More on the first day of my Central American cruise

Orientation on Tuesday was exactly what you would expect if you've read this blog for any length of time. There were, as usual, a number of people I recognized but would not claim even as acquaintances -- out of the 10 or so I recognize, I would classify one as competent -- and he's a fucking Patriots fan, so even he is suspect. but I like him and know that he actually knows his ass from a hole in the ground.

There are a number of survivors of the L Street Massacre on this project. Among them are Santa Claus, the guy who wore his pants around his knees and his shirt around his chest, and, naturally, the Hippy Dippy Clickin' Chick. It is not encouraging.

The Hippy Dippy Clickin' Chick managed to live up to her reputation during orientation yesterday, asking three stupid questions that had already been covered before she asked them and then getting combative with an agency representative over something that was beyond the agency's control. I put the over-under on her getting fired at Monday.

Milhouse, bless his heart, tried to ask an "intelligent" question yesterday, beginning it with "What I have gathered so far . . . " The associate doing the training session informed Milhouse that what he had gathered so far was just fucking wrong. I don't think it will deter him from further "intelligent" questions, but we'll see.

Yes, I kept my mouth shut.

The ghosts of projects past emerge

Any long-term reader of this blog knows I rarely bother to learn people's names. While I may or may not see them again, I just don't really care. Temp Town is not a place to go to make friends. (Yes, there are people in Temp Town whose names I know, and even a small number I consider friends, but by and large I just don't give a fuck what your name is because the odds are I won't see you again and, if I do, I still don't give a fuck what your name is.)  In any event, I give nicknames to identify people who crop up repeatedly and are worth referencing. I'm pretty sure I already mentioned the Garden Gnome, who is on this project, and, of course, Santa Claus. Since I go moved to my new and improved seat, however, two blasts from the past have emerged.

The first is the guy I used to refer to as Douchey McDouchehead. He is seated in the room I am now in, so I see him everyday. I think he recognizes me, because he gives me stinkeye every time he looks at me. It's probably because of this exchange years ago:

DMD: I'm such a fucking loser that all I can think about is going to France one day (OK, I made up that quote because I can't remember what he actually said that made me chime in, but it was something like that. It was nearly a year ago -- sue me for not remembering.)
Me: Yeah, France is great, except it's full of French people.
DMD: I'm French.
Me: You're really not undermining my argument here.

He since has been renamed Milhous because he looks like the character Milhous from "The Simpsons."

The resemblance is uncanny.

There is another figure from projects past in my new room: Riff Raff. Surely you have seen "Rocky Horror Picture Show" and are familiar with Riff Raff, the loveable, if evil, caretaker of Frank N. Furter's mansion? Well, for those who have never seen the movie, let me enlighten you; for those who have, I refresh your memory:

Riff Raff, of course, is the dude with the stringy, white hair. Alas, in Temp Town, Riff Raff is a female. But she's a dead ringer.