My Annual Self Assessment

On the off chance that you aren't an orc and you're reading this, let me help you unravel some of the more obtuse utterances contained in this document with some choice hints. For example, what we call 'striking the deal' involves er.. striking a great deal hard. As for who or what the customers we refer to are, we call them what we call them cos stomachs are what they fill. Go figure. At least in the few moments you have before we er.. strike the deal.

If you are an orc, and you happen to be my manager, this document contains two kinds of statements - one: a brief, highly compressed statement detailing my achievements in the past year, and two: corresponding to each achievement, a highly fleshed out, fully detailed description on the areas of improvement to go with it.
Please excuse me while I take this opportunity to point out that the sections on the achievements in this document are brief, highly compressed precis of the full statement on achievements which runs into a little over fifty pages. Please keep that in mind, and excuse any unintended terseness.

1: Communication Skills

I have successfully reduced the turnover time for a typical deal to be struck with customers by employing a twofold process to improve my communication skills – first, I tuned the processes responsible for vocalization to streamline the frequencies of sounds emitted, to approach the sound of what customers often refer to as a growl. These vocal mechanisms, as you must be aware, are contained in a fleshy sac located behind the third right knee. I took to it with a bloody axe, which needless to say, did not quite tickle. Second, I was coached on the right body language to approach customers in order to induce them to er.. get eaten quickly. For example, it seems a well known fact in business circles that the flailing around of one’s arms, used judiciously, induces customers to flop to the ground in boneless shock, and consequently er.. get eaten quickly. The changes in body language I learnt were not all so unsubtle; most of them were minor tweaks in bearing to add a measure of belligerence to my general demeanour.

Areas of Improvement
I have a lot to work on here though because it appears that the aforementioned advancements in communication skills have come at the expense of increased vocal emissions from the customers (see 3). Also, my colleagues have, as is their wont, pointed out tactlessly to me that my growls still aren’t very intimidating. For the sake of self-development, I will put to paper the exact term they used to describe me in this context; but let me proclaim, first, in the strongest terms that I do not condone such language in any way, and I will never be heard growling out such obscenities in orc society in the future. “Sissy,” they said.

2: Warts

The increased production of certain obnoxious smelling pustules on the visage helped me coax more customers into er.. getting eaten, in comparison to the year before. I achieved this by adhering to a strict diet that involved not chewing more than six times on bones longer than four inches before swallowing, and then regurgitating them after a span of not more than three hours, and then finishing the chewing. I won't go into details here because I do not want to make you feel hungry while working on this appraisal.

Areas of Improvement
The aforementioned increased production of obnoxious smelling pustules, however, on select occasions, affected my interactions with colleagues, due to their entirely unpredictable propensity to er.. burst. I’m appropriately humbled to inform you that several of my colleagues have lost a limb or two or six due to the extremely corrosive effluvium that spurted out on the select occasions when an obnoxious smelling pustule or two burst unexpectedly. My colleagues, noble orcs that they all are, have chosen not to make a hue and cry of this perfectly natural process, but I resolve to improve my performance in this area next year. I resolve to strive my level best to produce more pink warts, and less green, because they are known to be less corrosive in their discharges.

3: Reduced Vocal Emissions

I have successfully reduced the number of high frequency vocal emissions generally known to be emitted by customers in the moments before er.. getting eaten, in comparison to the year before. It is well documented that these high frequency vocal emissions are potent in their effect on orc biochemistry – I have seen colleagues simply implode (the horror!) when a particularly effective emission from a three year old girl struck them. This I originally planned to achieve by showing a few more of my pearly white teeth, for it is understood that many customers are soothed by what is called a smile, but it appeared that this move only backfired from what I could gather from my informal observations. Then, I reversed strategy and decided to show fewer of my pearly white teeth. While this move predictably drew the usual taunts of effeminacy from a few colleagues (who are now limbless thanks to a wart or two blowing up in their vicinity, entirely unexpectedly), I believe that the results speak for themselves.

Areas of Improvement
Having said all that, there is still great scope for improvement. It appears that the simple act of conversation amongst my orc brethren is sufficient to evoke Powerful Vocal Emissions (PVEs) from a significant fraction of the customer sample. While it is ridiculous to expect us to not speak at all during the course of striking a deal, it may be worthwhile to explore the possibility of cutting down on some of the more overtly bellicose ejaculations that are estimated to account for a third of all orc vocalizations.

