…for the vice of Sloth that I am committing. It’s just that… I don’t care about database design and managment. It’s a dull topic. I have been learning things, in spite of my insouciance, but nothing about the database class I’m taking has even remotely fired my imagination. By my figuring, I’m scratching out a passing C grade, far below my previous efforts, and my teammates have pretty much completed the entire team project without me. That’s embarrassing.

The next course in line: more of the same. Another database management class. I don’t know if I can hold out.

Here’s a visual you probably don’t want or need, but I’m going to give it to you anyway.

For about four or five months, I had the happy task of remotely rebooting a PowerSchool server on the east coast at 3:00 AM every weekday morning to address some application stability concerns. Our engineers resolved the problems relatively early on, but the customer still wanted these reboots to happen. Who can say why? Superstition, I guess. For the last three months, at least, these red-eye reboots served no technical purpose whatsoever, and I became increasingly irritated at having to perform this nearly pointless task. At least I pretty much had to be up at that time anyway, to perform my morning ablutions. I usually stumbled into the shower, and then ambled on over to one of my home machines to perform this duty.

Finally, the client decided that months of application stability probably don’t warrant rousting some slob out of bed just to restart a computer, so I was freed from that tedium. Now that it’s over, I think the truth should be told:

Citizens of Acton, Massachusetts! You should know that, over the fateful summer of 2004, the computer acting as the student information system server for your vulnerable children was repeatedly restarted in the morning by a technician, who, often as not, was almost completely nude. He uses a Macintosh computer, is rumored to be trained in speaking a foreign language, is a convicted cynic, and does not always vote Republican. Be on your guard.

There. I ‘m glad the burden of that terrible secret is off my chest. Now, if you’ll all excuse me, I have to go and see who these uniformed men are that are kicking my door in.

Lately there have been some late-night feeds in the company break room. How do I know? Because when I get here at 4:00 AM, the dessicated, cold scraps are still gracing the tables. The other day I thought it was curious that I smelled Chinese food out in the hall, but, upon entering the break room, quickly found out why; it was full of the stuff. Our office manager, a renowned spitfire, was quite piqued at the slovenly habits of these nocturnally-nourished miscreants.

I really didn’t think much of it until this morning, when I entered the break room and was greeted by the scent of two tables’ worth of abandoned Mexican food platters. I was initially pretty irked, as it seemed rather thoughtless behavior, but I found that I had to soften this indignant stance, as the relatively delicious (relative being the key term here) smell did much to mask the stink emanating from both employee refrigerators, stuffed as they are with the putrefying remains of countless lunches from a bygone era.

Such is office life.

The company I work for, like all large companies, is periodically subjected to inspirational spam from the executive staff. You know the sort of thing- the quarterly shot of pep and ginger calculated to rally all and sundry ’round the old battle standard. Our new slogan is "Simply the Best". Yes, this is a hoary old cliché. Our divisional vice president realized this, though, and took some time to explain why this tired slogan is worthy of a new lease on life.

Unhappily, the imprecise language he used to convey his explanation left the cynics among us smirking, and dullards like me making a hard choice.

In his message, he said, "Being the best almost sounds like one of those phrases like, "I love my country or my mother".  What fool would say anything else?"

Sorry, Mom. My country needs me.

Every so often I scramble out of the house unshaven, in a rush to get to work, and then either can’t find my trusty electric razor in my car, or else the batteries in it are dead, and I can’t find the recharging cord. I usually find either object in the afternoon, sitting in some ludicrously obvious place like the passenger seat, which somehow I neglected to search, in my frantic attempts to avoid coming in to work looking like a hobo.

I have made allowances for this, however, and keep a proper shaving razor in my office desk, as well as a package of those Satanic devices that men call "disposable razors", whose intended purpose can only be to spill so much human blood that the terrible and unholy Seven-Who-Are-One, the Ogdru Jahad, will be stirred from their ancient prison, and bring about the end of Mankind.

Regardless of which implement I use to slice portions of my face off with, I’ve got to lubricate the thing. Blood isn’t always enough. Since I never seem to be quite organized enough to bring some shaving cream, I use the liquid soap in the restroom. Lately, the janitors have been stocking this goopy soap that has a strong banana scent. I know, real bananas don’t have much of a scent before they start resembling turds. I mean a scent like that fake banana flavor they put into kids’ candy, that concentrated liquid whatsit that probably has a closer chemical relationship to furniture polish than to any tropical fruit, which I suppose might explain the later penchant of teenagers for huffing spray paint out of a paper sack.

So anyway, while I do get a decent shave, I can’t shake this fake banana scent on my upper lip all day long. I wonder if my coworkers notice it. Nobody’s said anything. Maybe they like it!

I could make a killing selling the stuff. Maybe that’s my ticket out of here.