Blogatron

The Secret Life of an Incoherent Robot

This week has been very contradictory: on the one hand, the evenings have been fun (karaoke and karaoke game testing with my karaoke buddies, karaoke karaoke karaoke), mindlessly relaxing (command decision that it's perfectly acceptable to spend all of Monday night playing computer Mah Jong), and/or lucrative (proofreading for dollars). On the other hand, work has been unusually demanding and busy.* We are currently engaged in planning a large project that is unlike anything the company has done before, with the result that each day brings a new surprise, usually involving the revelation that if we want Important Step A to be completed in time, we had best get cracking on Subproject B like, yesterday.

Yesterday (real yesterday, not metaphorical get your ass moving, sister yesterday) was a day when three Very Important Deadlines occurred, and by the time it became clear that none of them would be met, I had pretty much lost it. There was much muttering and running around with bits of paper with things scribbled on them and snapping, "yeah, I'll get to that." To make matters worse, it was necessary for me to go to a meeting and ask my coworkers to perform a simple, but detailed, task. I was so involved in my own world of tasks that this did not go very well. I normally pride myself on my ability to think outside of my own little perspective, to explain things in such a way that they are firmly grounded in context and that a minimum of questions need be asked. But yesterday I did not quite manage this. Although not entirely true to life, if someone were to make a movie of how the scene unfolded as filtered through my fragile and aching psyche, it would go something like this:

THE MEETING

INT. ART STUDIO DAY
A group of people sits at a conglomeration of paint-spattered tables in the middle of a loft space that is designed to keep communication open and foster creativity, but not in that gross way. Though mostly young and artsy, a few of them are old and artsy. They are attending STAFF MEETING.

BOSS
...and so I think we should blah blah blah. Next agenda item?

COWORKER #1
Next, Hilatron will talk to us about Project A. ...is Hilatron here?

HILATRON

(Runs into the space. She is carrying a messy stack of papers and has a pencil clamped between her teeth. Her eyes are crazed, and her hair is unflattering. Holding out a stack of envelopes, she spits the pencil across the room and screams:)

BLARG-GRABBLE-GARB-G'BARGLE! HMMF! AARK! GN'BARGLITY BARGLE!

(A pause.)

COWORKER #2
Um --

HILATRON
OOOOOOOGH! ADDRESS! FNACK FNACK RESIDENCE, SPLORTLE FAMILY. BLOOPITY GRONK TOMORROW!!!!

(Hilatron begins to chuck bundles of envelopes at her co-workers. A closeup of one of the packets reveals a post-it note that reads, "OTTOMAN FLORP ASAP.")

COWORKER #1
Uh, ahem. Hilatron, we're not quite sure that we understand this project, and--

HILATRON
I'M SORRY!!

(She pauses, takes a deep breath and seems to see the people around her for the first time. In a quieter voice:)

I'm sorry. I'm a bit distracted. What we are trying to do here is--

IMPORTANT NON-BOSS LADY
The real question here is whether the hootle shbootle should go out first, or the grack d'dolk.

BOSS
That's a very good question. Hilatron?

HILATRON
I...shbbbb...ungh...

IMPORTANT NON-BOSS LADY
OR, should we just flootle the gootlestank? But wait, what about the slorpity ploo?

COWORKERS

(In unison)

What the?

HILATRON

(Fizzles.)

BOSS
No. I think it's best if we blonky-blonk the tupple and take it from there. Hilatron, do you have anything else to add?

HILATRON
YES! BRACKLE GEEBLESTOCK! RABLENESTY HOPP! BEEP BEEP RRRRRRRRACK! FLORP! BLOP IMMEDIATELY!

(Hilatron resumes throwing envelopes at her coworkers, as they duck for cover.)

THE END

* Please note the extremely wussical context from which I am coming, here. Although this job has a few annoyances, you could normally describe it as "laid-back" and still have enough room to lie down in and have a nice nap.** The highest sturm und drang level thus far attained is about on a par with a "quiet" day at my former job at a Certain Sort-of Famous New York Restaurant Mini-Chain. However, a year of gentle decay has dulled my multi-tasking and emergency handling capabilities.

**I recommend that you do not think about that sentence too much. It works for me on a purely instinctive level; if it doesn't for you, trying to make it make sense will only give you a headache.

Posted by hilatron at July 31, 2003 03:11 PM