Nincompoop Nation

A local rib joint was invaded last night by the elite middle management of a well respected school district and it did not go quietly into that good night. C., bless his heart, bought out a party store of their entire stock of beads for us to celebrate “Looney Gras”. I was next to last to arrive and I heard them in the parking lot. I walked in and they all had so many beads on they looked liked they were wearing life jackets. They also had these hand clappers and I received a loud ovation, probably louder than if I had pulled my shirt up. The Nincompoops. You gotta love em. It is hard to believe that this psychedelic crew in business attire could be seen on any given day conducting interviews, facilitating trainings, and calming parents. But last night is when I love them best because I get to see that dichotomy. C. in his Hawaiin shirt, R. in his business suit, with his tie tucked in under the beads so as not to get rib sauce on it, C and S with their beautiful hair and smiles, R with her unforgettable laugh, and J who flew in at the last minute, sent back her appletini because it was the wrong color, and then regaled us with stories about the insanity of the Nincompoop Nation that spawned us all.

There is no way that many would believe the daily occurrences that happen. An abused wife would have similar stories to tell. After she gets a right hook to the jaw, he sends her flowers. So here’s how it usually goes. Someone gets a bug up their butt, or gets a phone call from one community member, and decides to make overreaching policy changes. In this instance, everyone is on red alert to check ID tags, even though there are tons of visitors every day that walk through the building and we have no idea who they are, but people who have worked there since the year of the flood, are stopped and asked for tags. Then, people are told they are not to take a break and leave their desks or they will be penalized. So, what do you think the next email says. “Join us for the Valentine contest.” They wanted staff to guess how many valentine candies are in the jar on the desk of, ironically, the ID enforcer. Like anyone wants to go near there. Like we can pretend it is such a fun place to work. And then they thank one of the Kool-Aid drinkers for suggesting this game idea. Wow. How on earth did she think of something that creative. Our counteroffer was guessing how many ID’s of the people who went in the “Poof Machine” would fit in that jar.

The “PM” is a device that is rumored to be housed in human resources and it’s where administrators go when they are no longer wanted. It’s very magical, because one day you see this hapless person at their desk, albeit twitching and sweating and staying late, and the next day, “Poof”. No one knows where they went and then their job is posted. The Poof Machine is so top secret that sometimes, no one can speak the employee’s name, as in the case of employee # 65487. We vaguely remember what he looked like, but they are hell bent on erasing him from the annals of “ever having worked here” and responding “who?” if anyone dares mention his name.
In any event, C. gets the writing credit for Nincompoops, and a large round of clapping clappers for her. Our next outing is the bowling alley, and already people are petulant about putting rented shoes on their feet. There will be some retail therapy going on before the end of March.