Job, My Stupid

Hard At Work

Spammers are getting desperate, it would seem. That or just more fucking fiendish; I’m part of a couple of my workplace’s group mailing lists for the cancer committees I work on: lymphomas and gynecological cancers, to be specific. So today I was sitting at my computer with one of my bosses hanging out, because I was showing him some programming errors I’d found (this is a large part of my job too–the programmers build an incredibly sophisticated program for us, and I sit there and flail away at it like an angry caveman until it breaks), when I got a new email. “Hang on a sec,” I said, and opened it, noticing that it was addressed to “gynquestion@whereskotworks,” and thinking that hey, someone out there has a question about one of my protocols.


“I say we check it out,” I told my supervisor, “I’m kind of horny.” In my mind I said that, anyway.

The spam-bastards had obviously keyed into the “gyn” part of the email and decided, hey, anyone who has to deal with at least the abstract idea of female crotches all day long probably is in need of some grounding in the topic, so have some beaver shots, my friend!

Work overall is getting kind of eerie and fearsome these days. Tomorrow, unbelievably, we have picture day. This is because there is some whacking great meeting coming up where all the doctors and nurses and research associates and us get together and glad-hand and confer and wither slowly during PowerPoint presentations and assure each other that we still have good jobs because nobody’s cured cancer yet. And for some reason, this involves taking everybody’s picture in our office, just like in sixth grade, and then displaying them all over the place, like we’re Wal-Mart employees and our field researchers are in need of cheap toilet paper. I don’t get it. I know for a fact that nobody out there gives a technicolor fuck what I look like, and I fervently reciprocate this feeling. “Hi, Skot, it’s Jodie from University of Rochester.” “Oh? Describe yourself to me.” “Uh, well, I’m a part-time cocktail waitress with an interest in adult modeling . . . “

Doubtful. Let me just assure you that there is a reason you don’t see a lot of cheese- or beefcake calendars that say anything like “Bikini Oncologists.” Unless you’re talking about me, of course, because I’m hotter than fucking acetylene. Want to trade pixxx? Hottest on the net.