This week's rant:

My conscience is a fornicating homunculus - he is the Ovaltine of my subconscious. For sooth, I know not why he smells faintly of macerated earwig larva. Infanticide is a meretricious retardate who searches tirelessly for a taste of quasi-Olympic victory. This, in conjunction with my own warped perception of Betty White as the Madonna herself, lends credence to the theory that your own mother's stench ranks second only to her own voracious sexual appetite as the most powerful force on this Earth. Go Mets. Lucifer's crotch vibrates imperceptibly in unison with the screams of Britney's unlucky victims. Heretofore, Typhoid Mary was my surrogate bitch-in-law. Her very presence gave the First Lady a stunning anal rash, resplendent in the blues, reds, and browns of Mother Nature's darkest fantasy. I have been known to consume hot glue. Beware of my buttocks - its powers know no bounds, and it may well bring about your long-awaited destruction. Inter the 1998 Philadelphia Eagles alive in a subterranean vault.

Our heroine in a brief illustrative vignette:

Some background: It's difficult to describe Trans-Worldwide International's (TWIN) business objectives. Their mission statement, "Catering to the Customer's every worldly whim," makes it about as clear as mud. Suffice it to say that TWIN places a lot of orders with a variety of vendors in order to deliver a wide range of products and services. Our heroine is employed as an order entry monkey, and in that capacity requires the creation of a fair number of special skus in the TWINOES (Trans-Worldwide International Order Entry System) database. Such sku creation requires a certain level of competency of which our heroine is not capable; hence she must appeal to our suffering hero for assistance.

The setting is a third-floor office cubicle one March afternoon. Nora gives C a sku creation form for a Sony product. She has put a price of 1,0612 in both the 'TWIN Cost' and 'List Cost' spaces. Since that figure does not appear to be an actual number, C asks her a question...

C: "What does this price here mean?"
N: "Oh, it should be sixty-one twelve. Yes, definitely sixty-one twelve. Oops! I don't know what I was thinking. Why did I write that?"
C: I don't know.

(N takes form, scribbles on it, then hands it back. Sheet now reads 1612 in 'List Cost' spot. She starts to walk away.)

C: Wait! Is it sixty-one twelve or sixteen-twelve?

(Pause)

N: Yes.
C: No, which one is it?
N: Which one?
C: Which price - sixty-one twelve or sixteen twelve? You said sixty-one, but you wrote down sixteen.
N: Let me see. (Takes form.) Oh! That was stupid. I did this on Friday - you know how Fridays are.
C: Sure I do.

(N takes form again, scribbles on it, hands it back. Now it says 1612 in 'TWIN Cost' space as well.)

C: So it's really sixteen-twelve?
N: Right, sixty-one twelve.
C: What?
N: What?

(C holds up part number form, points to 'TWIN Cost' box.)

C: This says sixteen-twelve.
N: Right, right.
C: You said sixty-one twelve.

(N nods emphatically.)

N: Right.

(C, incredulous, stares blankly for a moment.)

N: Do you need anything else?
C: Yes, I need to know whether the price of this item is sixteen-twelve or sixty-one twelve.
N: What do you mean?
C: What do you mean, what do I mean? I mean, which one is it?
N: Which what?
C: Which price. Is it sixteen-twelve?
N: Yes.
C: Is it sixty-one twelve?
N: Yes.

(Pause.)

C: Do you see the problem here? They're two different numbers. The price can only be one of them. Sony wouldn't have two prices for the same product.
N: That's weird. That's really weird.
C: No, it's not.

(N laughs. Suddenly, without warning, she seems to understand, and her face registers comprehension.)

N: OH!!! I get it. Yeah, it should be sixteen-twelve. Definitely sixteen-twelve. What was I thinking?
C: I have no idea.
N: Neither do I. Wow.

(N walks away. C places his head on his keyboard and rolls it around. Fade to black.)

