Yesterday, Director’s awards were distributed here at work, and the powers that be were nice enough to honor myself and a couple of other programmers on our mad software skillz even though we are only contractors. Despite the fact that everyone pronounces “Director” in hushed tones as if they are Death Star peons discussing The Emporer, sure that their thoughts are being probed by some dark-side evildoings, we didn’t realize that the awards ceremony was An Affair, which is to say that suits were required. So I show up, along with my coworkers, in full-on business casual to a gathering of hundreds of ensuited Vic Mackeys. Like the jackasses that wear a T-shirt on picture day1, we ignored the occasional looks of disdain directed towards our section during the service. I say service, because it was practically a church affair, with a prayer at the beginning, a prayer at the end, and lots of boredom in between that mostly didn’t apply to me. The only difference was that instead of an organ, the pre-ceremony music was played by members of The President’s Own Marine Corps band. After an interminable wait, during which people who actually deserved awards were recognized, we eventually got called, walked across the stage, shook hands with Palpitane and the second-in-command at DOJ, then hid behind better dressed personnel for the group photo. So I guess what I am saying is, fear my awesome certificate, bitches!
[1] Usually me, in early grades at least, because my organizational skills are so slight, not because of any illusions of being too cool for school.