Teamwork and Trust in Vietnam

The course is called Mandatory Leader Training Workshop.

I tried to wriggle out of it the day before but was told very bluntly by HR: "Cannot Anthony - it's mandatory."

Fast forward to 8am at the Hanoi International.

I find my misspelt name on a card on a round table in the Ho Chi Minh conference room on the third floor. 

It was 8.30am when our instructor introduces himself as Larry. He is a lovely American guy who has worked in the company for 25 years and is from Rhode Island and is happy to be in Vietnam. His shoes are old and scuffed, a sure sign that we only use him for in-house courses these days.

Exercise 1: The ice breaker

The opening ice-breaker exercise was standard fare.

Larry: “Write down the name of a leader you admire, and which qualities ..."

[…]

Exercise 2: Team work

Larry asked us to stand in a circle and count from 1 to 18.

Odd numbers were sent to one side and evens on the other, forming 2 teams.

I was the only foreigner on Team B and felt like an enormous white blob as I stood there, towering over my peers.

Larry marched us to the back of the room and marshalled each team under a sheet of A4 paper that was hanging from the ceiling.

I noticed some ugly vertical blinds in a high window and wondered if their twin was still hanging in my childhood bedroom.

This daydream was interrupted by my team poking me and handing me a pen. "We write our names on the paper!" they said, pointing to the paper.  I reached up and pulled it down from the ceiling in a single, fluid motion. 

Larry groaned and my team's smiles turned into icy glares, shifting away from me as if I were riddled with Ebola. 

Larry re-explains that we were supposed to keep the paper up there and use team work to get each person to write their name.

The game was suspended as people glared at the foreigner who had ruined the game. Larry hunted for more A4, reholed it, restrung it and rehung it.

"Three ... two ... one ... go."

It was Team A vs Team B.

I quickly reach up and write my name in the top box, handing my pen to the guy next to me. He couldn't reach and gave up immediately by handing it to a girl in jeans. She jumped up but couldn't quite manage it, either. The clock was against us.

I am so focused on the paper that I haven't noticed my team slowly gathering around me with hungry eyes, like cannibals at Christmas lunch.

Within seconds I am pushed onto all fours and my teammates startg climbing onto me in quick succession. 

Arms and elbows press into my back and I groan as their palms pressed hard into my hips, no doubt for leverage as they carefully hoist up the more nervous teammates. I feel like a mistreated horse.

Our final competitor jumps onto me and I feel a disc being slowly dislodged. By now they have forgotten that I am even an animal, much less human. I have become a fully functioning bridge. 

Her knees dig into my shoulder blades and the team bounce her off me to cheers and high-fives.

Our team rushes to the front of the room with the paper, abandoning me on all fours without explanation. I figure out what is happening and spring up as quickly, lest they return to mount me for a victory lap.

Exercise 3: Building Trust in the Workplace

After lunch we are divided into the same 2 teams and I listen carefully at the instructions (fool me once).

2 tables at the back of the room are set up as makeshift cliffs. This is the one where you fall backwards and trust your team to catch you.

The 3 biggest westerners (me included) are singled out and told we were not allowed to fully participate. One teammate points at me and cackles a helpful "We're not catching him! Not possible!" I looked down and mumble "I am not allowed to jump", like a pale child who is allergic to everything and carries a note from his parents.

So off we march to the tables.

Our team becomes a disorganised kerfuffle as we debate the safest way to catch someone. Most in our team are relatively small so it isn't going to be a huge challenge and they volunteer me as the primary catcher.

One of the smallest guys in our group volunteers to go first. He pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose and nods his head sharply, like a nerd psyching himself up for a date with a whore. In the previous exercise he had been very nervous to climb onto Old Clover but now he is full of steam, obviously buoyed from this morning's victory.

We form a loose huddle and debate our process (palms up? wrist grabs? lattice?).

While we are talking we hear Team A's first member drop back into safe hands, to cheers and congratulations. 

This added pressure helps us to agreed on our approach: palms up looked like the safest way.

Then it happens.

An audible brief WHOOSH. Then a THUD.

As we were debating our first jumper, oblivious to our planning process, was climbing onto the table and getting into position. I imagine him biting his bottom lip as he psyched himself up. He must have been deep in his own head as he heard the hurrahs of the other team and decided that now was his time.

Our entire team had our backs to the cliff and no one broke his fall.

