On my desk this morning, among other little notes from my boss, is this particular gem. The important thing is that he can at least recognize that he writes in an ancient script only legible to him, but I can already imagine that this task will prove to be challenging.

So I open up the folder on which this note is placed, locate the yellow tab, and find this:

I’m thinking it is Arabic, but it could also be Greek, or perhaps Aramaic. It also appears that he composed these notes while possessed by an angry demon, or while he was parachuting out of a jet that was passing through a hurricane. The only thing of which I am completely certain is that this will be impossible.

Other than moments like these, I like my boss. He is actually funny, in his own weird, spastic way. He makes these random jokes, like handing me a piece of paper with only his letterhead on it, and telling me that I should be sure to frame it. When presented with pages of his scrawled case notes, he tells me that I should save them because they are most likely “pieces of brilliance”. The other day, he ripped some lady at the IRS a new asshole, and after demanding to know her name, began EVERY SINGLE sentence with “Mrs. Weaver”, as in, “Mrs. Weaver, you are not listening to me! No, Mrs. Weaver, I will NOT! Mrs. Weaver, put your supervisor on the phone! MRS. WEAVER, I DO NOT WISH TO SPEAK WITH YOU ANY LONGER, MRS. WEAVER! MRS. WEAVER, YOU ARE A LIAR! ARE YOU LYING TO ME, MRS. WEAVER? MRS. WEAVER, YOU ARE NOT HELPING ME!” I was crying at my desk from silent, hysterical laughter, and I am absolutely certain that Mrs. Weaver would have sold her spleen on eBay for $1 if it meant that she could change her name at that moment.

I’m going to go look for the Rosetta Stone so I can do my first task of the day.