Where should I go?

Angry Aunt, hi,

There’s this box at work, right.  It was slightly poking out the side of a walkway. The HR manager saw it and asked everyone to stop what they were doing to gather around the box.  She said it was ‘important to discuss what’s wrong with this situation’.  So, everyone stood around the taped up box and was given a five minute serve on workplace health and safety.  She said it was ‘everyone’s responsibility to make sure hazards don’t exist in the workplace’. 

Then after her monologue, she asked who owned the box.  Of course, after her speech, no-one was going to fess up.  So because no-one claimed the box, she ‘officially’ took ownership and opened it.  It was filled with gawdy Chirstmas decorations.  Aunty, it was disgusting.  I mean, someone in my work area saw fit to over stuff a box with disgusting twinkle and those ball things.  It smelled real bad and stuck to the side was a cut-out cardboard Santa that looked like a dead Santa.  It was faded and ripped and just feral.  Santa’s eyes had been poked out and there was a tack hanging out of his nose.  If I’m not getting my point across it was like opening a box of farts and fingernail clippings.  I gagged as soon as the box was opened and the tinsel was unraveled. 

So to my question…  You see, I was okay to look at the unopened box for the past two months in the walkway, no problems.  But now it’s ‘safely’ in the cupboard, I can’t walk past the cupboard and not think about it.  I can’t concentrate on my work.  I can’t function in my day to day relationships.  I want to go to report it to the HR Manager but she’s the one that caused the problem in the first place.  I’m desperate.  Should I go to CEO?  Should I go to the Police?  Where should I go?

Go to the North Pole.  Sort your shit out.

How can I calm him down at the lights?

Dear Angry Agony Aunt
My boyfriend is a wonderful man with a kind heart.  However, he has an issue with the pedestrian lights at intersections.  As soon as he gets to the lights and there’s a red man, he gets aggressive with the button and frantically presses until the green man lights up.  It’s really embarrassing to stand next to him when he’s like that so how can I calm him down at the lights?

What is it with that stupid dumbass red man?  I’ve had many arguments with my boyfriend about this subject at the lights.  My boyfriend may not violently bash at the button, but he  verbally bashes me instead.

Every time is the same.  We’re holding hands as we get to the lights.  I press the button (once) and wait.  He lets go of my hand and huffs half way across the road without me.  I give him a death stare.  He sighs, comes back then gives me a verbal spray full of misused English sounding words followed by a little spittle.

He argues that you can cross the road (with care) if there is a red man.  As long as there’s no traffic, the red man is more of a suggestion than an enforceable instruction.  He tells me (very loudly sometimes) that it’s a waste of time to stand by the road when there’s clearly no traffic.

I disagree.  I argue (much more calmly) that if you’re doing bad things, bad things will happen.  If that truck you didn’t see slams in to your person and the subsequent call involves an ambulance or a coroner, you’re in the wrong and you have no-one to blame but yourself.  That is, if you’re still alive to start distributing blame.  So we argue for twenty seconds, the green man appears, we cross the road and it’s all over.

And the reason I don't just let him go and chance it is because I need him alive for sex and chores around the house.  In that order. 

PS - But to answer your question, the solution is quite simple.  As your boyfriend is bashing the button, start screaming.  Tell him your channeling the pain of the red man.  Scream that you can feel every bash of the button.  He presses, you scream.  Repeat.

Should I play along with my mistaken identity?

Dear Angry Agony Aunt

I attended three work functions this month.  At every function, at least one person mistook me for another person.  Funnily enough, the person they mistook me for is ten years younger than me.  This is a wonderful compliment but I'm not sure if I should I just play along with this mistaken identity?

You must just have one of those faces.  It must suck to be you after a witness has completed an identikit and you’re in a police lineup.

Witness : “Number three”.

Policeman : “Are you sure?”

Witness ; “Ahh… not a hundred percent, but boy, that person looks familiar.”

Policeman : “Does anyone else look familiar to you?”

Witness : “No, just number three.”

