30 July 2006

Yer Riyal Anus

It seems that my new job title is to be “Vice President of Operations”, making it clear that our new Corporate Overlords are well aware of my proclivity for sloth. After all, when have you ever heard of a “Vice President of Operations” that ever did a lick of work other than the occasional Power-point cheerleading presentation given to the troops before they have to go over the top in the mud?

I think it’s a fitting tribute to my years of lackluster performance and I am almost as proud of it as I was of the job title I had given myself.

You see, earlier in my career I found it was quite useful to have a variety of trade publications lying about, to appear diligent in my Continuing Education and more importantly to hastily cover porn during unannounced visits from corporate nabobery.

I saw no need to pay for these publications, so I chose the tawdry ones that are really naught but a compilation of ads and outrageous technical claims. The covers are lovely and glossy, with impressive looking machines on them (generally lit with purple and orange gels) and boffinistic titles like “Does your J.I.S.M. protocols meet the new CE RoHS S.P.U.N.K standards?” (n.b., they do.)

All you need to garner a subscription to these rags is to answer a few simple questions: 1) How big is your company? 2) Can you sign off on purchase orders? and 3) What is your job title? Well, we already had a corporate“President” so I would reply “King”.

“Er, what?”

“You heard me. My job title is 'King'.”

“No really, what is it?”

“Are you calling me a liar, Sir?”

“Oh, no, no, no, no! ‘King’ it is then.”

Long story short, after getting a huge amount of junk mail addressed to “Dr. E. Scientist (phD), King”, I demanded that people refer to me as “Your Majesty” and started using the royal “We” as it is very, very annoying.

This might have stopped in due course had not our dentist started a new “buddy-buddy” policy.

“How,” we were asked, “would you like to be addressed?” We believe they were expecting reponses like “By my given name” or “Mr/Mrs/Ms/Dr/Rev., & etc.”

“Your Majesty!” We replied haughtily. The receptionist made a note of it.

A few minutes later, you could have heard a pin drop when she announced “Your Majesty, the Dentist is ready for you.”

We gathered ourselves up most regally. “Excellent! Show us in!”

“Did I hear that correctly?” we heard an awed peon whisper.

The receptionist responded with a prodigious sniff.

You must understand that a dental receptionist is from a better class of people; or so they think.

“What’s he here for?” asked the waiting peasant.

The receptionist’s sigh carried the perfect blend of contempt and arrogance.

“Duh, a crown!"


Ivan posits: "Better a corgi than a bicycle like those bloody IKEA flatpack monarchs in Scandinavia. What a bunch of bastards they are, marrying Australians and all.Gimme some toffee-nosed haemophiliac retard any day of the week. They make much better whimpering noises when you string 'em up..."

And that's the way I likes it.