Pathos in the Plumbing
This isn't really a rant, but I thought I'd crow about it here. They finally posted a lead position at work. Yes, I had to apply for it. It was just a formality. They opened a lead position, I filled out the paperwork, and now I've got my own desk!
My employer had been testing me in various lead positions for a while, but now this one is an official, bonafide, job title and pay change promotion. I did it, baby! I have arrived!
To be honest, the posting and promotion came a couple weeks ago. I just haven't gotten around to telling anyone about it yet. I've been too busy working. It doesn't matter how much they promote you, a job is still a job, and there's never enough time to get it all done.
I've had to rearrange the department. The original work flow, was neither working nor flowing. My workers, supervisor, and everyone else who's seen it, have been somewhat impressed by the changes, so that's a good thing. I still need to start actually hitting the numbers, but the initial results look very promising, and I'm sure that within a few weeks the production output will grow beyond satisfactory.
Of course I'd love to tell you that I got this job based solely on the fact that I am such a wonderful worker. I'd like to be able to say that I earned this job, because I was the cream of the crop. I'd love to make it seem like out of the dozens of qualified applicants, they picked me! I'd like to say all those thing, but the truth is, they couldn't really find anyone else who wanted the job.
It's a dirty job with a lot of heavy lifting and endless paperwork. Being in a lead position means I have to drop everything I'm doing at a moments noticed to help regular production workers get back on track, then try to pick up where I left off. I'm not only responsible for my work, but the work and safety of all those around me as well.
Oh my God... What I have done?
Anyway, it's official and for keeps this time, and I like having my own desk.
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Marty stood over his tee shot for what seemed an eternity. He waggled, looked up, looked down, waggled again, but didn’t start his backswing.
Finally his exasperated partner asked, “What the hell is taking so long?”
“My wife is up there watching me from the clubhouse,” Marty explained, “and I want to hit the perfect shot.”
“You can forget about that!” his companion exclaimed. “There’s no way in hell of hitting her from here.”
Valerie and Linda were chatting over coffee, when Linda remarked, “All I want out of life is the four animals that my Mom always said I would need.”
Puzzled, Valerie asked, “Really and what four animals would that be?”
Linda took a sip from her coffee and said, “A mink on my back, a jaguar in the garage, a tiger in the bed, and a jackass to pay for all of it.”
Three cowboys were sitting in a bar discussing Southern women.
“I think Southern women are the prettiest,” one of them said.
“I think Southern women are the toughest,” said another.
The third said, “I think they’re the most polite of all women. That’s why they don’t like group sex.”
His friends looked at him, confused. “They don’t like group sex?”
“Nope, too many thank-you notes to write.”
The local vicar is having a bath, and he’s a little bored, so he decides to, ‘pleasure’ himself. He’s quite happily tugging away, reaches the old moment of bliss, and opens his eyes only to see, at the window, the window cleaner, jaw agape at what he’s just seen.
A couple of minutes later, the doorbell rings – it’s the window cleaner..
The vicar is understandably embarrassed, and asks the man how much he owes him.
“50 quid” comes the reply.
“50 quid?!?” says the vicar, startled.
“Yep, fifty quid or I tell the whole parish about what I saw, you perv.”
So the vicar hands over the cash, and the cleaner gets on his way. The following week, the bishop’s round for his supper and is having a wander round the vicar’s house, admiring his lovely home.
He says to the vicar, “Lovely clean windows you’ve got there vicar, who does them for you?”
“Oh, a guy from the village does them for me, he does a great job,” replies the vicar.
“Oh, yeah. How much does he charge you, then?”
“Well,” replies the vicar, “fifty quid, actually”
“Fifty quid? Blimey!” says the bishop. “He must have seen you coming.”