I got a call from my physical therapist today. You see, I had a major accident a few months ago and broke some bones. (I have to be careful about the details, because I know that the thousands of CEWPS working at Aetna, United HC, etc. will be querying their employer's databases looking for physical therapy claims filed by middle-aged white males in the last six months in an effort to track me down and get me fired at CLS.) That's how they roll, hehehehe...
Anyway, it went something like this:
HER: You haven't been in for therapy for a few weeks. How's it going?
ME: Not good. I had to cancel my follow up with my surgeon and stop PT because I got a new job on the other side of town.
HER: Did you find a clinic near work?
ME: Yeah, but I am afraid to take off until five or six at night because the place I work at is a sweatshop. They fly in Indians five or six at at a time, and they'll fire me in a heartbeat if they think I am slacking.
HER: That sucks!
ME: I know, but I don't have much choice. They can bring some guy in from Delhi to take my job, and I can't take that chance.
HER: You should at least do a couple days of therapy a week. How about the mornings?
ME: Na, my boss, this Hindu dude, is in my cube every morning, around nine, looking for me. I can't afford to be late. I'll get fired.
HER: Okay, but I feel so bad. If you don't rehab, you are going to be permanantly disabled.
ME: I know, but right now, I gotta work. Gotta go, they are keeping track of my breaks.
I hung up, stubbed out my smoke, and went back into the pit.
That afternoon, I got an email from the Asian PM (aka "SULU"):
We have to move today's meeting into the SMALL conference room.
Damn, that should be fun, I thought. There's like, what, 15 people coming to that 4 PM meeting in a 15' x 15' room on a rainy Friday afternoon? Nice.
So at four-ish, Chinaman and I head towards the meeting. There's already a handful of Desis in the room.
The first thing I notice is the stench.
Shit, I haven't smelled something so bad since I took that cab ride in Dubai when our ship pulled into port after the fighting stopped in Gulf War I. Back then, it was 120 degrees and the Indian/Paki/Bangladeshee/[pick one] driving the piece of shit Toyota with no A/C would stop and take out his prayer mat, in the middle of the hot-ass day, and pray on the side of the road.
And the funk in that cab was like M.O.P-Level-4! Don and fuckin' clear!
Man, one of these slumdogs had some serious BO (I don't mean Business Objects), and it reminded me of that cab ride so long ago.
The rest of the crew strolled in, and I scoped the team out.
Hmmmm, let's see...four QA types flown in from Delhi, one a chick (fat unibrow type)...
And then the three slumdog "debelopers" on my team, still jet-lagged from the 14-hour flight from India...
Three Desi tech-leads, including the architect with ADD...
Chinaman, my Desi Gladiator foe...
And a rotund old white lady, the contractor tech writer...
Finally, a liberal hag who took the seat next to me. Man, was she ugly. That bitch looked like Geddy Lee, only uglier, if that is possible. Tall, skinny, flat-chested, with glasses. She was the Business Analyst, the one putting the reqs together. I think she drives the BMW with the Obama sticker that I saw in the parking lot.
So as Sulu fired up the projector to go over the project plan, it dawned on me.
I was the only white male in the room.