The sole reason for a fresher's existence is to provide dedicated service to seniors. And to be the general butt of awfully irritating pranks. The sole reason for a senior's existence is to make life miserable for the freshers. If both the freshers and seniors accept this basic truth of human existence, they can lead a happy and mutually beneficial life.
Heads I win, tails you lose: Tell a fresher to wake you up at a specific time, say 5 a.m. When the innocent fresher comes to wake you up, tell him: "Bugger off... it's too early, wake me up after about 10 mins." Ten minutes later, when the poor soul wakes you up again, tell him to give you another call 10 minutes later. Continue this torturous process till it is nearly 7 a.m. Then rise, and give the fresher hell for waking you up so late!
Candle In The Wind: Pointing towards the bulb, and ask an innocent what it is. He'll reply "A bulb, sir." Then interrupt him angrily and declare: "It's a candle. What is it?" This time he's bound to reply that it is a candle. Then tell him: "If it is a candle, then climb up and put it off by blowing at it."
Flying High: When it has been raining cats and dogs the whole day, call a fresher in the dead of the night and ask him to give an accurate weather report in the best dead-jackal style of the guys on Whose Line is it Anyway. When he tells you that it is raining very hard, tell him that he is lying and insist it is a pleasant windy day. Then ask him to give the weather report again. This time, the terrified soul will say: "It's a nice windy day, folks."Then you say: "If it's such a pleasant windy day, go and enjoy yourself with a kite." And then watch the fun as the innocent tries hard in the middle of a soggy hostel field!
Clean Mouth: Tell two freshers to start abusing each other at the top of their voices. When they start, egg them on, telling them their efforts pale in comparisons to your favourite Bruce Willis character. And when the two have reached the incestous level of abuse, tell them that you are ashamed of being associated with such foul-mouthed vermin. And then make them clean their mouths with shaving cream to depollute themselves!
Fair And Lovely: Call a fresher to your room, and pointing to the shoe polish, ask him what it is. When he replies that it is shoe polish, insist that it is Fair And Lovely cream. Obviously he'll agree with your assertion that it is the fairness cream. Then tell him that you are concerned about his complexion, and offer free use of your "Fair And Lovely". And then sit on his head to make him unable to resist your "generosity"!!
Stinky Pete: This is the really stinking one: get a fresher to wash your stinking undies and socks. But do it delicately. Send a message to the innocent that you want him in your room. When he reaches your room, say that you had never called him, but since he had come, he might as well save himself the mental tension of having come so far, all to no avail, and wash your clothes!
Lap Dance: (Corollary to the previous one): After the poor innocent has finished cleaning your soiled linen, tell him to relax because he had worked so tirelessly. Make him relax under the fan. And then when he has loosened up a bit, look upwards at the fan, and then remark that the loft is too untidy. While he works himself into contortions trying to struggle upwards, tell him not to do such un-elegant dance movements. And then order him to perform a cabaret instead.
All the above are guaranteed to win you lifelong enmity from the grateful juniors. And to be repeated by them on the new innocents next year. As they say: "The king is dead, long live the king."
Monday, July 25, 2005
Wednesday, July 13, 2005
Nightmares Of The Dream Job
Why does a perfectly sane and happy teenager grow up into a prematurely senile 25 year old? Is it because human life is so tiring? Or more accurately, professional human life? Does a normal day in the office leave one so enervated, that you don't have the energy to do anything sensible with your life? Like sleeping more than three hours at night?
When I say life tires you out, I do not, repeat do not, refer to the inescapable tragedy of human existence: the fact that the world is a tiresome stage, and that we must all play the parts of ignoble buffoons. What I do refer to is the tiredness of body, not of spirit. You know, the kind that infects every member of the human workforce, per se. Thanks to cranky bosses, nitwit colleagues and moronic subordinates. And most of all, the loooooooooong work hours.
The dotcom world has brought in its wake higher salaries, bigger ulcers and longer work hours. Not because there is more to do, but because there are too many distractions. And no, single-track minds, I am not talking about pretty young colleagues. I am referring to the master of all distractions, the ubiquitous web. The typical workday (as opposed to working day!) starts off with the mother of all duties: the inbox.
