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Chaps: because if they had an ass, they'd just be called pants.

Wednesday, July 30, 2008

Even with two buttons to choose from, there was a 100% chance of him screwing it up

This one is pretty much real-time reporting kids, enjoy.

Just minutes ago, I was walking back from a meeting in a building next to my office with a colleague of mine who is far less intelligent than me. Ok, I’ll narrow it down a little more – he’s far less intelligent than my hot feces.

That was mean. Sorry hot feces, I take that back - you’re way smarter than him.

So the Mensa convention begins with him chatting uncontrollably about his upcoming vacation during our walk back to our building. I try to interject to stop the onslaught of audible diarrhea that I couldn’t possibly care less about, but the look in his eyes tell me both that his brain is a vacuum, and that this story is going to go on for a while.

We arrive at the ground floor of the elevator to our building to go up to our floor, and he erroneously hits the “down” button. This wasn’t a hand-eye coordination issue – it’s not like he was looking away and missed. He had a choice of two one-inch diameter round buttons, one on top of the other, and he was looking directly at it when he hit the one on the bottom. Granted, they aren’t labeled “up” and “down”, but I think they ruled out the necessity for labeling when they had this guy accurately work the buttons during prototyping:

Immediately after seeing him press the wrong button, I start trying to cut off the continuing saga of his hotly anticipated vacation with warnings that he’s pressed the wrong button, in order to allow him the opportunity to correct the error as opposed to my pressing the correct button for him, which might make him feel a little like I’ve pulled up his pants.

However, after refusing to be interrupted at the height of his excitement in hearing himself talk, it appears he might as well not be wearing pants. I press the “up” button as time is starting to burn and I’ve got people to do - and he doesn’t even notice.

As his previously called “down” elevator comes in it’s proper priority order, he begins to board. Flabbergasted, I begin to exercise emergency conversation-interrupting techniques, such as shouting his name and sending out visible hand signal warnings. Something like “Bob… BOB! Dude! You’re getting on the wrong elevator…” *waving hands in the "don't do it" motion, which looks like jazz hands, but with a concerned instead of happy face*.

I then immediately felt like I might have layed on the verbal warnings a little thick and a little loud, realizing that if I just don’t board, surely he’ll get the message and get off and perhaps my yelling wasn’t necessary.

Oh, people, it was necessary. My verbal warnings went unheeded and unheard over his continuing one-way dialogue. The elevator door closed, and to my astonishment, he went on his downward journey without me. How he continued to tell his story while the elevator door closed between us is something science can't explain. I shook my head and boarded my upward elevator which arrived shortly after his departure.

I wonder if this fucking tool understood what I was yelling about as he instructed his elevator car to double-back from the basement.

I’m still not sure how this guy makes it to our office every day.

1 comment:

bob said...

not laughed that much in ages

the human kebab. what goes down must come up