The more things change

Six years ago.

Today.
7.31 a.m.

Teshik: Good morning, sunshine.
Satyria: Good? Your privileges to call me sunshine are hereby revoked.
T: On what grounds? ...Monkeybutter?
S: I hate you. On the grounds that I have to deal with a shitty Japanese today.
T: What the hell do you have to do with Japaneezers?
S: Only one of them. I'm reviewing the corporate review of Miss Takashima, and she's not going to like it. And she's already pissy at me because I didn't start my last mail to her with "thank you, and I love you, and I'm going to die of breast cancer."
T: Well, it was awfully inconsiderate for you not to kiss Miss Tamagotchi's feet. At least not verbally, I don't think she expects you to make the 12-hour-flight to do it for real... at least, not yet.
S: She's called Takashima. Don't do this to me.
T: Whaddaya mean?
S: I'm going to confuse the alias with the real name and make an ass of myself again. It was embarassing enough with...with...you know, Mr Zucchini. That Italian guy. I never remember his real name now.
T: Heh. Well, if it helps, I'm countering your review on a review with a presentation for a presentation. Apparently, according to our CTO, we volunteered to present our department at a meeting at the end of the month. We were kind of surprised, and mildly annoyed. And I have to be the creative guy who presents the team with "fresh" and "promising" perspectives tomorrow. Needless to say, I'm less than thrilled.
S: How does one volunteer without doing the volunteering part?
T: He's the CTO. We're not.
S: Ever get the feeling we're some escapees of a Dilbert cartoon?
T: Frequently, dear Alice, but Dogbert told me that's just a phase.


Later, around 2 o'clock. (We do actual work at work, too, you know. Amazing, but true. )
T: I swear, I'm going to kill a priest any time now.
S: Huh? What crawled up your ass?
T: Remember the church directly across the street of my office building?
S: Yeah?
T: The bell is ringing.
S: You know, church bells do that sometimes.
T: But not all the fucking time.
S: You know why they're ringing.
T: Don't say it. Don't even type it. It is The Day Who-must-not-me-named. And if they're going to commemorate the shit, they could at least use the real time scale. Or, start in the afternoon, when I'm about to leave, not at nine a.m., or three in the morning for New Yorkers. And not, I repeat, not simply start and stop the bell at random intervals. And you don't do it UNTIL FUCKING TWO IN THE AFTERNOON! It's driving me nuts.
S: What happens when I name the day who must not be named?
T: Don't. Or I swear, I break out the fucking Enya.
S: Bring it, weenie. *ahem* Nine-Eleven. World Trade Center.
T: *sings* Let mee sa- heeel, let mee sa- heeeel, let the orinoccoflo, let mee reee- heeech, let me beee- heeech... *bum* dääää, *bum* däääää, *bum* däääää duh... selaway, selaway, selawayyyy...
S: ACK!
T: Don't say I didn't warn you.
S: I wasn't expecting this particular piece of shit. I was prepared for : Whooooooooocaaaannnnsaaaayyyywheeeereeetheeeerooeeedgoessss... um-bah-dibpu-dibpu-dibpu. You know, the usual.
T: I know you too well for that.
S: I will remember it. A propos remembering: Dear Sir or Madam, did you know that today is International Plane Day? Share with us your heartwrenching story of you sitting in the kitchen filing away your toe warts. What were YOU doing when "it" happened, those thirty-two quadrillion years ago when the world was still flat and dinosaurs roamed the earth and gas was cheap and we were young and innocent?
T: Plane Day. Hee. - You know? Six Years ago? I was talking to you. In the same company we are right now, only in different departments.
S: ...
T: What? I did.
S: ...Yeah, but...wow. This is depressing.
T: That proves it. Time really does flow in circles.
S: Crap. I'm going to keep shitty hair for at least a year now.
T: But you? Don't have to break out the funeral wear.
S: Hmmm. Does that mean your dad has cancer again?
T: He didn't have, I told ya. But if it helps, he has COPD and refuses to quit smoking.
S: We're both here again, I'm having an awful haircut, your dad's sick...okay, spooky. and it's 14.36 now, sooo...impending doom, starting in ten minutes.
T: If a terrorist is stupid enough to hit my office building? Tell F he still owes me the twenty bucks, and such simple things as me dying doesn't absolve him. Oh yeah, and that I love everyone and shit.
S: And if the earth opens and swallows the hall I'm in? Tell everyone I strangled at least three of my coworkers and Miss Takashima before going down.
T: "Satyria was a dangerous psycho." Got it. So. T Minus three minutes.
S: I wonder what it will be. I'm guessing volcano. South America.
T: I'm betting Earthquake. South East Asia. Followed by tsunami, again, some more. And the best part? No one will care because actual news would disturb the Remembrance Holiday in New York.
S: Good one. So, impending doom in five...four...three...two...one...Bingo.
T:...
S:...
T: Either the shockwaves of the H-Bomb Dubya just dropped on us take longer than I thought, or no boom today. Maybe Boom tomorrow.
S: You sound disappointed.
T: No boom means "Teshik has to do the fucking presentation tomorrow and won't get out of office until half past four."
S: I see your point. Hey, but you know, we could already be dead. If the sun exploded at 14.46, we won't know until 14.52.
T: One can only hope.


So, what do you know? Even September 11ths can end on a happy note. Or at least, with a different attitude. Happy Plane Day, folks.