havefun@work.com

 

            What a work of art is the computer.

            You can type whatever you damn well please on that screen – then, if it’s not absolutely to your liking, you can highlight the text and press the ‘delete’ button. Great, eh? Like playing God. All clean and ready to start again. And while you’re waiting to think of something else to put on the screen, you can watch your screensaver. If you have a really nice one, this will fill in an hour or two and is nearly as good as meditation. Though not quite as good as medication. Whatever, it passes the time before you have to actually do something.

            In the beginning, computers were supposed to do great things for productivity in offices. The idea was, you could sack the typing pool and just have a couple of word processors. This would have been perfectly fine if such things as email and the internet hadn’t entered the equation. Once they did, workplaces became fun – and productivity … well, a thing of the past, really.

            All of a sudden, Nigel in Accounts found he could carry on an interesting little thing with Kaylene in Stores. He’d never really been brave enough to get into a bit of banter and/or innuendo when he bumped into her at the coffee machine. And she wasn’t the type to think up witty, throwaway comebacks off the top of her head. The office email system made all the difference to Nigel and Kaylene – they positively bloomed. It didn’t matter a hoot she was married to Jeff, manager of the local Foodplus – she bought new lipstick and started to look forward to Wednesdays, which were pretty quiet in Accounts and gave Nigel plenty of time for a bit of online dalliance.

            Harold in Marketing discovered chat lines back in August, and hasn’t surfaced since. Nobody noticed, because they hadn’t noticed he was there in the first place. Due to the sad fact he hadn’t had much luck with the talent around the office (especially not Tanya with the pneumatic breasts or Carla, who had decided not to waste herself on anyone without at least a medical degree or a very red Ferrari), Harold signed on as ‘Clint’ and inadvertently gave the impression he was a fighter pilot. Because so many girlies are clamouring to meet him in the flesh, Clint finds he is inconveniently posted to Venezuela tiresomely often – or other trouble spots which need someone of his calibre. Naturally, he has never mentioned eczema, or the grubby piece of Elastoplast twisted around the right-hand arm of his bifocals. And nobody has ever asked. The people he corresponds with, including Alyce the actress (who is really Shazza, a dental assistant from Moree), are too busy hiding their own defects without being particularly interested in ferreting out his.

            Down in Advertising, Malcolm and Derek are vying to be the first to get to the last level of Doom. They were hired for their creative talent, with which they are considerably blessed. Derek has managed to gain an extra 50,000 bonus points by typing in a special code he downloaded from a cheatline in America. Malcolm is working on it – he has considered wiping Derek’s hard drive next time he goes home early. Neither Malcolm nor Derek have done very much work on the new layout for the Stretchalot Condoms account, and the client is getting understandably tetchy.

            In the meantime, Managing Director Neville discovered a terrific little website called ‘Norwegian Night Nurses Do Dubbo’. After that, things were never quite the same around the executive washroom. Exactly what the Nordic Nightingales got up to at Western Plains Zoo is not our business – but they did it again and again, courtesy of dubbodoings.com. Please do not attempt to log on to this site in the privacy of your own home. It is not for the fainthearted, or children, especially.

            With all this fun stuff going down, productivity is heading for extinction in a handbasket. It’s not a happening thing. The manager of Stretchalot Condoms is not going to get the advertising for his products any time soon – but what the hell – everyone’s far too busy to have much call for them. J

.oOo

 

 

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