Mr. Bartleby, Mr. Bartleby, please put down the phone! And ... the golf putter. Hold on, hold on, I can explain! I understand you were upset with me after that terrible game of Worms Armageddon left me without pants in front of the Board of Directors. It was an embarrassing time for us all, especially Stinky, my favorite worm, the one who was demolished by the baseball bat.

And, I can understand your frustration in the fact that barely a week later I barged into the most important financial meeting of the quarter half-naked and drenched with liquir, although I have a perfectly valid reason for it.

If you could only understand how badly my week has gone! Monday as you know you demoted me and made me move to the little corner cubicle in the lower floor, the one where the sun shines on my monitor all day and the fluorescent lights blink intermittently all night.

Not a single employee has survived the dreaded "pit" for more than a week. (Like Tim, who evidently disappeared into his office chair.) The detritus of over six recent victims of unexpected medical leave were littered about the place when I tried to move in. There was a brownish syrupy substance on the desk and some sort of green putty -- I theorize either Play-Doh or wasabi -- caked onto the earpiece of the phone. I also found a sock.

My only hope was to clean and disinfect the place, both physically and spiritually. I played smooth jazz. I burned incense. I also got a whole half-gallon of that industrial strength cleaning detergent and I scrubbed the desk down with sandpaper. And that, Mr. Bartleby, was the root of the problem!

I use one of those 3M Precision Mousing Surfaces for my mousepad, and it's important that that sucker be firmly rooted onto a desk. Because if it slides around it'll mess up my aim the next time I play Worms Armageddon against Johnstone, who recently wagered me his entire cubicle. Well, after I had cleaned and sanded my desk, it was completely friction-less. I stood on top of it to hang up my Enya poster and was sent flying into my potted plant!

So I borrowed a can of that Spray Fixadent from Carlisle, you know, that spray-sticky-stuff. I sprayed it all over my mousepad and desk. I guess I got a little carried away. It got everywhere. I sat down at my desk and slid my chair forward, then realized that my hand was stuck to my mouse. Permanently! My mousepad was stuck to my shirt sleeve. Then, when I tried to back away from my desk and call for help, I discovered that I'd sprayed all over my pants -- they were stuck to the underside of the desk, and with a loud tearing noise like the crackle of thunder they were ripped off of my very legs!

The only way to escape my office chair was to unbuckle my belt, take off my shoes, and crawl frantically away. I accidentally stuck my hand in the potted plant and it was covered with dirt. Trailing a long trail of debris as well as my mouse and cord, I made my way frantically to the kitchen to undo the horror that was the spray fixadent.

I scrubbed myself with a mixture of Comet, dish soap, and vodka. Well, the Vodka was Johnstone's idea. Except, when I put the bottle in my hand, it was stuck there. So the only way to cover my hand with vodka was to shake the bottle vigorously until vodka was everywhere. There was a trail of it all over the kitchen.

Suddenly, to my horror, the vodka on the counter all over the hot coffee machine burst into flames. A trail of fire screamed across the floor toward me! I had to run, Mr. Bartleby! I HAD TO FLEE FOR MY VERY LIFE!

Sorry about the meeting.