It’s warm, and Spring is just getting started here in Denver. We didn’t get a Winter this year, just an extra three months of Fall. I don’t mind one bit. Put a half-inch of snow or ice on the road and my 30-year-old BMW handles like a 2,000-lb, greased water balloon.

Usually I see at least two State Patrol cars during my commute, but today they are nowhere to be found. I put the peddle to the floor and let all 98 little carbureted horsies run free. Oh baby! I’m even able to get into the fast lane and do a little passing. So what if I’m only passing a mattress that’s fallen off the top of someone’s car. I take what I can get.

NPR, barely audible over the fourth-gear fury of my engine, lets me know that everything in the world is as it should be: The French are grumpy, the Muslims are angry, and the sport of basketball is still played by tall people.

I get to work on time, and park in a different spot than usual. I’m the kind of guy who likes variety.

During my company’s glory years, you had to get to work at 5:30 am if you wanted a parking space that wasn’t located in a neighboring state. Now, five years, four layoffs, and a 90% stock-price-loss later, I can park wherever I want at 9:00 am.

It’s quiet inside, this morning. Always is. Everyone “works” from home. I say hello to Bill’s chair, and Sue’s chair, but I ignore Mike’s chair. We don’t have a good rapport.

The plus side is that I have my pick of the office furniture. I “borrowed” a cushy chair from a deserted teaming area and squeezed it into my cube, and I got some extra partitions from another cube. I made a little barrier with them so that the tumbleweed doesn’t roll under my desk. On cold mornings, I burn printer paper for warmth. All of this is totally against the rules, but the Workplace Resources people work from home, now.

Somebody besides me apparently still comes into the office to work, and he/she/it gets here before I do, so there’s always a pot of coffee waiting in the break room. The label on the bag says that it’s 100% Columbian Dark Roast Mocha Blend. I pump the thermos pot with the urgency of a junkie looking for his needles until my oversized mug is full. I close my eyes, and take a first sip. Mmmm. Roast Mocha must be coffee-aficionado-speak for Burnt Goat Poop.

My morning ritual isn’t complete, though, until I’ve used the bathroom.

I’m pleased to find that, judging by the clean fresh smell, I will be the first to unleash the Evil today. I like being first, but it does mean that nobody has pre-heated the seat for me. Oh, well - life’s full of trade-offs, is it not?

You’re probably wondering why I’m telling you this. Actually, you’re probably not, because the moment you read the words “Goat Poop,” you switched your browser to dilbert.com So, I’m now speaking to a hypothetical reader. Oh well. Less pressure.

Back to the toilet. It terrifies me. After I’ve finished my, er, transaction, I get as far away as I can, extend my leg and flip the flush lever with my foot. The toilet erupts violently, spraying hygienically-questionable droplets of fluid all over the seat, the floor, and the stall walls. It’s way better than Yellowstone. We could sell tickets.

With excitement like that, I can cross the gym off my to-do list.

My morning ritual is complete. I make my way back to my cube because I have a job to do and decisions to make. They pay me to make decisions other people can’t handle. For instance, do I want to spend the morning in my cushy chair, or my swivel chair? Tough choices.

This entry was posted on Tuesday, March 28th, 2006 at 9:47 am and is filed under Blather, Featured, Humor, Politics, Current Events, Colorado, Denver, Corporate, Life. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.