But that aside, my first piece of advice is quite straight forward.  If you’re being mistaken for someone ten years younger, this is a  great testament to Dr Lewinn and the Ponds Institute.  First things first.  Write them a letter. 

Secondly, if this situation arises again, I have something for you.  However, this must only be reserved for people who should know better and who should really know your name.  These people include but aren't limited to your boss, your husband and your Psychologist.

Here's what you do.  After the 'mis-introduction', you must shower the 'introducer' with compliments.  Go to town.  Tell them how smart and efficient they.  Tell them you feel sorry for them that they have a team of incompetent staff.  Go a little overboard.  It won't hurt.  

Tell them that with your hand on your heart that you hope the rumours aren’t true and that the company is making the team redundant.  Then when your teary monologue is complete, finish by calling them their boss’ name.  I repeat.  Call them their boss' name.  Then wait a few seconds, sniffle and sigh.

But remember, this is an act of revenge and the last thing you want is retaliation.  So for this to be effective, you need to leave immediately.  Excuse yourself from the conversation by saying you have to hurry to see [insert your REAL name here].  You heard there was a party on their yacht because [insert your REAL name here] won lotto.

How can I make him eat his banana?

Dear Angry Agony Aunt

My husband Matt (please don’t use his real name), does somethig weird with banana's.  To ‘successfully’ eat one, he has to peel it in to four equal segments.  If the banana peel is uneven to the naked eye, he can’t eat it.  So on the ocassions when he does peel unevenly, I'm forced to eat it.  If I don't, it's left on the kitchen counter to go all black and feral. How can I make him eat his banana?

Did you know this before you married him?  If so, I have limited sympathy for you.  But if this is a new introduction to your marriage, here’s some fake sympathy for you (awwww darling…), followed by some practical advice.

This surprising common problem can be fixed in a few ways. 

-      The most obvious fix is to recycle your banana.  Get your banana recipe book out and start cooking, blending and baking.  Banana smoothies, banana bread, banana custard, banana chocolate and peanut butter cream terrine, banana pancakes – all that. 

-      Limit his intake of banana.  Limit it to birthdays, anniversaries and Christmas. (Ie, on the only days you have sex with him). 

-      Move next to a zoo and throw the banana’s over the back of the fence for the monkeys. 

-      Every time he does an ‘uneven peel’, convince him he hasn’t.  If he resorts to bringing out a ruler, keep strong.  Tell him over and over again each measurement is the same.  Stare at the obviously uneven peel and repeat, ‘It’s the same, it’s the same, it’s the same’.  Fight in to the night if you have to.  Convince your friends and neighbours to do the same.  Power in numbers. 

But if all else fails, trump him with your own little 'fetish'.  Start a sick addiction to Fish Milkshake Thursday’s.  In my house I call it FMT.  If anyone steps out of line, I just blend  one up and give them a whiff.  Nothing stops bad behaviour better than fishy milk.

Penis. Hate. Every Friday.

Dear Angry Agony Aunt
I just read your post about 'what makes a perfect pair of breasts' and I'd like to know what a perfect penis looks like?  All my ex-boyfriends tell me their penis was perfect but surely only one of them is right?  If at all?

I say that a perfect penis is the kind of penis that isn’t on anyone’s forehead.  It sounds like all your ex-boyfriends had one up there as well as one down there.  It must have been awkward walking next to someone with a penis so visible.  Sorry about that.

Dear Angry Agony Aunt,
Why does my Aunt hate me after I sung on stage?

I want to reassure you it’s because you’re a terrible singer but I think it’s more than that.  I think your Aunt hates you because your mother (her sister) is a dirty, filthy whore.  Your Aunt obviously busted your Mum pashing your Uncle backstage while you were butchering ‘New York, New York’.  All the best Britney.

Dear Angry Agony Aunt,

My friend had lunch with this girl every Friday and my friend has now left the company.  At his farewell drinks they both bullied me into becoming her new weekly lunch date.  How do I get out of it?

