It was me.

And boy, let me tell you, that ten minutes of verbal ass whipping, man I enjoyed it.

It’s four hours later and I still can’t sit straight… and that would probably be okay if I had a bony butt. But I don’t. I may have bitty Betty and Wilmas, but I tell you what, I’ve got massive junk in the trunk. We’re talking bootylicious butt cheeks. I’m not ashamed, I’ve been called h-lo a time or two…

But I digress.

Yes, dear hannihouse readers, you may be wondering, “Why, pray tell, did darling Princess Hänni, great blog genius, master of all things wacky, tacky, and crappy get a big old tongue lashing from the likes of A Very Hip Software Company Big Guns?”

The answer my friends, is blowing in the wind. The answer is blowin’ in the wind.

But really it had to do with this:

a) Suspected misuse of IM. (Guilty, as Manuel and Mr. Lover Can attest.)

b) Unnecessary e-mailing. (Not guilty. I think it is entirely acceptable to e-mail a freekatie.net link to the entire staff list, being sure to include a rant about why I love Dawson’s Creek and why I hate Tom Cruise for ruining Dawson’s Creek darling, Katie Holmes.)

c) Taking too many effing breaks. (Again, not guilty. I’m sorry, but smoking-ass Rex from product dev spends way more time on the balcony than I do. He’s outside puffing away on his Virginia Slims like 10 times a day, no joke! I admit, I did have to take many multiple “breaks” last Friday. But I had Taco Bell for lunch. And accordingly, my breaks were taken in the bathroom… and involved explosive diarrhea.)

On a happier note, it seems Sphynxy has decided to stop shaving for a while. My little gray cat has moved on to filching new and more exciting lady’s toiletries. This morning I found him flipping around a tampon with wild, carefree abandon. I wanted to take it away, but I thought, “Hey it’s got a tail. That’s just at ten cent mouse with disposable applicator.”

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I know you can’t wait. And I know the anticipation is driving some of you to drink… and vomit… and roll in said vomit… But patience is a virtue kids. I know it’s excruciating, but I just want you to think, WWRD… What Would Rivers Do? Rivers Cuomo, lead singer of fab band Weezer, has been celibate for two years. If a f*ing rock star can go two years without tapping some sweet groupie ass, well, I’m sure you, dear hannihaus readers, can follow suit. No, I’m not saying you have to be chaste in your relations. Please, make sweet monkey love with wild abandon! All I’m asking for is a chance here folks… stick with me. The surprise is that good.

I am the only writer at A Very Hip Software Company, and as such, I am tasked to create a broad myriad of documentation. I create copy for our Web site, packaging materials, customer service, product development and quality assurance departments. I’ve written e-mail, manuals, flyers and help files. You name it, I write it. Yes, I am the all-purpose, utilitarian, call-me-for-a-good-time-or- to-rewrite-a-handbook type-gurl.

Yesterday I got a request to do something I hadn’t done before. Apparently there was some sort of water crisis when the “ghetto” side of the office (separated from mine by a walkway) ran out of water cooler H20.

I mean it was bad. People were drying up all over the place. The desiccation caused the Customer Service department to shrivel up into little, tiny, pruney people. And the sales department, confused by a water cooler with no water kind of just huddled around it, silent, not sure if it was o.k. to gossip.

It was from this weirdo snafu that my greatest task was assigned. “Hänni” the ghetto pleaded, “write us a Water Transfer procedure.”

For your viewing pleasure, I present the Water Transfer Procedure:

To transfer water:

1. Leave the ghetto. Go to the “cool” side of the office where water cooler bubbly flows abundant.

2. Locate and lift water cooler refill thingy.
Note: Be sure to bend with your knees, not your back.

3. Grunt cause the water is frickin heavy.
Note: be sure your grunt is sufficiently loud enough to garner interest from the hot secretaries. You can look like a “real man” (or real butch woman, if you’re into that sort of thing), even in this office setting.

4. Amble across 100 ft of walkway until severely fatigued. Realize you can not reach your security swipe card. Curse quietly.
Note: appropriate cursing should include the words “holy sh$# mutha f#@cka”, “gheesh”, “sheesh”, and “Santa Maria”.

