the afternoon "party." Instead we all got a swift Irish kick to the nuts.

THEN... a hero emerged, took up a collection and made a beer run. We were drunk and dancing on our desks before the 5 o'clock whistle blew at 6.

Everybody's happy. We had a good start to the St. Patrick's Day evening. Alcohol was absorbed into the bloodstream. Stories were exchanged. Asses were photocopied. Typical unofficial office party shit. Plus, I accomplished a mother fucking career goal. Ya heard, bitches?







Excuse me while I type up my two weeks notice.