Who needs enemies when you’ve got friends?  Think about why your friend left the company in the first place.  Sure, he said it was because he was offered more money somewhere else but I’m guessing the answer lays square on a Friday. 

But having said that, you eat lunch right?  You also eat lunch on a Friday?  Well, I really don’t see what the problem is.  Sure, you may be talked at for sixty minutes but I say suck it up.  Enjoy the hour of being talked at.  After all, it’s good practice for when you get married one day.

Cats, Porn and Fashion

Dear Angry Agony Aunt

Help! How do I stop my two year old from constantly tormenting our cat?

Firstly your child needs to learn some serious lessons about life’s pecking order at home.  It goes : cat, cat food, clean kitty litter tray, cat accessories, Mum, Dad then pesky children.  It’s really as simple as that.

In my opinion, cats are the Kim Kardashian’s of the animal kingdom.  They prance around with no real purpose other than to make you buy accessories for them.  And just like a Kardashian, we’re not entirely sure what cats do when people aren’t watching.

But cheap shots aside, my advice is to let your little Timmy/Josephine torment away.  Why?  Because it’s just a matter of time when your child will stop tormenting the cat and will start tormenting you.  My parents tell me that the tormenting NEVER stops.  So for now, let Her Magesty Queen Furball take one for the team.

Dear Angry Agony Aunt,

I was walking down the street the other day and noticed a fashion tag poking out of the top of a lady's shirt (back of the neck).  I tapped her on the shoulder and asked if I could tuck it back in. However, before she could respond, (to save embarrassment), I fixed it up and quickly moved on.  I instantly felt guilty.  Should I have fixed up her tag?

Look at that!  A fashion question.  And no fashion answer would be complete without the mention of Lady Gaga... So there, I've mentioned her.

What you need to understand is that people spend a lot of time and money looking dishevelled.  Ripped jeans, holes in stockings and my personal favourite, excessive fake tan.  So, maybe this 'tag poking' is just another fad? 

You see, without fad's, fashion wouldn't be a billion dollar industry.  It'd be much like having a porn industry with no bad story lines.  And ironically, these two billion dollar industries are polar opposites.  One industry works on the premise that clothes must be worn at all times and the other succeeds by making sure clothes are off at all times.  And I don't mind that because there are clear defined lines.  Unlike another billion dollar industry.  The wedding dress industry. 

This scam works on the sole premises that you have to spend forty thousand dollars to wear a dress once before it's ripped off you at the end of the night.  Dress on.  Dress off.  Then after seven years, you can’t even flog it off on e-bay for $24.95 or turn it into a nice curtain set.  What a rip off. 

But should you have fixed her tag?  No.  Keep your hands to yourself, you pervert.

How do I tell my boyfriend I'm pregnant?

Heya All

To celebrate one year of Angry Agony Aunt, I thought I’d become Mayor of Lazytown and get you to answer a question.  If you’re a Facebook fan, you would have seen my post asking for answers (public and private) to the below question.  All I can say is - thank goodness I’m the Angry Agony Aunt and you’re not.  Also, I might do this again, so if you want to be involved next time, just ‘like’ the Angry Agony Aunt on Facebook.  Enjoy.  Or not. 

Dear Angry Agony Aunt,

How do I tell my boyfriend I’m pregnant?

Lynette Martha Cavanough – Run like hell when you’re telling him!

Dimmity Dalton – I asked my husband this question (after you posted it on Facebook).  He responded by asking, ‘Are you pregnant?’ I told him I wasn't and that it was just a question.  He looked down at his crotch and said, ‘Thank god for dumb swimmers’, then left the room.  He came back an hour later and said, ‘Hey, does that mean you have a boyfriend’?

Meg Babycuddles – I’d punch him in the face. He’d get the idea eventually.

Grovulus Grooney – Wait until you have an ultrasound photograph then Photoshop the boyfriend’s face onto the fetus and make it the new desktop background on his computer.

