My Staff Appraisal

It happens every six months. The ritual of the appraisal. I see it approaching with the same feelings as a turkey has while crossing off the days until Christmas.

My gloom was lightened when I heard that my boss, Dave, had contracted a severe stomach bug which should have kept him at home for a few days. However, Dave is a Company Man and, it seems, nothing as trivial as a dodgy arse will keep him out of his beloved office.

As it turned out, Dave had certainly made it into the building, but not quite into his beloved office. In fact, he'd got as far as the toilet. Second cubicle on the right as you go in.
“So, Asym, how do you think the past six months have been? Pretty good, or were there any problems?”

His voice echoed around the tiled walls. I stared at the cubicle door, then winced as the sounds of gravel falling into a bucket of pea soup reached my ears.

“Urrgh, that's better. Sorry about that.”

“Yes, well, the past six months have certainly been very challenging, but-” My carefully rehearsed and deliberately non-committal speech was interrupted by a long and mellifluous baritone blast. From over the cubicle door came a brown fog of noxious fumes.

“Ahem. Pardon me. You were saying?”

I wiped tears from my eyes. I was fairly sure that my nasal hairs were falling out. I dragged a hanky from my pocket and jammed it over my nose. “Perhaps we should do this another day?” I suggested, in a muffled voice.

“No, better to get it done now. Besides, I'm fully booked for the rest of the week with board meetings.”

Board meetings? Bloody hell. The mental images crowded into my mind.

“Well, shall we get on? We've another few dozen questions to get through, you know.” He ended on a slightly accusing tone, which was offset by a new cascade of gravel, a serious of rolling splashes and then a parping noise that might have been made by a cruise liner leaving Southampton Docks.

I had to act fast, before I passed out. I opened the door then let it slam, hard. “What's that? The servers have all crashed? My God! That's terrible!”

“What's going on out there?” Dave called from inside his cubicle.

“There's been a major server crash, the whole network is down and I really need to go and sort it out before, er, before the building catches fire. Sorry Dave, we'll have to re-schedule, ok?”
I didn't wait for a reply, I got out while I was still capable of movement.

That was a few days ago. Dave is still in the toilet, I am still mending the network (as far as Dave is concerned) and thus I have had no appraisal. But at the very least, I should get a high score for initiative, don't you think?

You never had it so good

Editorial Note: Asym42 is currently on a training course for the advanced installation and administration of Windows Vista networks. Consequently he is far too distressed and hog-calling drunk to do anything requiring mental effort. This blog entry has been contributed by the 'Office Space' resident social and economic affairs correspondent, General Sir Rupert Harrumph-Barp.

Good evening. Many of you will be aware of the financial crisis which is about to engulf the known world and send us plunging headlong into a terrifying abyss of ruination, economic collapse and civil strife.

My wife is certainly aware of this impending disaster. Following her escapades with her filthy Spanish lover, she has set up home with him in a Moroccan town house, using funds from the divorce settlement. The last communique from her stated that Morocco was much safer than Surrey, owing to the lack of banks. She added that all her disposable assets were now stuffed down the back of the sofa and therefore out of my reach. I, of course, had to make some kind of reply, so I sent a telegram:

GLAD TO HEAR YOU ARE WELL STOP HOPE FILTHY SPANISH LOVER IS NOT STUFFING HIS ASSETS DOWN THE BACK OF YOUR SOFA STOP DONT CATCH ANY RARE AND POTENTIALLY FATAL DISEASES STOP THAT WOULD BE TERRIBLE STOP

Of course, one must try to prepare for the coming financial apocalypse. In my army days we would practise our Nuclear In-house Complete Knowledge Enhancement Research Scenario, or NICKERS for short. We would pretend that a nuclear bomb was on its way and then work out what to do to avoid being killed. Some of us would paint ourselves with whitewash so as to deflect the blast. Others would hastily dig a small shelter and roof it with twigs. Captain Egbert would always spend the weekend with his mistress in town. The point is that having NICKERS allowed us to be prepared, come what may.

Some of you might be considering emigrating, perhaps to Morocco, which apparently does not have banks and will therefore be unaffected by the crisis. Should you do so, perhaps you might seek out my wife in her new town house and arrange for some of the locals to set fire to it. I would certainly be extremely grateful and would happily stand you a pint of Old Muncher at the pub. Good night.

card games

I have a blind spot when it comes to card games. I can not, no matter how hard I try, get excited over a handful of cardboard rectangles covered in surreal pictures of ugly royals. If I want to look at ugly royals, I can go google for Prince Andrew and Fergie.

But then I'm also weak.

It was Friday night. I was morosely examining the contents of my wallet. Davinia, my flat mate, was slumped on the sofa, flicking through a sleb magazine. “I don't believe this,” I said. “I have no money. Not a bloody sausage.” I closed the wallet and tossed it over my shoulder.