Our heroine, on racism:

- Nora marched over to the fax machine. Reaching it, she released a sigh which was audible halfway across the office, and grabbed a stack of maybe ten pages sitting on the 'scanned' side of the machine.

"Whose are these? Who left these on the fax?" she yelled.
Naturally, no one answered.
"They didn't get here on their own!" she hollered.
Nothing.
"Okay, well, they might end up in the trash!"
She turned to us and shook her head.
"It's like dealing with children," she breathed, throwing her hands in the air. Marco did his best to ignore her, vigorously hunting an pecking at his keyboard. Nora was clearly upset, and it was just as clear that abundant faxes weren't the reason why. I looked forward to getting at the root of her troubles.
"You all right today?" I asked, trying my best to look concerned.
"Sure."
"You don't sound so confident. Say it with a smile."
She sighed again and stepped closer to me.
"I don't know."
The floodgates were about to open...She shook her head, and then looked up and scanned the room to see if anyone was paying attention.
"I hate being treated like a child."
"Right," I replied. "Who wouldn't. Especially being treated like a child BY a child."
"Exactly!" It was clear to her that I commiserated completely with her. My empathetic powers, deep and powerful, enveloped her completely. Small victory.
Nora motioned towards Qate.
"She is sooooo, you know, holier-than-you," she said, eyes narrowing.
"Holier than me? Impossible!"
My nonsense didn't slow her down, which was typical.
"Well, you know what I mean. And, you know, I don't think she's dumb, but she sounds so...so...stupid."
"What do you mean?"
She leaned towards my desk and looked at me over her non-prescription glasses.
"The way she talks. 'I'll ax you a question' and all that stuff."
"What?" This line of inanity was something of a surprise. I felt I'd hit on something here. "What else does she say that bother you?"
"I don't know, you know, all that kind of talk. It's just so unprofessional."
At this point Marco had no choice but to weigh in. "What the hell are you talking about? Who are you to call anyone else unprofessional?" It was a heck of a point, but Nora ignored it. Her tirade was nearing a climax.
"I don't know. I don't know. Sometimes I want to sit down with her and give her a good talking lesson." Because, as was made particularly clear by statements such as these, Nora was the ideal teacher.
"That's how she talks," Marco said. "It's ebonics, and that's where she comes from. You better shut up. If she overhears any of this, she'll rip you a new a-hole."
"Fine, that's fine, that's her right. I have a right to my opinion, too, you know. This is America."
"True, but what you're talking about sounds an awful lot like racism," Marco counseled. I guess he didn't want to see a war between these two, though that would have made for some good entertainment.
"Racism?" Nora replied incredulously. "You want racism? Try growing up blonde all your life. Try THAT."
Marco and I looked at each other. Apparently he had touched a nerve.
"You don't know what it's like," she continued. "Everyone thinks you're dumb and stupid. I'm NOT stupid, but people look at my hair and that's all they see."
"Stop it," I said. I really didn't want to hear anymore. "You can't compare racism with...blondism."
"Oh, I can't? Have you ever heard a blonde joke?"
"Of course I have. You sent me a list a couple of weeks ago."
"Exactly, exactly. It's the same thing. The same damn thing."
"Nora, you can't equate five hundred years of oppression, slavery, lynchings, and discrimination with what you feel when you hear a blonde joke. That ridiculous, and if I were Qate, I'd find it offensive too."
Marco weighed in with, "You're insane."
Nora was now clearly offended that we had not taken up The Cause, standing shoulder to shoulder with her, fighting for the Greater Good.
"Fine, you're right, you're both right," she said, backing towards her cube. "You guys are always right, and I'm always wrong." She retreated to her desk to sulk.
"That just might be the stupidest thing she's ever said." Marco was still shaking his head.
"I don't know. She's been on this Earth a long time. She's said a lot of stupid things."
"True," he agreed. "But you know, it's actually a good thing she is blonde."
"Right," I replied. "It gives her an excuse."