I was well on my way to achieving a full week without anyone suspecting that I'm a highbred dork from the Ancient And Most Embarrassing Ancestral Dork line when the chick who's training me (as her own replacement, as if having to deal with a woman who has dedicated eighty percent of her attention span to making sure that her breasts are adquately showcased and twelve percent to noticing with wolfish and immediate and PUBLIC disdain whenever someone -ANYone- accidently glances at anything in the room lower than the emergency sprinkler heads wasn't awkward enough) mentioned that she was going to print up another copy of a support manual and I, in hasty concurrence, bade her to "make it so, Number One".
So much for
that.