Maxwell Adams – My ex-girlfriend sent me a haiku type message.  “You had sex with me quickly, now I’m throwing up, very soon I’ll be crowning.”

Gordon Jenkins – Just tell him, don’t be dishonest.

Rebecca Kerry – This happened to me and I sent my husband an Outlook calendar update to attend the birth (on my estimated due date). I was four days early so it wasn’t a bad guess!

Callum Fevola – I hope my girlfriend tells me it’s the milkman’s.

Sally Jaspen – We have four kids and when I fell pregnant with my fifth child, I said to my husband, ‘This time when they cut the cord, we’ll get the doctor to use the scissors on you.  Two for one’.

Jeremy Brody – To avoid this kind of discussion, I ask my girlfriend to not talk to me at all.  It works out well because she’s not that bright anyway.

Mimi Freeman – I think I’ll get Dad to tell him.  I’ll leave it up to Dad to figure out how.  No matter what Dad comes up with, it’ll be fun to watch.

Angry Agony Aunt – Don’t tell him.  See how long it takes him to figure it out.

Got a question?  Send it to angryauntis@gmail.com

How do I tell him my name?

Dear Angry Agony Aunt,

I started a new job three weeks ago and one of my co-workers keeps calling me Adele.  That'd be fine but my name is Amanda.  I don’t want to upset him because he’s been exceptionally nice but how do I tell him my name without hurting his feelings?  I’m fast becoming the victim of sad wit - (the 'rolling in the deep' jokes are killing me).

From Amanda (or is it Adele?)

Dear 'A'

I think you’re in an enormous position of power.  The best time you’ll ever have at work is when you first start.  This is when all the staff (both male and female) turn in to male peacocks and strut around your work area shaking their tail feathers.  They'll do a little dance and show you only their best and brightest colours.  It's much like the early stages of dating but in your case, you get paid to turn up to this love-in.  So I say, use it.

You see, this is the time where everyone is nicey-nice to you.  Why?  Because work is nothing more than collecting as many scapegoats as you can.  Much like politics (and a very popular Wiggle's song), it's a numbers game...

Your co-workers will come running to your aid after you make your first REAL mistake.  They say, ‘that’s fine, don't worry about it, you’re still learning’, as you're gathered in the assembly area watching the fire brigade put out the fire.  They’ll give you a little side cuddle and say, ‘Hey, no big deal… in my last job, I slept with my boss’ wife… boy, that was a mistake…’.

Then later on, when they've figured out you've become someone elses scapegoat (traitor), the peacocks leave and your coworkers turn in to unnatural, scaly vermin with fire breathing capabilities.  Behaviour includes - yelling at you for using the communal printer, scowling at you after you say 'good morning' and the very popular, cold shoulder treatment (but in some cases, having co-workers ignore you is actually a good thing).  It's then you realise your once paid paradise oasis has turned into a cubical coffin.

So I say, let your co-worker call you Adele for as long as he likes.  

But be proactive about it.  Go to the store and buy fifty name tags with different names on them.  Wear a different name tag every two weeks or so.  This way, your co-worker will always think you’re the new person and you'll never become anyone's 'doe'.

What's your new year's resolution?

Dear Angry Agony Aunt,
Do you have a new year’s resolution this year?

Let me tell you something.  New Years resolutions are for unhealthy, chain smoking, alcoholic, drug addicts with no money and no spine.  Sometimes they’re called Stan, but not all the time.  These ‘Stan’s’ swear that, ‘I’m going to turn my life around and make a long list of promises’, blah, blah.  But this is useless ‘my mouth is moving but nothing important is being said’ talk.

Why?  Because 12 – 24 hours in to the new year (crunch time), like a kid with a shiny toy, temptation lands in their lap and they get distracted.  And before you can say, ‘Dude, let’s steal the neighbour’s car’, they’ve got a cigarette in one hand, a beer in the other, telling their Nanna to ‘get f&cked’, as they’re hot wiring her car.   Old habits die hard.