We turn around in shock. He looks up in shock as he lays on the ground, shaking, his arms still raised above his head in a show of trust.

As we help him up his legs give way. we carry him out to the coffee break area and doctor is called.

About 10 minutes later a stunned Larry returns to the room and robotically launches into his wrap up.

Larry: "So. Umm. Team 1. Who went first in your team?"

-- "I did."

Larry: "How did you feel at that point, Minh?"

--"It felt fantastic actually."

Larry: "That's great. It really demonstrates the importance of teaming and trust."

Larry, on autopilot: "And team 2? How did ... oh ... That's right. Didn't go so well."

Lesson learned: Look before you leap.

Faceban

After months of speculation, it looks like Facebook has finally been blocked by the Vietnamese government.

It was no surprise. People have been talking about this impending censorship for ages now.

The impact that this is going to have on my life?

Zilch. Sweet relief.

I love socialism and I love censorship.

Skinny Bitch

This is the perfect excuse for a diet.

Le Pain in the ...

Turns out nature does have some redeeming features.

Finally ... Leaving ... Britney ... Alone ...

Where are they now?

Umm ... right here.

Ain't closure grand?

It's great having Chris Crocker CC back? Although it kinda makes me miss Anna Nicole ...

Daft Proposals

I had a client meeting this morning. It was to walk through a draft proposal.

The proposal itself is boring. It's offering something very important to the client. I think it's very good. I also know it is very boring.

Many consultants leave their first meeting with a new client and announce "Oh this client doesn't have a clue about anything". I'm not one of those people. I can't stand it when people do it. This client, however, is truly stupid. Fact.

For a lot of reasons too dull to go into, the proposal needed to be clearly marked as a draft. I did this by slapping a large watermark with the word DRAFT on every page.

Then Word decided to have a tantrum and the little fucker wouldn't stop crashing. After a protracted wrestling match I eventually put Word into a headlock and printed the copies out.

Seems the printer was in on it. This was what came out.

I figured that I would be the only one to notice - certainly the only one to care - and besides I had run out of time. So I took 4 copies of my Daft Proposal to the meeting.

As we were walking through the proposal, and the client started asking a series of typically stupid questions, I disobediently said to myself "Daft, daft, daft" and smirked.

Diversity Need Not Be A Barrier ...

Like many US multinationals, we have a strong focus on workplace diversity. We even have a Global Diversity Council with some awards and shit.

Our latest initiatives have been branded "Diversity 3.0". [Fuck you, iSnack]

The whole concept of diversity started with women's equality... important issues like equal pay, maternity leave and sexual harrassment. Diversity now covers other issues like race, religion, sexuality, disability etc.

In Vietnam we have a Diversity Leader and she's been busy putting her own stamp on things. This is her modus operandi:

1. Set up special email groups for women and men. Call it "Ladies" and "Gentlemen" to remind us of former times.

[The Good Ole Days.]

2. Make sure you Cc: the Gentlemen on your email. They have a right to know what the women in the office are up to.

[No good, of course.]

3. Make the subject of the email enticing. Yet ambiguous. Refer to a "brand" like it's a good thing. "Brand" has such a wonderful ring to it ... your image as perceived by the outside world ... the core values of your product ... the position you hold in the market ... or in this case it's a permanent mark seared onto your arse with a hot poker.

[That dark, black mark of womanhood.]

4. Take a swipe at men. All men. Because they deserve it. Keeps them in their place.

[Motivates the men to do the same to women.]

5. Get all the Ladies into the one room to focus on issues which are important to women. In some countries it is maternity issues. In others it's managing stereotypes. Some even still focus on sexual harrassment. For the Vietnamese Lady, it's:

a) Time management. Women are clearly terrible time managers, what with the babies and the boobies. All that time putting on make-up. And they get emotional too, right, which makes them so easily flustered when deadlines are looming.

b) Cooking. Teach the bitch to cook a fucking pizza. Nuff said.

[Can't cook a pizza, your husband will start to wander to other ladies' ovens.]

6. Invite your male colleagues into the room to judge your new cooking skills.

[Actually I'm starting to feel a bit woozy as I right this ... I can't quite believe it myself.]

7. Tell a little joke about having anti-nausea medication ("Berberin") on hand in case the silly bitches can't even manage their time well enough to cook a fucking pizza properly. This also balances the anti-male joke at the beginning of the email; turning on women. All women. Because they deserve it. Keeps them in their place.

