We now have a swear jar at work, if we say a bad word then money goes into the jar. Our Boss thinks this will clean up our language. I work with an attorney who is taking a break from practicing law and we were tasked with developing the rules and payment schedules. The system is byzantine and complicated and there have been, in the two days we’ve had it, at least twenty appeals.
Our boss’ tab is about $65.50.
Before you comment that it is ridiculous that an adult would need a swear jar at work to curb their enthusiasm please consider the fact that we are a step below prostitution in the hierarchy of noble professions. I call the system bzyantine, not just because I love anachronistic and antediluvian words, but also because I’ve drawn up rules and payment schedules around people I don’t like. There are people who will pay dearly just for greeting me in the morning, at least until we have a meeting to formalize the rules, payment schedule, and appeals process.
Before I downed about seven dollars into the jar myself, I agonized about how to use this jar to my advantage. The first rule clearly indicates that the traditionally accepted four and five letter words couldn’t be used – even if they were found in scripture. I did not get it included that replacements for those words when clearly intended to be replacements would count. I did get included that hate speech toward demographic groups – even when one is a member of said group – included but I couldn’t get ‘assault on the English language’ included because only three of us are native speakers. I am happy that I got unkind nicknames thrown in there because I am tired of anyone who isn’t my father calling me, “junior.” Well, if you were Sean Connery I’d let you do it so I could pretend for a hot minute that I was Indiana Jones.
I was able to write in many things I wanted to stop at the office, but I am unable to get people to stop talking about their personal lives. I have a coworker who is into something I find distasteful and I almost threw up in the trashcan today when our coworkers interrogated him about it. Now, before you send me a barrage of comments about being a judgmental cracker, I know. I really don’t care about what you do in your personal life. I sincerely do not care; don’t tell me about it – even if I do it my personal life. I care if it presents a public health hazard or if it makes me heave into my own trashcan. It’s the one time I miss working for my last principal: a woman who had an ironic detachment between her own foibles and her persecution of others – she’d have crucified the offending individual long ago. This drek doesn't fly in an office full of women, it does in an office full of men (exception number four is that you can curse in a foreign language if you're the only one who understands what you're saying).
It’s also impossible to speak intelligently on the topic of
Mazda or Honda’s engineering without using the word, “shit.” I’m going to learn the Japanese word
for “shit” so I can say that instead.
I’m sure no one will look it up when I say, “The Japanese word for this
engineering is, ‘daiben,’ and the German word is, ‘überlegen.’” In
fact, I can think of nothing else I want to do all day beyond use the prefix
über and curse in foreign languages – besides put in eight to sixteen hours of
honest labor. Beyond the ability to earn a decent living I want to be able to
curse in Japanese and add über to words higgledy-piggledy. Bubbe always said if you didn’t have
anything nice to say, say it in Yiddish.
Hondas are drek.
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