But if you’re not a ‘Stan’ and you actually want to succeed in life, I suggest you try what I call a ‘Reverse Resolution’.  Write down all the things you achieved in 2011.  Believe it or not, we all have something to be proud of.  And if you’re actually nice to yourself, hopefully you'll continue to be nice to yourself in the upcoming year.

For example: Did you manage to finally have sex?  (Thumbs up Fernando)  Did you stop calling your mother a dirty, old, cranky whore? (I know it was hard Maryanne, but kudos to you) How about your finances?  Are you able to answer ‘private number’ calls again?  I bet if you're sober, even just for five minutes, you’d be able to name at least five good things that happened during the year.  What did you learn about yourself?  What did you learn about other people?

Having done my own Reverse Resolution, I've ruled that I'm happy to continue drinking litres of cheap wine followed by bacon chasers, smoking two cigarettes at a time, maxing out my credit cards and dating guys called ‘Stan’.  Why?  Because if I didn’t, l wouldn’t have anything to be angry about anymore... 

Happy New Year to everyone.  Except Stan.  You can rot in hell.  But not before living a long and painful life full of guilt and regret.

What makes the perfect pair of breasts?

Dear Angry Agony Aunt,
What makes the perfect pair of breasts?

The most obvious answer is – any pair of breasts without your grubby hands all over them is a perfect pair of breasts.  But that’s a cheap shot and I don’t do that here. 

For some guys, any pair of living breasts within eye shot is a perfect pair.  Men part with real cash dollars to get a peek, some pay a lot, others just have to say ‘let me buy you a drink’ and there they are, all in your face.  But nonetheless, the sight of boobs is a tradeable commodity.

And you guys can bitch and moan about what makes a perfect pair, but when you’re talking about these eye magnets, there’s not a complaint in sight.

But what makes a perfect pair?  Hmmm.  I hate to break it to you, but you’ve already seen them.  And unfortunately for you, if all’s well in your life, you’ll never see them again.  The most perfect pair of breasts is the first pair you ever saw.  Yo Mumma’s.

Yo Mumma’s were perfect because they weren’t only huge after you were born, but they were full of milky goodness, full all of the vitamins and minerals you needed to survive.  And that’s what you’re looking for in a perfect pair; looks and functionality. 

And before you scoff and say ‘I was bottle-fed’, I guarantee that at least once in your little poohey nappy existence, you went for the grab.  That’s right, you grabbed your own Mumma’s tits.  And not only that, you would’ve gone in for the suck and cried when she pushed you away said no. 

So next time you see a pair of breasts that aren’t quite perfect, don’t say ‘send them back’, just smile and thank god they’re not your mother’s.  And after reading this, I hope the next time you see your girlfriend’s set, you think of your mother’s big, bad, heaving knockers you once cried over. 

Why are you smiling in the photo?

Dear Angry Agony Aunt,
I am a new liker to your page. I have a question. You are The Angry Agony Aunt. However, in your picture, your lips appear to be slightly upturned in somewhat of a grin/smile. My question is Why? This grin/smile does not appropriately appear to reflect the Anger part of your title..."

This is the best question I’ve ever received.  If there’s one subject I know better than any other, it's the subject of my failings as a human being.  My Facebook profile photo is a living example of my confusing and contradictory life.

When I first started my blog, I thought it’d be a great idea to have an Angry Agony Aunt logo.  After I spent all my disposable income on advertising, I only got a few Facebook ‘likes’ and one guy asking for an ‘Angry Aunty’ to spank him while his wife was away on business.  I immediately ditched the logo and replaced it with a ‘help’ sign.  This sign confused readers and they started unsubscribing in droves.  I was staring down the face of the first Facebook page in history with negative ‘likes’. 

Then someone suggested I upload an angry photo of myself.  I begrudgingly took 50 shots and passed them around my 'friends' for feedback.  Nasty comments included:

- ‘you look like you’re about to pass a bowling ball’, 

- ‘you look so crazy, I’m afraid you’ll shoulder charge me through a glass window' and 

- ‘how did you get your double chin to do that?’

