The best and worst thing to ever happen in this office is the recent arrival of a very fancy coffee machine that makes both espresso and drip coffee. So now there is a constant pot of warm, semi-tasty coffee about ten feet away from me. I will probably be dead in about two weeks.
There is something rather existentially horrific about the ritualistic, funereal morning march of pedestrians with take-away coffees (but no more so than that existential horror of rushing home after work to watch television). It says to me: “I am going into an office now and will not emerge for eight to 12 hours (eight if you’re a journalist; 12 if you’re a solicitor). And during this time I will sacrifice my individuality for the sake of someone else’s profit, and no matter what I do, I make weapons to kill outsiders with.”
That’s me paraphrasing American poet Alan Dugan, who is the unhappiest man on the planet.
Anyway, now that we have a coffee machine, I can sport around the quays near my work as though I am an unemployed philosopher trying to think my way out of the recession.
Yes, it sounds silly, but it gets the ladies.
Well, maybe we’re into different types of ladies. I like the ones with extremely large sunglasses and no jobs.
Nevertheless, I am considering calling my solicitor to see if I can sue my boss for trying to give me a heart attack. It’s the second day of operation of the coffee machine. Yesterday I had five cups. Today it is only lunchtime and I have already had four cups.
I have a friend who works from home, and has a drip coffee machine beside his computer. He can get all his work done in about thirty minutes — work that, in an office, would take him eight hours, plus the two hours he’d spend commuting. The only problem is that he has to drink two pots of coffee now even to feel slightly more alive than a zombie. And after he finishes his work, he puts on his sunglasses, goes out to his pool (he lives in Arizona), and drinks beer until he falls asleep in the evening.
If I ever ran a business, I would give everyone in the office a desk, a computer, a pot of coffee and a cot. I wouldn’t even give them a job description. I’d just tell them to make me some f*cking money. In fact, if any of you are bored in your work, give me a call and I’ll set this thing up. I also need to find a place that sells cheap cots.
Somebody recently told me that this back-page column is the luckiest job any journalist ever had, since I am being paid to be unhappy. I thought that was a wonderful way to put things. THAT GUY gets a nice big desk and an extra-soft cot.