Strap Me Down and Knock Me Out

Work today was typical: surf the web, dab Anbesol on the corner of my jaw where my gums meet and the flesh is being sliced open by a jagged wisdom tooth, answer elementary helpdesk questions from people I wish would really just leave me alone while I work on a time-critical project, wipe my blood off of the earpiece of the phone, work on the time-critical project, surf the web.

Ordinarily, I've dreaded meeting an oral surgeon to have my wisdom teeth taken out. But now, I'm thinking of it like a little vacation, where a combination of powerful antibiotics and mother's little helpers are going to soothe me into a narcotic stupor for a week while everything at work just annihilates itself. I just can't get these teeth ripped out of my jaw fast enough.

I think I'll enjoy sobbing from the pain in my mouth ten times as much as I'll enjoy deciphering the half-wits who call me up and "explain" a problem by uttering syllables of a language they can not comprehend and have no intention of learning. True story: today, I had to figure out a series of events from a secretary's voicemail to me, calling me by the wrong name. When I called her back, she informed me that her boss "couldn't get her mail from the squirrel".

I swear to God I am not making this up.

Fortunately for all involved, I am a superstar and I correctly interpreted this to mean that the woman was off-site and unable to use the company's "so easy a moron could use it" webmail interface, which is a software package that uses a squirrel for a logo on the login page.

First of all, what kind of person can't figure out how to use webmail? Seriously. Webmail is right up there with "falling over" as something that requires virtually zero effort to understand and, in many cases, do. Shudder.

I awake the surgeon's knife with unbridled anticipation.