After this brutal assessment of my looks, I wiped away the tears and cleaned up the broken glass from the window.  Then, a couple of days later, inspiration came.   

I had an argument with my current boyfriend about something I don't remember.  But after that argument, I made a very angry breakup video.  (I’ve kept it just in case of emergency).  In a gentle and loving voice I say, ‘hey baby, I just thought I’d send you a message… you’re a sad and pathetic wannabe.  You’re on track to die a lonely and poor middle-aged bald man.  Don’t ever ring me again and for god sake, wear a nappy when you go to bed.’ 

So the photo you see today is a screen shot from that video.  Sure, it may look like I’m all love and smiles but this is me at my passive aggressive best.  The lesson here?  ‘Angry’ comes in all different shapes and psychotic sizes.

Should I drink it?

Like, hi Agony Aunt.  I’m at the pub at the moment with my gurlz and we’re having an awesome night.  A couple just left and they left a full glass of untouched champagne on the table.  I don’t really want to see it go to waste, should I drink it?  If you can hurry up with the answer, that’d be totally awesome.  I don’t really want to have to go to the bar because there’s a line and my heels are killing me.  Ta. You’re the best.

How dare that couple leave a full glass of alcohol in front of you?  What’s even worse is that they probably bought it during happy hour and you’re now on regular prices.  Bastards.  Some people just don’t know how to behave in pubs.

Don’t they know they should’ve skulled the drink before stumbling out the door?  I bet they were dressed like normal people as well.  No fake tan, no bunny ears and tea towels around their hips masquerading as miniskirts.  They would’ve bought shame to the pub by being polite, quiet and respectful.  The nerve of these people.  I don’t know why they were at a pub and not a retirement home. 

But I know you’re in a hurry for an answer, so here it is.  No, you don’t drink the full glass of bubbly delight.  I don’t care how much it’s taunting you.  Why?  Because you never drink a stranger’s drink ever.  At all, ever.  I mean ever.  Unless of course, the drink is some kind of magical potion that nourishes your brain with brain cells, then I say, drink it up baby. 

Have a question?  Send it to angryauntis@gmail.com

PS - And no, *sigh* champagne isn’t a magical potion that nourishes your brain with brain cells.  Your best friend Tiffany might tell you it is, but it’s not. 

Exclusive Angry Aunt Article: Taking It To Task

Dear All,

This article is exclusive to the Angry Agony Aunt readers.  If this idea actually pays off, it could mean the end to face-to-face interaction in the workplace.  … Ahhh, what a wonderful day that would be! 

TAKING IT TO TASK

Two names you may not know.  Dustin Moskovitz and Justin Rosenstein.  These fellas may not be as recognisable as their mate, Mark Zuckerberg but that doesn’t make them any less culpable for the screaming birth of Facebook.

In the early days, Dustin bunked at Harvard with Zuckerberg and earned a cool billion for his trouble.  A couple of years later, Justin hightailed it to Facebook an earned himself enough money to add the occupation ‘millionaire’ to his CV.  But before you could say, ‘Dude, where’s my chequebook’, Facebook, has turned into, like, old news.  The new news is a little web site called ‘Asana’.  But us cool kids call it ‘Work Book’.

Asana [WorkBook] is touted as a ‘modern web application that keeps teams in sync, a shared task list where everyone can capture, organize, track and communicate what they are working on in service of their common goal’.  Work can be shared, allocated and managed.  In plain English, Asana is an online to-do list, where everyone in your team can see your business.  And just as war sorts the men from the boys, Asana (a Sanskrit word meaning ‘yoga pose’) has the potential to sort the warriors from the downward facing dogs and the cobras from the one-legged pigeons.  This Asana thingie, is a warning shot that will terrify lazy middle managers.