5. Wait around for a coworker to take pity on your sweating, swearing ass, and open the door for you.
Note: Do not, in anger, smack the coworker who helped open the door for you. Even if she/he is smug and not sweaty in the least. A door-opening coworker is the same type who’ll bring in frosted cookies and twizzlers on Fridays. (And since there are no more Free Massage Fridays, cookies and twizzlers are all you’ve got to look forward to).

6. Pop the water cooler refill thingy into its reciprocal cubby.

7. Walk over to the soda machine adjacent to the water cooler. Put in 3 quarters and guzzle a nice cold coke, because after all, water is for pussies, and for the staff writer who’s been known to do things like *gasp* drink water and *omg* turn down cookies and twizzlers in favor of crudites. But I digress.

That concludes the water transfer procedure protocol. We hope you’ve enjoyed the show. God bless and good night!

One very nice perk of working where I do, is that on Fridays, if you’d like, you get a free 15-minute massage. The Masseuse is a shortish, protein-bar chomping, magic-working saint. I’ve been taking advantage of the Masseuse’s services since January, and may I say my back is like buttah – it’s all flexi and malleable.

What a change from the first massage, when Masseuse asked if I had a board shoved up my derriér, my back was so stiff. “No silly”, I said, “I only do that sort of thing on the weekends”. He didn’t know what that meant, but there again, neither did I. It just sounded right at the time.

Just as in war, there are rules of engagement, so in the office, there are rules of massage. First, if you want a massage, you have to get on the list. The nice girl in Cust Serv sends an e-mail announcement Friday in the a.m., anytime between 9:50 and 11:15. The rules state, that if you do not respond within 15 minutes, you will not get a massage. That’s why rolling in after 10 is a dangerous game. You decide to sleep in, ’cause it’s TGIF -and oh holy crap! No massage for you.

The second rule of Massage Club, is that there is no Massage Club…. But seriously, the second rule is that you must be on time for your scheduled massage. If you “forgot” and went to lunch instead, or felt that trivial things like work were more important, well too bad. No massage for you.

And if you fail to follow the aforementioned rules, and try to sneak into someone else’s spot, the third rule clearly dictates that you must have a masochist massage. That is, the Masseuse is aware of the clearly delineated timeline, and if you try to switch it up-steal The Copywriter’s prescheduled massage, for example,-you will receive a hard-style, turn-your-hair-white, brass knuckle, behold-my-wrath massage.

Palak Paneer is the reason this rule was written. Consequently, he walks around a bit hunched up, permanent grimace on his face, because of all the painful massages he received care of self righteous pilfering of coworkers rightly-scheduled timeslots.

But I digress.

So today is Friday, but it’s a black Friday dear hännihaus readers. Turn off the sun, because free massage Friday is dead. I was just informed by the nice girl in Cust Serv that the Masseuse is not coming today, and we don’t know when/if he will return.

Damn, I really need a massage too! I had an unfortunate kitty yoga accident yesterday – but that’s another story.

A Very Hip Software Company is comprised of a real cornucopia of multiethnic techie employees. Small and diverse, in our office you?ll find someone from just about anywhere you can think of – from Britain to South America, Canada, Asia and everywhere in between. I even heard there was a girl from Alaska on staff. Conscientious, instead of a gas guzzling SUV, she drives a snowped to work. (SNOWped, get it?)

There’s one guy at work, let’s just call him Palak Paneer. Mr. Paneer is an Indian dude with a cheery demeanor, belly like a barrel with two prominent chicklets for front teeth. He’s an expert on databases, vegetarian food and ping pong.

But actually, he’s not that great at ping pong, everyone just tells him that so as to over inflate his ego. It’s hilarious to watch him wipe the sweat from his brow before each highly anticipated serve. In his head the soundtrack to that R. Kelly song plays “Can’t you see I made it? I’m the world’s greatest!” Meanwhile, we coworkers delight at his new found swagger, and the buck teeth bared as a sign of his intense concentration.

Forget about drinking games and dancing, when Palak Paneer’s spankin’ that ball, the party is on. Yeeeaah.