4: Hygiene

I am happy to report that I have significantly cut down on instances of accidental cleaning up; including but not limited to getting dowsed in rainwater while striking a deal during a thunderstorm, getting my venomous barb tipped pants stuck in elevators, and thereby getting dusted upside down, getting dropped in incinerators, and getting overgrown claws cleaved by swords. Why is this relevant? Here’s where an oft-repeated adage may come in handy. “A filthy orc is a healthy orc is a wealthy orc.”

Areas of Improvement
I am extremely unhappy to report however that there were still a number of instances over the past year when I was, against my will, forced to clean up. On one notable occasion, in my headlong rush to seal a deal with a customer, I slipped on a carefully placed puddle of water and lay there drenched for an entire day, while a portable incinerator was fetched to help me recover from the accident. My misery did not end there. The customer, incensed at the way we were going about striking the deal, decided to extract a modicum of revenge by spraying me liberally with what I believe they call eau-de-cologne. Needless to say, my colleagues avoided me like the plague for weeks after that incident. I pledge, I pledge on my eighty four utterly decayed fangs that I will do my best to ensure that such things will not happen again.

5: Swordplay

I have, through arduous practice, greatly improved at my swordplay. You will be pleased to hear that I only accidentally decapitated fifteen of my colleagues while wielding my twelve foot blade of choice last year. Compare this with the giddy thirty two that fell victim to my enthusiasm the year before. I must, however, insert a caveat at this point – while the year before last only sixty one limbs were hacked off in error, last year, the number grew to a worrying seventy one. These statistics, like most things in life, require some context. Since, orcs on average, possess 7.2 limbs, none of the orcs that lost theirs to my extravagant blade's er.. swishings were incapacitated by it.

Areas of Improvement
While I have greatly ameliorated some of the hurdles that have impacted the defensive side of my swordplay (this includes accidental beheadings in case you’re wondering), work is still needed to sharpen the offensive side. Statistics reveal to me that only a fourth of the deals I struck with my customers were done so employing my highly (t)rusted twelve foot blade. A majority of them involved claws, while a not insignificant fraction had something to do with fangs. As it is well understood that swords are usually the quickest way to get through (to) customers, I must improve my efficacy in this most crucial domain.

Software In Time

“I write software.”

“Soft wear? Is this some new fangled form of clothing that does not itch like the devil in the summer heat? May I have some?”

It was at this point that the enormity of the task that I was facing struck me. Or I thought it did, but the enormity of my miscalculation would only be revealed much later of course.

“But how can you write clothes? Do you mean you draw patterns that tailors stitch?” he made a sharp flicking gesture with his hand, which I took to refer to the current fashion in stitch dancing.

“ ‘Tis a strange profession though, isn’t it? I have known a fair few artists in my time. All of them were rascals and layabouts, and all the women loved them, but they couldn’t draw the little wild tree in their backyard, let alone the beautiful pictures of God and his children that you see plastered over all those holy places. Well, couldn’t don’t mean shouldn’t, so they usually did end up drawing – perhaps that’s too strong a word, eh? – sketching smudgy impressions of the holy deity. Not the peach tree in the frontyard, and certainly not clothes. Mighty odd, you saying you draw clothes for a living. New fangled ones that don’t itch in the summer at that. Hmm”

At the end of that thorough but thoroughly inaccurate rant, the man looked directly and deep into my eyes, all but demanding an explanation for my unsatisfactory choice of profession.

A bead of sweat made its stately way down my finely sculpted temple.

“Right. Do you know what er.. come you tosser?”

“Tosser? Just because I’m showing an entirely innocent interest in your vocation doesn’t mean I want to take it away, sirree. There’s no need to run away with your tongue, I’m not going to pilfer your soft wares. Tosser?! I’m only – “

“I didn’t call you a tosser. I said cump-you-terse. Do you know what they are?”

The man looked perplexed for a moment, trying to work out if I’d only gone and repeated the insult in spite of the apology.

“No, sir.”

“They are er.. Boxes.”

“Boxes? You mean you’ve got boxes full of soft wear?”