“You'll be looking for that in the morning,” Davinia told me.

“Don't care.” I sank into the armchair. “Are you off to the wine bar then?”

“Uh-uh. I'm just as poor as you.”

“What? And you with your high-powered job in advertising?”

“Um, that's right. And a landlord that charges top dollar for a flat that I wouldn't keep a horse in.”

I thought about that for a moment.

“You wouldn't get a horse up the stairs,” I said.

She looked out from behind her magazine. “True. The smell would put it off.”

“Ho ho. Well, fancy watching a movie then?”

“Not one of yours, thank you. When you've seen one muscle bound gun-waving moron saving the world, you've seen them all.”

“Well I'm not watching any of your movies.”

“What's wrong with my movies?”

“Nothing, if you happen to like men with floppy hair and riding boots going all gooey over some tart in a mansion. Three hundred years ago.”

“That's called 'culture', dear. I know it's a bit scary for you..”

“Hmph. 'Culture' is what you get behind the fridge on a warm day.”

“Alright, alright. I know you're a working class Neanderthal, no need to remind me every minute.” She put her magazine down. “I have an idea. Let's play some cards. How about that?”

“Cards?” I shook my head. “I can't play cards.”

“Don't worry.” She got to her feet. “Even you can play this card game.”

A little later, we were sitting on the floor of the lounge, holding our Cindy dolls.

Davinia examined her cards. “Twist,” she said.

I gave her another card.

“Stick.”

I looked at my cards. I had a ten and a five. I took another. Eight. Bugger.

“Haha, you lose.” Davinia looked highly delighted. “Go on, off, off, off!”

“Alright, alright.” I fumbled at my Cindy doll's jacket and pulled it off.

“You are so crap at this, we should be playing for money. I could be rich by morning.” She took a gulp from her gin and tonic.

“Who invented this pervy nonsense?” I carefully sat my doll down and passed the cards to Davinia.

“It's an old college game. 'Strip Cindy Poker'. Or pontoon, in this case.”

“I bet those long winter evenings just flew by, eh?”

“Yeah, that's right, keep smiling. You're gonna be the one with the naked dolly, mate.”

I gave her a long, hard look. “I bet you don't often get to use that sentence.”

“Shuttup and play.”

A couple more hours passed by. I swigged beer as Davinia stared at her cards. “In your own time,” I prompted.

“I'm thinking.”

“The dictionary might disagree.”

“Cobblers.” She took a card. A five. “Buggeration!” She tossed her cards down and sat back, then reached for the Cindy doll.

“Oh dear.”

“Shuttup.”

“Looks like Cindy might catch a chill.”

“Yeah, well, she's a tramp so she's used to not wearing knickers.”

“I always wondered about her and Ken.”

“That's Barbie.” Davinia held up the naked Cindy. “Alright, you win. But only by one pair of knickers.” Davinia reached for her gin.

So the evening passed quite pleasantly, just us two, a few drinks, some naked Cindy dolls. If you're ever at a loose end you might want to give it a try.

freemasons are nice people

Editorial Note: Asym42 is currently on holiday in Barbados where he is tanning his firm, muscled frame on the beach and relentlessly crippling his liver in the bar. This blog entry has been contributed by the 'Office Space' resident social and economic affairs correspondent, General Sir Rupert Harrumph-Barp.

Good evening. Many of you may well have heard of a secret society called 'The Freemasons'. Some of you may have an idea as to what it is these 'freemasons' actually do. Others of you may well be teenagers, or delivery drivers, and therefore you will have no interest in anything other than self-abuse and pictures of women's breasts. To you, I would recommend leaving this blog now before I start to use long words.

To understand freemasonry, one must cast aside all images of young, attractive people, congregating in secluded manor houses, praying to false gods and then removing their clothes and having wild sex. This sort of thing hardly ever happens, except possibly on the Queen's birthday and on St George's day. And possibly at Christmas. And May Day bank holiday. And potentially at Easter, Whitsun, Lent, Shrove Tuesday and New Year's Eve.

Instead, one must understand that Freemasons are chaps with a strong sense of tradition. Many of the masonic rituals go back thousands of years. Only last week at my Lodge Meeting, the Grand Master performed the ritual of 'impersonating a chicken'. This required him to don a white and brown feathered costume and then to strut up and down the hall, making clucking noises, whilst we threw bits of bread at him. Following that, the Venerable Treasurer was handcuffed to the light fitting and smothered in treacle. This was not a ritual, we just felt like doing it and he is renowned for being a good sport.

Many Freemasons are pillars of the community. In my lodge we have five police officers, eight members of the Judiciary, three members of Parliament and a hair dresser. This last is not a pillar of the community but he does have by far the best hair. This is very important when carrying out the Ritual of the Trousers, when we all swap trousers whilst singing the Lodge anthem. It is then, when one is standing in a draughty hall with no trousers on, that having thick and lustrous hair with no split ends or dry frizzy bits becomes vitally important.

