Hell with Rabbit Ears

I'll bet most of you think life working for the Rabbit looks an awful lot like this:

"May we get you a Rob Roy for that spreadsheet?"

When in reality, the sad, soul-crushing face of my job looks like this:

"But Mike," you might say, "What happened between today and that hilarious Halloween party two weeks ago where your department cleverly celebrated your impending lay-offs by having an Irish wake for the staff around your work stations complete with a coffin, whiskey and girls that were painted to look like they were wearing lingerie but were, in fact, wearing nothing but panties that look like they really, really hurt?"

Well, I'll tell you what happened.  As many of you know,  Playboy is going through a bit of a change.  By "a bit of a change", I mean "closing the Chicago office that has been the headquarters of the company since 1953".  Everyone here is either losing their job--likely within the next 6 months--or being moved out to California to work at Playboy West.  Our department will be lucky to survive through Christmas.  It kind of sucks around here.

The entirety of the online Playboy footprint was purchased by a Canadian porn company who has also snapped up a bunch of other naked lady sites.  However, since they work with an entirely different billing system then we do, over the course of the last few days we've been attempting to integrate our system into theirs.  This has caused many, many login problems.  Serious login problems.

What kind of problems?  Well, apparently the entire world is completely unable to masturbate.  This sucks for us for a number of reasons.  1)  Electronically jerking people off is what we do.  2)  Many of our subscribers are super old and hard of hearing and don't know how to use a computer to begin with.  3)  Many of the subscribers affected are foreign since this integration also messed with the billing system exclusively used by our international subscribers. 

This means our frustrated subscriber base--who just want to relax before the wife gets home from work, goddamn it--are calling in with their pants at their ankles and giving us what-for, often with a tremendous language barrier.

Sigh.

Thank god I have the best wife in the world.  And that bottle of Jim Beam in my freezer.