And that’s all good and well for now, but the fatal shot won’t come until the techies in Palo Alto find a way to marry two brilliant ideas together; a glorious day when a code is invented for a mega web site that smashes the first rule of corporate principals - mixing business with pleasure.  And we have a suggested faux beta-testing name for it.  WorkMoodBook.  http://www.workmoodbook.com/

WorkMoodBook would be an online page where all the details of your work and co-workers can be brought together in one screen grab.  In the centre of the page is you, and around you are squiggly lines linking you with your teammates, managers, subordinates and clients.  These lines will then have offshoots linked with projects, tasks and if used correctly, outdated to-do lists.

WorkMoodBook will be exactly that.  A page culminating your work, your moods about your work and your mood about the morons you work with.  And for now, here are some helpful suggestions for Dustin and Justin to consider when they get bored with Asana.

The WorkMoodBook ‘LikeMoodStar’

Everyone loves getting a star.  A LikeMoodStar is where you give a working relationships a malleable grading.  For example, if your boss gives you a sliver of a compliment, you could give them one ‘LikeMoodStar’.  Then with enough ‘LikeMoodStars’, your boss could graduate to an elevated ‘LikeMoodGrade’.  Conversely, if your boss is an ugly piece of work and constantly blames you for their own incompetence, you can rescind their ‘LikeMoodStatus’ and demote them.

The ‘Star-Of-The-Day’ and ‘Douche-Of-The-Day’ Button

Star-Of-The-Day could be awarded to the aggressive bus driver who go you to work on time or to the Admin Assistant who washed your manky coffee cup.  With enough Star-Of-The-Day awards, you could earn internet cash that could only be spent on WorkMoodBook associated games to buy things that don’t exist (see Farmville and Cityville).

Equally, the Douche-Of-The-Day award, could be awarded to, well, obviously, the douche of the day.  With enough ‘Douch-Of-The-Day Awards’ you would be temporarily suspended from your WorkMoodBook account for thirty days.  Unfortunately the thirty day lock-out won't apply to real life but without access to your WorkMoodBook, you'll be flying blind and won't have a clue as to what's going on between computers.  Then after your WorkMoodBook ban has been lifted, you'll be welcomed back.  But not before you spend a further thirty days on a 'learner' login learning etiquette all again.  When you pass that test, you're full profile will be reinstated.

Relationship Charting Feature

We all love being judged.  The 'Relationship Charting Feature' is the best way to formalise this process.  For example, this tool will come in handy at annual performance reviews.  When it's time, the chart can be be neatly printed on an A4 sheet or exported to a Powerpoint Presentation.  Then you and your boss can chinwag about the factual line graph of your feelings about each other and how the year played out.  Day by delicious day.

However, relationship charting won’t be limited to you and your boss.  You could also rate your staff in friendliness and efficiency.  Everyone will have an opportunity to be graded out of ten for every task they carry out.  Admitially, this will cause passive aggressive encounters in the kitchen when you’ve given your co-worker four out of ten when they clearly wanted no less than an eight but can you imagine the fun of the relationship charting feature!

Client Tracking

Your customers would also benefit from your WorkMoodBook page.  For example, they can upload their order direct to your profile and failing the death of the internet, they can log in at any time to check the progress of their order.  They'd be able to read the tasks involved in creating their order, read internal communication on dedicated messageboards and even be able to instant message to Barry in the Warehouse to check the delivery time.  Sure, for some users like Barry will never understand instant messaging (because he mistakes the 'ding' of instant messaging with the 'ding' of the microwave) but at least the customer can try.

MoodNewsFeeds

A MoodNewsFeed is a great way for your co-workers and subordinates to ‘get the message’ about everyone in the team.  For example, if you can see that Steve and Gary from Sales have listed ‘hangover’ as their mood, you can deduce the sales meeting probably went a bit longer and a bit harder than originally planned.  Also, if Penny updates, ‘morning sickness’ as her mood, you can further deduce that either Steve or Gary has some explaining to do.

