Rules For The Bosses
1.Don't ever give me work in the morning. Always wait
until at least 4:00
and then bring it to me. The challenge of a deadline is refreshing.
2. If it's really a rush job, run in and interrupt me every ten minutes or so to inquire how it's going. That really does help. Better yet, hover behind me, advising me at every keystroke.
3. Always leave without letting anyone know where you're going. It gives me the opportunity to be creative when someone asks where you are.
4. If my arms are full of papers, boxes, books or supplies, don't open the door for me. I need to learn how to function as a paraplegic and opening doors with no arms is good training should I ever be injured and lose all of my limbs.
5. If you give me more than one job to do, don't specify which is priority. I am psychic.
6. Do your best to keep me late. I adore this office and really have nowhere else to go or anything else to do. I have no life beyond work.
7. If a job I do pleases you, keep it a secret. If word gets out, it could mean a promotion.
8. If you don't like my work, tell everyone. I like my name to be the topic of conversations. I was born to be whipped.
9. If you have special instructions for a job, don't write them down. In fact, just save them until the job is almost done. There's no use confusing me with useful information.
10. Never introduce me to the people you're with. I have no right to know anything. In the corporate food chain, I am plankton. When you refer to them later, my shrewd deductions will identify them.
11. Only be nice to me when the job I am doing for you could really change your life and send you straight to managers' hell.
12. Tell me all your little problems. No one else has any and it's refreshing to know someone is less fortunate. I especially like the story about having to pay so much taxes on the bonus check your received for being such a good manager.
13. Wait until my yearly review and THEN tell me what my goals SHOULD have been. Give me a mediocre performance rating, with a cost of living increase. I'm not really here for the money anyhow.
2. If it's really a rush job, run in and interrupt me every ten minutes or so to inquire how it's going. That really does help. Better yet, hover behind me, advising me at every keystroke.
3. Always leave without letting anyone know where you're going. It gives me the opportunity to be creative when someone asks where you are.
4. If my arms are full of papers, boxes, books or supplies, don't open the door for me. I need to learn how to function as a paraplegic and opening doors with no arms is good training should I ever be injured and lose all of my limbs.
5. If you give me more than one job to do, don't specify which is priority. I am psychic.
6. Do your best to keep me late. I adore this office and really have nowhere else to go or anything else to do. I have no life beyond work.
7. If a job I do pleases you, keep it a secret. If word gets out, it could mean a promotion.
8. If you don't like my work, tell everyone. I like my name to be the topic of conversations. I was born to be whipped.
9. If you have special instructions for a job, don't write them down. In fact, just save them until the job is almost done. There's no use confusing me with useful information.
10. Never introduce me to the people you're with. I have no right to know anything. In the corporate food chain, I am plankton. When you refer to them later, my shrewd deductions will identify them.
11. Only be nice to me when the job I am doing for you could really change your life and send you straight to managers' hell.
12. Tell me all your little problems. No one else has any and it's refreshing to know someone is less fortunate. I especially like the story about having to pay so much taxes on the bonus check your received for being such a good manager.
13. Wait until my yearly review and THEN tell me what my goals SHOULD have been. Give me a mediocre performance rating, with a cost of living increase. I'm not really here for the money anyhow.
A
dog's chalkboard assignments
This list of chalkboard assignments may be used for your dog when he
does not behave well. The below variations and choices will help you pick an
assignment. A. Fill in the blanks
1. [xxx] is not food.
Spiders; bandaids; ivy and airplane plants; Xmas ornaments; the carved jack-o-lantern; plants from the aquarium; cat litter box contents; laundry detergent boxes (esp. not when full!); toothpaste (tube and all); remote controls; linoleum; eyeglasses; books; stockings; the tar shingles on my house; chicken wire; bizarre plants; disposable razors; rocks; Lego; dirty Kleenex; the baby's used diaper; Christmas stockings; soda pop cans; fiberglass insulation stuffed up the chimney; the underwear in the clothes hamper; Mommy's hair accessories; Mommy's catnip teabags; unopened honey packets; staples; Christmas stockings; credit cards, CDs, and other thin plastic things.
2. I will not lift my leg to the [xxx].
Anything growing in the vegetable garden; house corner; new boyfriend; mailman; woodstove; subordinate pack members; Grandma's plush chair; the conformation judge; good-looking neighbour man that Mommy is trying to impress; Daddy in the lawn chair.
3. I recognize that [xxx] has a right to exist.
The humans' shoes; the human's cats; the aquarium; 3rd grade art projects (even if they are made of macaroni shells); the other dog(s); the TV remote control; the human's little humans; the bath mitt; Rolling Stone magazine; large patterns on wallpaper;
4. [xxx] is not a toy.
The humans' shoes; the human's cats; the humans' pet cockatiel; newly planted iris bulbs; pillows and blankets from the bed; laundry (dirty OR clean); aquarium plants; stuffed animals from on top of the chest of drawers; pillows and blankets from the newly made bed; the hose that's filling the kiddie pool; the humans' Nerf footballs; human's underwear; Mommy and Daddy's ferrets.
