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Friday, May 22, 1998
By Paul Ford
Oh, God, there's no way this one couldn't be . I'd have about seven minutes before someone fired me.
(I actually wrote this yesterday, immediately after last night's entry)
Work is madcap. There's a toy poodle there; he's a good boy, but he has worms and little training in hygeine. He belongs to the office president, and during today's general meeting, she slipped off her sandal and played footsie with him, below the table. Someone rambled about Fortune 1000 companies as he licked and bit her toes.
I sat away from the conference table, behind her. Someone saw me peeking. They leaned over and said, "Paul, don't look. You'll turn to stone."
A few minutes earlier, the pup had shit unseen on the black leather couch. During the meeting, an office administrator came in and sat down on the couch. Weeping, Windex, and paper towels soon followed. It gives us a lot to talk about.
"That was a little much with the dog and the feet," said a sales guy. "It was almost...European."
Last week, an employee saw another employee's asshole. "I looked over, and she was doing stretching exercises. There was something wrong with her pantyhose." Deep breath. "Things were all spread out. She wasn't wearing panties. And there it was. A puckered sun. Dank, matted hair, in a circle."
Six O'clock every Wednesday, we have pizza and soda and an educational lecture. Some are practical--"this is a new technology; this is what it does; this is what it means to us." During others, people discuss such black-hole concepts as "branding" and "interactivity."
I can never comprehend it, and what can branding matter when a toy poodle just shit on the couch? Especially since, as someone describes how we've received more venture capital, a manager pulls me outside and says, "I just had a phenomenal client meeting."
"Went well?" I ask.
"Who cares? This client had amazing tits."