MoodProfileFace

Instead of having a profile photo of your ugly face in the middle of your page, your profile photo would be replaced by a coloured ‘mood face’.  Even though there are technically two real ‘moods’ in life - good and bad, WorkMoodBook will have a hundred or so to chose from.  A ‘merger’ mood could be available for when you have too many feelings to categorise.  This ‘merger mood’ could only be used three times a year, but if you're female, you'll be able to have this available to you once a month.

MoodStatusUpdates

This will surely be the crowning glory of WorkMoodBook.  At any point in time you can log in and check the mood of your boss.  For example, if your boss has updated, ‘Cathy was 30 minutes late today’, and you’re Cathy, it may not be the best time to ask for a pay rise.  It may be better to wait for your boss to update ‘Tim didn’t meet deadline’.

But even after all these sparkling suggestions, let’s not get ahead of ourselves.  We can’t walk before we can crawl.  WorkMoodBook hasn't happened yet.  Before it does, we have to let Dustin and Justin tinker with their little Asana project first.  We have to give them an opportunity to give us an opportunity to remember (forget) another logon and password.  We also have to give it time for our co-workers to suitably irritate us with the phrase ‘Asana me’.

It'll only be in a couple of years time when you stop caring about the Asana web page, you may just receive a little email inviting you to joining the WorkMoodBook community.  This will then be followed up by a trip to the movies to see the dramatized sequel to ‘The Social Network’ called ‘Taking It To Task: The Dustin and Justin Story’.  That’s right, you heard it here first.  Spread the word.

* The above suggestions are just the tip of the iceberg.  If you have a good (or ridiculous) suggestion for WorkMoodBook, send it to angryauntis@gmail.com.  You don't get any money for it but if the idea takes off, I'll let Dustin and Justin know where the ideas came from.

What language do they speak in Cityville?

Dear Angry Agony Aunt,

I speak English in several languages, New Zealand, Australian, American, South African, Canadian and English English... but no other weird languages.  On Facebook I love playing Cityville, I was going through my friends, and noticed well over half my "friends" or “Cityville Neighbours" don't speak English, is this normal?

Pigeon English Speaker

For those readers who don’t know what Cityville is, let me explain.

Cityville is an on-line time wasting game where you run your own virtual city.  You can build ice-cream shops, retail stores, houses, stadiums and a combined restaurant/bar [I’ve called mine, ‘The Chew and Spew’].  You can grow and harvest crops, decorate your parks and watch your population grow.  In return, you earn city coins, experience and virtual cash [that can only be spent on the towns infrastructure]. 

Sound fun right?  Sure.  What’s not fun about planning your life around when your crops will be ready to harvest?  Sure, fun with a capital BORING.  But before you know it, the more you accomplish, the more you get and the more you get, the more you want to accomplish.  That means it turns into an addiction.  And for it to be a good addiction, it needs to cost you money.  I'll explain. 

After you’ve built a few small houses, bread shops and community buildings, you're bribed with non-existent 'stuff' to suck more people in.  Cityville calls these people 'neighbours'.  Neighbours help you acquire exclusive 'non-existent stuff' and your neighbours are encouraged to send you 'free gifts'.  Why?  Because to get your non-existent gift, you have to go and play the game.  Again.  With neighbours like those, who needs enemies... 

And this is where the scam hits it strides.  If you want to turn your crummy town in to a hoity-toity city with skyscrapers and fancy pants doggie day-cares, you either need a lot of neighbours or you need to spend REAL money.  Yes, REAL bona-fide cash dollars you sweated to get at the REAL job you have.

And the clincher?  20 million people like this scam.  Sure, it's been tarted up with a few cute looking icons, tinkling introduction music and annoying dinging sounds when you do something in the town, but it's a scam nonetheless. 

But look, good on them.  If the Cityville creators can find 20 million bored people with an addictive personality and a credit card from Abu Dhabi to Zambia to Lesbos [see a previous Agony Aunt], then they deserve the money.  And this leads me to my answer.  It doesn’t matter where you are in the world or if you speak English, Mandarin, Spanish, Hindustani or Russian.  In Cityville, the only language that matters is the language of money.