5. I will not chew the [xxx].
Human's homework; human's papers s/he has to mark; remote control; cardboard around the laundry detergent; handles to the lawn tools; garage door; kitchen cabinets; food left within reach on the couch; the mini-human's *full* bottle even though it conveniently fell in front of me from the crib; horse's new saddle; wall; carpet; deck; couch; sofa cushions; expensive paperbacks.
6. I will not bark at [xxx].
Plastic bags on the ground; the new plow blade on my owner's truck when it is parked; the wind; thunder; the road grader; Daddy's new Santa bear toy (which was innocently sitting on a chair, and had been there for hours before Molly noticed it and took umbrage); tissue paper being blown along the floor by air from the furnace; the spring doorstop when I or the kid flips it and makes it go DOooiiiiinnnnnng; my mother's clean laundry thrown on top of the bed, even if the room is dark and it looks like someone sleeping there; the ball I just pushed into an inaccessible crevice all by myself; the fox/skunk/cat/deer out in the yard at any time after midnight, especially on a work night; the fire hydrant on the corner when out for a walk at night; the car radio; the answering machine lady when she says the date/time; the ice cube that slid under the fridge; the rawhide chewbone that I'm making no headway on; absolutely nothing (especially after 11 PM).
7. I will not dig [xxx].
Under the stove (and through the linoleum); under the sidewalk until it collapses; the carpet; a hole under the porch and then get stuck under it; under my master's pillow at 2 AM to retrieve the bone I hid there earlier; a swimming pool in the back yard;
1. [xxx] is not food.
Spiders; bandaids; ivy and airplane plants; Xmas ornaments; the carved jack-o-lantern; plants from the aquarium; cat litter box contents; laundry detergent boxes (esp. not when full!); toothpaste (tube and all); remote controls; linoleum; eyeglasses; books; stockings; the tar shingles on my house; chicken wire; bizarre plants; disposable razors; rocks; Lego; dirty Kleenex; the baby's used diaper; Christmas stockings; soda pop cans; fiberglass insulation stuffed up the chimney; the underwear in the clothes hamper; Mommy's hair accessories; Mommy's catnip teabags; unopened honey packets; staples; Christmas stockings; credit cards, CDs, and other thin plastic things.
2. I will not lift my leg to the [xxx].
Anything growing in the vegetable garden; house corner; new boyfriend; mailman; woodstove; subordinate pack members; Grandma's plush chair; the conformation judge; good-looking neighbour man that Mommy is trying to impress; Daddy in the lawn chair.
3. I recognize that [xxx] has a right to exist.
The humans' shoes; the human's cats; the aquarium; 3rd grade art projects (even if they are made of macaroni shells); the other dog(s); the TV remote control; the human's little humans; the bath mitt; Rolling Stone magazine; large patterns on wallpaper;
4. [xxx] is not a toy.
The humans' shoes; the human's cats; the humans' pet cockatiel; newly planted iris bulbs; pillows and blankets from the bed; laundry (dirty OR clean); aquarium plants; stuffed animals from on top of the chest of drawers; pillows and blankets from the newly made bed; the hose that's filling the kiddie pool; the humans' Nerf footballs; human's underwear; Mommy and Daddy's ferrets.
5. I will not chew the [xxx].
Human's homework; human's papers s/he has to mark; remote control; cardboard around the laundry detergent; handles to the lawn tools; garage door; kitchen cabinets; food left within reach on the couch; the mini-human's *full* bottle even though it conveniently fell in front of me from the crib; horse's new saddle; wall; carpet; deck; couch; sofa cushions; expensive paperbacks.
6. I will not bark at [xxx].
Plastic bags on the ground; the new plow blade on my owner's truck when it is parked; the wind; thunder; the road grader; Daddy's new Santa bear toy (which was innocently sitting on a chair, and had been there for hours before Molly noticed it and took umbrage); tissue paper being blown along the floor by air from the furnace; the spring doorstop when I or the kid flips it and makes it go DOooiiiiinnnnnng; my mother's clean laundry thrown on top of the bed, even if the room is dark and it looks like someone sleeping there; the ball I just pushed into an inaccessible crevice all by myself; the fox/skunk/cat/deer out in the yard at any time after midnight, especially on a work night; the fire hydrant on the corner when out for a walk at night; the car radio; the answering machine lady when she says the date/time; the ice cube that slid under the fridge; the rawhide chewbone that I'm making no headway on; absolutely nothing (especially after 11 PM).
7. I will not dig [xxx].
Under the stove (and through the linoleum); under the sidewalk until it collapses; the carpet; a hole under the porch and then get stuck under it; under my master's pillow at 2 AM to retrieve the bone I hid there earlier; a swimming pool in the back yard;
