Friday, March 28
The Age of the Idiot
Even in jeans and my fuzziest (okay, only) slip-on Merrells, there is no escaping the discomfort of working elbow-to-elbow with a disliked short-timer. A few very long and awkward hours later, it is over. The Age of The Idiot is (according to all known measurements) now officially in my rear view. As we speak, the Idiot in question is at headquarters, checking out and returning his laptop, never to return. Our shared area now looks almost as though idiot-abducting aliens visited this morning and removed their sought after specimen, leaving only a trace of his wretched cologne and nary a record output to signify his time here. Can I get a "hell yeah"?