Well, I'm afraid I have run out of space, as the Grand Master often says during the Ritual of the Virgins. Perhaps next time I can tell you more about Freemasonry and the many good things we do, such as my loft extension and Major Cartwright's Filipino mail-order bride business. Good night.

email from hell

These are all genuine emails from my inbox. Read it and weep.

“Wet chicks await your super-large pen15.”

Ain't it the truth? You get to the bus stop, it pours with rain, and no sign of that god-damned pen15.

“Good night asym42

extreme sensitivity to stimulation;”

I know, I know. My last girlfriend said I was too sensitive. She said I cried too easily. Mind you, she had just told me that my parents had been crushed by debris from a falling russian satellite. She thought that was a really funny joke. Bitch.

“CockWallopingTerry”

This has to be a headline from The Mirror. The problem is, I can't think of any celebs called Terry.

“Dear NatWest Bank customer:

NatWest Bank is committed to safeguarding customer information and combating fraud. We have implemented industry leading security initiatives, and our online banking services are protected by the strongest encryption methods and security protocols available. We continue to develop new solutions to provide our online banking services and their customers with confidence and security.

The added security measures require all NatWest Bank customers to complete on a regular basis Online Customer Form.

Please use the hyperlink below to access Online Customer Form:

http://i-am-stupid-so-empty-my-bank-account.com/thieving-bastards”

Honestly, the number of times I've filled out their damned forms and still they keep sending them. Mind you, I don't actually have a NatWest account anyway.

“Your credit history doesn't matter to us!

If you have your own business and want IMMEDIATE money to spend ANY way you like or wish Extra money to give your business a boost or wish A low interest loan - NO STRINGS ATTACHED, here is best deal we can offer you NOW (hurry, this deal will expire TONIGHT):”

YES I want MONEY but stop fucking SHOUTING at ME, now where DO I SIGN??

“Make a difference to her life, increase her pleasure, increase your length and thickness within weeks.”

Davinia said I could make a difference to her life and increase her pleasure by flushing the toilet when I've finished. Which brings me to length and thickness. Um, maybe not.

“Sandy can't keep her hands off me now that I have become so much bigger and longer.”

You lucky fellow. Sandy must be ever so pleased. Mind you, the same effect could have been achieved by spending all that drug money on chocolate and a bottle of medium dry white wine.

“We have fake Swiss Men's and Ladie's Replica Watches from Rolex to the Popular Panerai Watch.”

No thank you, I don't wish to look like a pimp or a scrap metal dealer.

“Hi, I just discovered a great site I'd like to let you know about.

If you like exotic places and excitement - you've got to try out the new Exotic Slots!

I tried it out a week ago and it's the best I've ever seen - there are plenty of games, they are beautiful and the atmosphere puts me in a great mood! “

I love exotic places and excitement. I've been to Benidorm many times. Don't remember seeing any exotic slots though, I thought you had to go to Thailand for those.

“They always say that size doesnt matter and i believed them, but they say it just not to hurt your ego, which i learned later on... after getting dumped over a dozen times. now that I increased the size of my tool they have no reason not to like me anymore, and i always enjoy watching their facial expression when they unzip those pants .

It's very simple: pop it 3 times a day, and watch what's in your pants increase in new lenght and girth within a few months. i tried it, it worked, you should too you have nothing to lose but everything to gain.”

My dear Hank, thank you so much for your touching email. I'm very happy for you. I understand how unpleasant it is to be dumped and I would certainly agree that when the ladies say that size doesn't matter, they're fucking lying. Just one point, what sort of 'facial expression' do they have when you unleash your new WMD? Are they happy? Are they scared? Do they goggle with amazement? I'm only asking because I once had a girlfriend who just yawned. This was very off-putting for me, as you can imagine. I got my own back though, I always made sure that no matter how many hours we shagged for, I never had an orgasm. That showed her, eh?

Death's Door

The nurse gently mopped my brow. Tears welled up in her eyes. I was fading fast, but I still noticed that she looked exactly like Kylie Minogue. “Don't go Asym,” she murmured. “I love you. You can't leave me like this!”
“Nurse, I'm sorry, he's gone.” The doctor gently led Nurse Kylie away. I noticed that the doctor looked exactly like Kelly Brook.
“But I can't let him go, I love him!”
Doctor Kelly nodded solemnly. “I know, I know. So do I.” Tears began to trickle down her face.

