The Mostly Unabridged Chronicles of malackey

mahaloluinoa has her Craftmaster General Of the United States/Pepe Le Napster/The Lazy One. I had The Duffer. We frequently compared battle scars (often self-inflicted), acquired through constant exposure to Crafty and The Duffer. We laughed, because the alternative involved tequila, firearms and a desperate race for Mexico.

I now have another office dullard. I have The Monkey*.

I was charged with training yet another person on the most basic and simplistic aspect of my job.

This is the third time I've done this.

The first time, training the entire warehouse crew went off without a hitch. They all caught on, and in a pinch have been able to do exciting things like print off their own paperwork, and place calls to the broker to fix missing entry numbers. Bear in mind, these are guys hired primarily for their ability to lift heavy things.

Then there was the utter fucking fiasco with trying to train Girlie G. I haven't yet decided if she was pretending to not get it because she didn't want more responsibility, or really was that bleeding dim. At any rate, it was a disaster. I came back from days off to find my desk buried under piles of paperwork, entry not finished, pallets not accounted for, and general disarray. It took three hours of my morning to unsnarl the mistakes she made.

After many complaints on my part, I got approval to start training another girl. She seemed to catch onto the nuts and bolts quickly - like remembering the order paperwork prints in, how many copies of each, how paperwork changes for the US and Canada. For a while, I had hope.

Then, today happened.

First, there was the issue with the fax machine. For 40 minutes she kept getting an error with the fax machine and was unable to submit paperwork. I checked out the problem...a missing area code.

*headdesk*

Yes, she was dialing long distance. Yes, you always need an area code for that. Yes, the number in question was preset on our fax machine. Yes, it's obnoxiously highlighted. Sigh.


Then there was the incessant screen re-freshing. Like, every minute or so. When asked why she did so, her reply was, "Because it's faster than scrolling all the way back up to the top."

Ahem. WTF? On what planet? We're talking about scrolling maybe three turns on the little wheel in my mouse. Three. As in '1-2-3'. Not three hundred. Three.

*pauses to scream*

I enlisted the aid of scott in IT.
"You'll burn out your refreshing coil if you refresh that often," he said rather solemnly. "Those things aren't covered under warranty, so you might have to pay for the replacement coil."

Well, Monkey didn't like the sound of that, so she agreed to give scrolling a try. At least until she began to wonder if all that spinning night wear out the wheel, and the Duffer dashed off to ask scott about it.

*rips hair out*

The Duffer and The Monkey. Working together.

I quit.




* No, she's not black. Look, I'm a jerk, not a racist...at least not against black people. I'm racist as all fuck against the Mexican Mennonites, but it's a racism earned after years of living next door to them, okay?