In spite of myself, I brightened immediately. This conversation was looking up. Right? Maybe all those years of hard graft would be worth something. There’d be fame of course. But.. fame is always a function of other people’s desires. It’s something that’s given to you – a gift, alms to the needy if you will. I wanted more: something for myself, something that couldn’t be taken away on a whim. Maybe that’d still come, but that cliff yonder was starting to look remarkably attractive for an impromptu dive into the unknown beyond. Well, at least sorta unknown. I knew there’d be barrelsful of jagged rocks at the bottom to tear me into little pieces of carrion-to-be, but at least I didn’t know how many barrelsful there would be. Wait, didn’t I set off to brighten up a moment earlier? Yes. No jumping yet.

“Exactly!” said I in apparently spontaneous excitement, totally undermined of course by the heavily pregnant pause that’d preceded that exclamation.

Meanwhile, remember that brightening thing I had banged on about for a bit earlier? It quickly disappeared as I took stock of the rain-dark clouds that were rapidly scudding across my companion’s face. He looked, as you’d say, thunderous.

“I didn’t know you had boxes, sir. Not only do you appear to be an uncommonly stupid simpleton, but a liar and rogue to boot. If you had boxes and boxes of your magic fabric stowed away, why did you profess such unwarranted hesitation at my request to see one? I only wanted to see, I had no intention of –“

“Please. These boxes er.. only have the blueprints.”

“You mean the drawings? Why do you need boxes then? Are you such a bad artist that you fill up boxes and boxes with tripe before you come up with something good?” A genteel titter accompanied that rhetorical question.

I was fighting a losing battle with my ego at that point. Here I was, a brave pioneer trudging paths never before seen, bandying words with a crude peasant.

“Could you not talk for a minute? Or two? Or thirty? OK. So, a computer is a box which can add numbers. It can – “

“Did I tell you about my great grandmum? Fine old lady she was. Lost both her legs to the 'pox. Most of her mind followed until she could only remember her name when it snowed fifty kilometres away. But a fine old lady she was. She could add numbers too.”

I blanched graciously.

“Right. Hold on to your tongue for a minute, will you? Here’s a steel clamp to help you out. I’ve seen it used to tether elephants.”
“A computer is a box that can add numbers in magical ways. For example, I can use that box which adds numbers …“ I rooted around for the best metaphor to tie into the utterly useless conversation we’d had so far. “… to er.. model new kinds of fabric.”

“You mean the soft stuff.”

“Yeah, the ‘soft’ stuff.” Even my supremely unflappable demeanour was feeling the strain a little, and a touch of sarcasm crept into my otherwise perfectly considerate tone. “That day, when you’d missed reading the newspaper because you were off talking to yourself since you were so bored of talking to yourself, that was the day it was reported that scientists had figured out that manipulating numbers was all there was to the world.”

“Pardon me, sir, but if you’re referring to the day my dead grandmum appeared before me and told me in no uncertain terms that it was my destiny to not become a great man, to not become very wealthy, to not have a beautiful wife and to not be the happiest man in the world, your allusion is callous and .. and blatantly in disregard of – “

“No, not that day. The other one. Anyway, the point is that computers are boxes that add numbers, subtract numbers, and juggle them like, really, really fast. Take the fastest wagon you’ve ever seen. Now imagine it were about a thousand thousand thousand thousand times faster, that’s how long my pretty little box would take to multiply your age with your height with your weight with the temperature, and round off to the nearest hundred. But computers, computers aren’t smart. We need to get them to do what we want – and that is where I come in. I tell these boxes that they can only juggle numbers in certain ways, and I ensure they remember my instructions by occasionally rapping an object shaped like a bar of soap.”

The man, I’m glad to report, finally looked a shade weary of this exchange. His eyes scoured every nook of my visage, perhaps in search of mockery. I’m glad to report, again, that I passed the test.

“So, what you're saying is, you have a box that can add numbers, and you not only use this box to add numbers in magical ways to make blueprints of soft fabric that doesn’t itch in the summertime, but also to store blueprints of soft fabric that doesn’t itch in the summertime. What you do is tell the box to only make blueprints and none of those greenprints, and to get the point across, you use a bar of soap. And you don't have any of that fine fabric to share right now.” I nodded helpfully at every syllable.

With that, he gathered one very heavily muscled arm and cuffed me gently on the chin before going on his way. When I woke up a couple of days later, I wondered if I was wrong about passing the test after all. Right then I made a vow: I’d never travel in my time machine again.