By the time one has finished checking all the official and unofficial e-mails, read all the non-jokes, sob stories and meaningless newsletters that form 95% of the incoming mail, it is generally one hour too far gone. And then, of course, one has certain moral obligations, like forwarding all of B's jokes to C and D, and then forwarding all the weepy stories sent by C to B and D, and then forwarding all the chain letters of D to F, G, H, I, J, K, Y, and ZZZZZZZ. After all, if one is responsible for breaking a thousand-year-old chain of letters, one is liable to fall into a manhole or have a Newtonian brick fall onto one's head, as so many chain letters direly predict.
By the time these moral obligations are met, one is too dazed to begin working. One has to go off for a coffee break to clear the mental cobwebs. Once the coffee has taken effect, one is mentally aware again. Aware enough to know that he is feeling hungry, and that its only 15 minutes to lunch break. Too less a time to finish any single task, and hence no point beginning anything.
After stuffing one's face for one hour at lunchtime, the next hour of course goes in recovering from the brutally stupefying assault on one's brain cells. What follows after that is the most terrifying hour of the day: the meeting hour, when everyone in the team tries their darnedest best to justify their places in the team.
When the zombied self has recovered from the terrors of the meeting hour, it's time to hit the panic button. The whole day's work, and only an hour left to do it. And hence the need for the long furious hours, well into the night. And the bleary eyes the next morning, when the brain cells can start working only after it is refreshed by silly jokes in the mail. And so the cruel cycle of life goes on.
Aah... what sublime expressions of frustration! That too at the tender age of 25! Sigh...such a long time ago...
When I say life tires you out, I do not, repeat do not, refer to the inescapable tragedy of human existence: the fact that the world is a tiresome stage, and that we must all play the parts of ignoble buffoons. What I do refer to is the tiredness of body, not of spirit. You know, the kind that infects every member of the human workforce, per se. Thanks to cranky bosses, nitwit colleagues and moronic subordinates. And most of all, the loooooooooong work hours.
The dotcom world has brought in its wake higher salaries, bigger ulcers and longer work hours. Not because there is more to do, but because there are too many distractions. And no, single-track minds, I am not talking about pretty young colleagues. I am referring to the master of all distractions, the ubiquitous web. The typical workday (as opposed to working day!) starts off with the mother of all duties: the inbox.
By the time one has finished checking all the official and unofficial e-mails, read all the non-jokes, sob stories and meaningless newsletters that form 95% of the incoming mail, it is generally one hour too far gone. And then, of course, one has certain moral obligations, like forwarding all of B's jokes to C and D, and then forwarding all the weepy stories sent by C to B and D, and then forwarding all the chain letters of D to F, G, H, I, J, K, Y, and ZZZZZZZ. After all, if one is responsible for breaking a thousand-year-old chain of letters, one is liable to fall into a manhole or have a Newtonian brick fall onto one's head, as so many chain letters direly predict.
By the time these moral obligations are met, one is too dazed to begin working. One has to go off for a coffee break to clear the mental cobwebs. Once the coffee has taken effect, one is mentally aware again. Aware enough to know that he is feeling hungry, and that its only 15 minutes to lunch break. Too less a time to finish any single task, and hence no point beginning anything.
After stuffing one's face for one hour at lunchtime, the next hour of course goes in recovering from the brutally stupefying assault on one's brain cells. What follows after that is the most terrifying hour of the day: the meeting hour, when everyone in the team tries their darnedest best to justify their places in the team.
When the zombied self has recovered from the terrors of the meeting hour, it's time to hit the panic button. The whole day's work, and only an hour left to do it. And hence the need for the long furious hours, well into the night. And the bleary eyes the next morning, when the brain cells can start working only after it is refreshed by silly jokes in the mail. And so the cruel cycle of life goes on.
Aah... what sublime expressions of frustration! That too at the tender age of 25! Sigh...such a long time ago...
Tuesday, July 05, 2005
The Brotherhood of the Traveling Underpants
Now that we have a movie called The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants, I guess it's now our holy duty to prepare for the following sequels:
- Snow White And Her Seven Pants (animation)
- Gone With The Pants (epic)
- Only Angels Have Pants (fantasy)
- How Green Were My Pants (drama)
- Rebel Without a Pant (action - all puns intended)
- Who's Afraid of Virginia's Pants? (intense drama with Oscar-winning performances)
- Hannah and Her Sisters's Pants (comedy)
- Who Framed Roger's Pants? (mystery)
- The Silence of the Pants (horror)
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