I wouldn't click on any links in that email, but if it's legit you should be able to go to bestbuy.com and enter in some kind of claim code.

1 HOUR, 16 MINUTES TO GO...

...it is with a saddened heart that I must report the death of Corporal Jenkinsonson. He was a noble lad, full of heart and courage...a soldier of the Empire to the very core. His death by peeing on an electric eel was, pardon the pun, shocking and, it must be noted, completely unexpected as eels do not usually thrive in an office environment without a source of water.

We have been lost in this wasteland for...6 hours and 18 minutes as of this sentence (minus a one hour unpaid luncheon period). Our will is, alas, waning; as stout and true as we once were, there is only so much the human spirit can bear and the oppressive bland coloration and soul-crushing boredom and routine are as a blistering sun upon a delicate flower...we have been sucked dry of all life and wilt, crumbling, someday to be uprooted and thrown on a compost heap to rot away...

...hark! The enemy klaxon bleats!

...Crisis averted. The call of the intruder was successfully passed off to another unit. Let them deal with the barbarians without...we shall waste our time writing this missive.

It has been an arduous undertaking, indeed. We lost Private Hoeffstetter before the first paid fifteen minute break. Poor lad went to shred some documents and, I fear, was caught in the machine. Privates Loengroen and Martinizing were sent on a pointless errand and, I fear, wander lost amongst the pressboard walls, searching for a mythical Benefits Representative who no longer exists...if ever she did.

Sergeant Yomama has been stoic, but I'm afraid what shreds remained of his sanity have been cruelly taken from him by the nineteenth reiteration of a barbarian's battle cry of "I wanna talk ta a maaaaaanager!" They know it drives us mad, as maaaaaaanagers are wily beasts, prone to escape into mysterious hiding places for "meetings" and they excel at camouflage.

...another bleat!

...a wrong number. Cursed imbeciles! Cannot they work a telephone?

My fortitude fades. I will press "Post Message" and husband my strength. God willing, I will live to Post again.

is someone logging the MiracleMan Chronicles so that I can read them later when it won't hurt so much to laugh?

eta: (am not, repeat, not implying that any of the overworked and much appreciated stompies should be doing such a thing - just... can't read. hurts too much to laugh like this)

t cue "nostalgia" music

I remember back in aught-eight, when Miracleman, that brave, crazy, caffeine-laden fool, took on the forces of The Customer Brigade.

::sniff::

'Course, back then, he wore an onion on his belt, as was the style at the time....

t nostalgia music

Fuck. Mr. Jane has both all the cash and the credit card. I didn't eat breakfast, and he won't answer his cell phone. I am not off until 7:30 tonight. Fuck.

barbarian's battle cry of "I wanna talk ta a maaaaaanager

"Sure, dude, I can get him over here to say 'you're wrong, our program won't do that no matter how much you pout' in business-friendly double-speak, just a moment."

Or there's the ever popular: "What do you mean you don't support that configuration? Our entire business structure runs on that configuration. But now your new update won't work with that configuration! The tech guy who left the company two years ago was able to get your program to work in that configuration, why won't you fix the update so it will work?"

Answer I can't give: "I guess you'd better find Super Tech and offer him the money he can obviously pull down so he can fudge together another system for you. Otherwise, you're going to have to reconfigure your entire network so that you'll actually be able to use our program, which your vendor insists that you use."

Stupid cheapskate business owners.

'Course, back then, he wore an onion on his belt, as was the style at the time....

t loves on Teppy

Heh. At work, Chatty!co-worker and I try to use that phrase as often as possible.

You'd be surprised how easily it fits into most conversations.

Cursed barbarians! Damn them and their idiotic bleatings!

They as good as took Pvt. Klonhauser, the bastards!

Sgt. Yomama just found him...he'd strung himself up by his phone cord, a note pinned to his uniform. He stated he was "going to the great 'team meeting' in the sky" where he hoped he would "finally meet the Payroll department" that wouldn't answer his calls.

He was up for a promotion. Perhaps it will be awarded post-humously. I will make such a recommendation to headquarters.

The barbarian attacks seem to be tapering off...a few desultory lobs of Whining and Stupid Question attacks. Thus far I have been fortunate...all attacks have been deflected or rebuffed.

I am suspicious, however. I suspect the bastards are rallying their numbers, preparing for a last-minute massive assault just when our fatigue is at its highest and our attention is to the parking lot and the sweet escape it offers.

I clutch at memories of my wife and child...happier times in our home, long ago...like, this morning. It seems as though an epoch has passed since that golden age.

I long for a distant shining future wherein I will get to lay down my arms, at least for a time, and watch TV. Or read a book! Or stare into space, but not be expected to "look productive".

It is the constant upkeep of this "productive" illusion that, I think, drives the men...and me, I must confess...to the very limits of our sanity. There is nothing to do but wait...wait for the banshee cry of death and tension headaches, wait for the shrill scream of a phone like a knife in our heads, wait for Payroll to goddamn it just take this call I don't know what the hell this moron is talking about!!

...I'm sorry. My composure seems to have slipped a trifle. It is behavior unbecoming of an officer.

...the phone! Is it now? Is Doomsday upon us?

There is naught but to answer and see what Fate proclaims...

Hec - The A's traded Swisher to the White Sox for 3 prospects. WTF!!!!!