“So, I take it you're not going to work today then?”
“Huh? What?” I opened my bleary eyes to see Davinia, my flatmate, peering at me. I was sprawled on the sofa, it was 7am and I vaguely remembered that getting dressed had been a major struggle. My head was pounding, I had iced water for blood and my nose leaked like an incontinent rat.
Davinia laid a hand on my forehead, then winced. “Ouch. I could boil a kettle on your head. I really think you ought to go back to bed, you know.”
“I suppose I could phone in sick.” I sniffed, scrabbled for a tissue, then blew a rippling blast that made my eyes bulge. Davinia backed away slightly.
“You seriously need to take something for that,” she told me.
“I did, last night.”
“A bottle of californian merlot doesn't count.”
“I don't trust drugs,” I mumbled.
She sighed. “Whatever. I have to go to work. Please don't die in the meantime.”

I tried to go back to sleep but it was hopeless, my fevered brain was now wide awake. My nose gushed fluid. I had a terrifying vision – Davinia comes home, sees Asym dead on the sofa, surrounded by used tissues, his body reduced to a shrivelled raisin with legs. I had to do something before all of my vital fluids escaped via my nose. I lurched into the kitchen, put a tea bag in a cup, added water from the kettle. Then I realised I hadn't boiled the kettle. Never mind, drink it anyway, with my temperature it would probably boil inside me. Back on the sofa, the room span around me while I tried to focus on the light fitting. Damn, it needed dusting up there. And I had no idea there were so many cobwebs. Perhaps I would be better off in bed.

The whole house rocked like a ship in a heavy swell. The staircase had swollen and was now of biblical proportions. My muscles had turned into custard. On all fours I clambered up, sweat gushing from every pore. After three days of agonising effort I reached the summit. My bedroom was several hundred miles away, across the landing. Somehow I got there, crawling on all fours, and dragged myself up onto the towering plateau that was my bed.

Just before I passed out I wondered if Davinia would miss me when I was gone. Perhaps the council would screw a little comemmerative plaque to the wall. How many people would attend the funeral? I didn't even have a decent suit.

Nurse Kylie would be there, I decided, along with Doctor Kelly. They would be sobbing quietly into their hankies. Perhaps they would be joined by more medical professionals. No doubt Doctors Posh, Baby, Scary and Ginger would turn up. I fell asleep hoping that they wouldn't bring their ugly mate.

The Perfect Christmas

Editorial Note: Asym42 is currently on sick leave with 'Man-flu', a terrifying condition which reduces the sufferer to a red-nosed, snuffling wreck, capable of using more tissues in a single day than he did in a month, as a teenager. This blog entry has been contributed by the Office Space resident style guru, Jeremy Grand-Merde.

The Festive Season is approaching and we're all wondering about those bulges in Santa's sack, know what I mean? If you're anything like me then hey – get your coat, gorgeous, you've just pulled! But seriously, on that special morning, when I open my eyes at the crack of dawn - I shout “Hey Dawn, get off my face!!!”

You know, I like to treat my presents like I treat my women. I use both hands to rip off the paper while I'm still reading the card to find out where it's from. But I'm generous as well, I truly believe that Christmas is a time for giving to those less fortunate than me, which – let's face it – is every guy on the planet. So my friends get signed photos of me which they can treasure. But, for those special, lucky babes in my life, they get something hot and steaming and covered in custard, and I'm not talking about pudding!!!

In my extensive experience, a lot of guys bitch about Christmas shopping, which makes me feel kind of sorry for them. Guys, lighten up, take your babe shopping, offer to carry those parcels, be prepared to listen to her constant, droning nonsense about what to buy Auntie Ethel or whoever. It's worth the pain because, guys, once you're back home again you just know that your little investment of time and boredom will be repaid a hundred times over in the sack. Christmas is a time for thinking about others – mainly, thinking about whether to put your babe in suspenders and boots, or maybe just the french knickers and high heels. Yes, the babes love the frilly underwear and sex toys, the kinkier the better, so when you're shopping, make sure you pop into that sex shop and get her a little something. Then you can enjoy the look on her face when she opens that parcel on the big day and holds up the vibrating butt-plug with integral suspender belt and i-pod socket.

Finally, just a word on how to handle difficult relatives. Christmas is all about family, so play it cool and smooth. Are you worried about who's coming for lunch? Are you worried about having your Babe's mother? Last year I had my Babe's mother – and her sister – and her cousin! What a party that was! But seriously, you should just do what I do. First, welcome them into your beautiful home. Take a half hour to point out the hand made Tibetan rugs and Ethiopian throws. Get your babe to pour drinks before sending her back into the kitchen. Let everyone chill as they listen to you talk about this and that. By the time your babe serves lunch, everyone should be mellow and you can bask in their admiration as you carve the turkey. Smooth.

So, here's hoping you have a Christmas almost as fantastic as mine will be. Yeah, if you're lucky enough to be on my guest list, you'll be enjoying the kind of action that makes the Playboy Mansion look like a bouncy castle. Just remember 'safe sex' at all times, yeah? Don't ever give the bitch your real name. Later...