[Motivates Women to do the same to men.]

To: Ladies

Cc: Gentlemen

Subject: Diversity to Making a better BRAND YOU!

Ladies,

There is a wise saying from a lady (men can't say such wise thing):

"We are CEOs of our own companies: ME Inc. To be happy in life and successful in career, our critical job is to be chief marketing officer for the brand called YOU".

So let's make an investment in the most important person to you: Yourself. Make your brand special, shining, and desirable. Let's impress the surroundings!

Our Vietnam Diversity Group will be organizing a number of activities to help you be a better you, to help you brand yourself as a truly unique company successful and happy woman. However you must play a big part in it. The first activity starts this Friday, 6 Nov from 4:00 to 7:30 at Hanoi Room with:

1. How to effectively manage our time: Roundtable (Facilitated by Ms. Quyen Tran Thi)

2. How to make Italian pizza (instructed by Sua Tham Chef)

Gentlemen: You are invited to taste our office-home-made authentic, delicious, fresh hot pizzas at Hanoi room at about 6:30PM.

Berberin is available at first aid box.

Warm regards,

Nguyen Trang Mai

Diversity Lead

I'm living in a 1950's tv commercial, aren't I?

A trustworthy man in a flannel grey suit is about to walk in ... any moment now ... to highlight the scientifically proven benefits of smoking.

Ding Dong

The Evil Milkmaid appears to have resigned.

Something "went down" last week. Last night I heard that she's gone and she ain't comin' back.

That's how things are done here. One day people just no longer exist. Then the other people act confused about why you are asking where they went or if they are coming back.

I wish I could take some credit for this DE*, but I suspect that it was VM**.

* Dairy Expurgation

** Vintage Milkmaid

This Just In

I received the following email this morning.

Good day, Anthony,

This is regarding the pending nomination for Nguyen Thi Xuan. Per Aug 2009 HRIW data from HR BIS, Nguyen's PRG code appears to be non-eligible for SEA (1TS8 with title Sr Technical Services Mgr).

May we confirm with you the updated PRG code and PRG title? We need this information in order to process.

Looking forward to your response. Thank you.

Kat

Fucked if I know.

Relatively speaking, my answer was simple:

Kat

I have absolutely no idea what you are talking about.

Cheers

Anthony

Moment No 1

Lemongrass Restaurant, 4 Nguyen Thiep, HCMC

12:35pm

"What you want drink?"

-- "A lemon juice please. No sugar."

"You want dessert?"

- No. No thank you.

"Think yes. You should."

- "No really, no dessert. Thank you."

"Same price. Fixed lunch menu."

- "I know but that's OK. I don't need dessert."

"I think Grilled Banana Cake."

- "Umm. OK. Grilled Banana Cake."

Postscript: the lemon juice was packed with sugar.

T-Dogg's In Da House

I was referred to as "Talent" yesterday.

We were in a meeting discussing some problems with the ASEAN region and how difficult it is for me to get help from the locals.

Then we talked about some inter-office problems in Hanoi, including the Evil Milkmaid.

My boss leaned over to one of the other execs in the room and said "That's the trouble. They spot some talent in this area and they fucking fuck it royally."

So I'm Talent. Talent that's getting fucking fucked royally, mind, but Talent.

Now let's get one thing clear - my only "talent" is pretending to be humble. So that's what I did.

As he spoke I sat still. I played the role of distracted maiden perfectly ... eyes downcast while she's waiting for her hanky to be picked up. I was humble, yet distracted, yet optimistic, yet calm, yet confident, yet humble.

It took a lot of fucking concentration, I tell you. Humble sucks.

I don't care though. Because I'm Talent. With a capital T.

It's got a nice ring to it. Even when it is getting fucking fucked royally.

Now let's get another thing clear: I get a hell of a lot more criticism in this job than I get praise. I try not to take the former too much to heart ... so really I treat the latter with a similar degree of suspicion.

See? Humble. I've got it down to a tee.

Proof That My Blog Is Not Working

Because this doesn't happen:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vzgEi_u9-88

Why doesn't this happen to me? With me? At me?

I mean ... I use swear words. I have been lighting enough fires.

Why why why?

Lasciate ogne speranza, voi ch'intrate

I’m sitting in a 3-day training course in Kuala Lumpur. It's being held in a conference room at the Renaissance Hotel, so named because ... yes ... yes ... I know ... we've been there before. I've been there before. I've been here before.