Before his time at A Very Hip Software Company, PP was selling slushies at some backwoods 7-11. (I know, so stereotypical). Palak told me that 7-11 was “crazy man”, that one time someone told him, “If I had a gun I would shoot you right now”. And what do you think the cause of such a violent statement was? The crime in question: Palak had overcharged the guy by 6 cents!

Of course all this talk of gun play had management exclaiming, “Maybe that’s how we should motivate you guys!” And then everyone started doing stick-em-ups with their hands and yelling about turning in TPS reports.

It would be remiss to write about the peeps at A Very Hip Software Company and not include my cubicle mate, Kristoff.

Kristoff, like myself, is a protege of Pepe and his frenchie mustache. All day we tinker and toil and fuss and muss. Every little detail must be glorious. Each product produced must be excruciatingly creative, and painstakingly inventive. Why, it took Kristoff three hours today to dot an ?i??

But that’s not too bad. Hell, it took me four hours to wean myself off the catering table at lunch today. God bless you bitsy pineapple chunks and delicious dill dressing!

So Kristoff, he lives his life like the class clown. He?s always playing pranks, making ridiculous suggestions, putting things up his nose? oh wait, that last one’s me.

But anyway, I know that beneath that blithesome veneer, there lurks something more sinister. In our weekly discussion about American Idol, Kristoff confided his discomfort with Anthony Federov. I’m bothered by Anthony because I think he is an androgynous, panty waist Clay-Aiken-wannabee. But Kristoff, he’s disturbed for far more personal reasons.

Shuddering, Kristoff confided that some random woman at the grocery store mistook Kristoff for Federov – that fair-haired fruitcake.

Kristoff was obviously upset, and being the good neighbor that I am, I told him no you do not resemble Anthony I-am-so-femme Federov in the slightest. In fact, I said, unless you start looking like a painted lady, I don?t think you could ever be that way.

But actually, I do see the resemblance.

My cubicle neighbor told me that I reminded him of someone. And no, he didn’t say Sandra Bullock or Katie Holmes, or some other foxy brunette. He said, with great enthusiasm, You look just like a fraggle – the purple one!

For the record, I *do not* think I look like a cave-dwelling puppet, but if others have that opinion, well I guess this is a free country.

But why do I have to be the purple one? She?.. er- he?…er-it is the ugly one! And the thing has spooky droopy eyes to boot!

I think it was hassle the writer day at A Very Hip Software Company. It seems that every 20 seconds someone from some random department needed some form of copy and they needed it STAT.

And of course, because I had to see so many different people today, my hair decided to go all wonky.

I am having the worst hair day! It looks like some sort of toupee that’s been run over a few times with a Mac truck. To contrast with the flatness, right in the middle of my head, right on the very crown, there is a hairy halo, a poofy bit of frizz that looks remarkably like a robin’s nest.

Why on a day when I am so very popular, is my hair so hideous?

Additionally, because I was feeling blah this morning, I wore the sweatshirt-that’s-too-grungy-for-casual-wear with flip flops and unpainted toes. In short, even the worst slob would be outraged by the sheer schlubbyness of my attire today.

In addition, I think I am getting arthritis in my right wrist, the remnants of my cubicle neighbor’s stinky tuna sandwich has lodged itself in my left nostril, and I’m forcing myself to eat fish and green beans for dinner, when all I really want is a big bowl chocolate chip cookies, drowned in fudge, served with brownie ice cream as the chaser.

Oy vei.

I was IMing a coworker the other day and I guess my relentless nonsensical rantings kind of got to him. At one point, in response to something about my love of creamed asparagus, he typed back in exasperation, gheesh!

And I furiously responded with, Don’t you mean “sheesh!”

A defensive fellow, he hurriedly typed back something about being Canadian, and how Canadians choose to pronounce “sheesh” with a soft g proceeding the eesh. (Having dated a Canadian, and having more than a fraction of a brain, I think this is bull crap, but that is another story.)

I typed back, No “gheesh” is something entirely different from “sheesh”.

Any idiot knows that “sheesh” is something you say when you’ve run out of anything clever to come back with. As for the Canadian “gheesh”, you can’t fool me. Gheesh are things that fly south for the winter. Sometimes they lay golden eggs, have bumps, and play duck, duck.

We kept up the gheesh / sheesh fight for a few more bouts, before retiring to other things of importance, i.e. working.