My boss, who is running this course, laughed as he boasted during his introduction on Day 1:

"I saw how the other business units got funding approval so just copied what they did, swapped out the business unit name and submitted it!" That's why his the boss. It's so Kafkaesque.

Like the previous course, this one includes a PowerPoint presentation delivered by Peggy. Her topic is project management so I assume it will be exactly the same PowerPoint presentation ... slide by slide. She even started her presentation with a quiz and by giving out little prizes she bought in Duty Free.

As I was walking back into the room after a break, Wendy (who is coordinating this training course) grabbed me by the arm and pulled me to one side. She looked friendly but earnest. Alert but not alarmed. Maybe a little alarmed.

W: "I've seen Peggy's slides. I've seen them. They're exactly the same! She even starts with a quiz! You don't need to go. Skip out while you have the chance!"). I felt like I was James Bond, being briefed at the 11th hour by Moneypenny.

But Wendy was too late. I had already suggested this to my boss; that I had seen Peggy's presentation recently; that I didn't need to sit through it again. Unfortunately he had other thoughts. Wanted me there in case Peggy wanted to know something about Vietnam or Indonesia.

So here I am now. I'm sitting through the same Peggy material and listening to the same opening quiz. It's my GroundPeg Day.

P: "Great answer Karina. And as your special prize I have a wonderful keychain, all the way from Hong Kong ..."

In August, her keyring prizes were from Melbourne Airport so she's clearly made some script adjustments this time. I have that to thank her for.

The funny thing about this quiz is that I still don't know any of the answers. Didn't listen last time; didn't listen this time.

Maybe that's why I'm still here. Maybe I've been banished to a circle called Peggyhell, trapped until I finally listen and learn and move on. Maybe if I don't learn from her - or until I do - I need to keep jumping over barrels and climbing up ladders. Maybe I will be forever doomed to this presentation. If I had known this from the beginning I would have paid attention in the first place.

I think this is probably the proof I've been waiting for. That God exists. And I ain't talkin bout no nice God, neither. God must be behind all this. And what a vengeful God he has turned out to be. Just as I suspected he would be: the Sky Bully.

'Fuck God', I tell myself, 'he's not the boss of me'.

So here I sit, perpetuating my same routine of typing, nodding, typing, looking up and smiling at Peggy as with more nodding. Still using fall pretences to win Peggy's favour. Actually, given the precedent I set last time I think I have to. She expects it of me.

In the interest of diversity, this time I've added a supplement to my vigorous nodding. I'm interrupting Peggy with Dorothy Dixers. She's loving me. I should hate myself. But I don't. I lap it up like a hungry kitten. A cute little hungry kitten. With little white bits on his cute little paws. I am Sox.

These are small mercies though. If I think about all this long enough, this little learning loop I'm trapped in, I feel doomed. I am Dante, trapped in another circle. Of course I am no ordinary Dante. I am a bespectacled Dante. With greasy hair and narrow slumping shoulders.

I realise that I have no control of my fate. My head is swimming. Nothing is changing. I contribute heartily to the break out sessions but my heart isn't in it. What am I doing?

She asks a question to the group. My hand shoots up as I bite hard into this apple. I throw a fake smile and a nod and I answer Peggy's question. I don't know the answer but I guess it correctly. She's digging into the bag. Another keyring. I am now the proud owner of an ugly keyring from some souvenir store at Hong Kong Airport. For the first time today, my smile back to Peggy is genuine.

Hanoi Airport - More fun

I was walking through the bag xray today and as I walked through that door frame it went off. So I just turned straight around, walked out (beep) and back through (beep).

The guy either hadn't noticed or didn't care. He was 2 busy chatting to the chick behind the monitors, whose job it was to check the contents of the bags. However, she was too busy talking back to him so she wasn't look down at her screen at all.

It stood there stunned for a while. Should I have another go at at?

Not me. My bag was out by then so I just walked over, grabbed it and left.

Reminded me of the time a couple of months ago when I was able to talk them out of confiscating things - a large shaving can and a bottle of water. Just by saying I didn't have time to buy more.

If there's any tersts out there I've got a tip - Hanoi. Kill them all.

Stay Gold, Ponyboy

I am travelling to KL today.

Last night there was an "incident" at Fusion, R's local bar. There had been a fight a-brewin' between a couple of Vietnamese men.

Some guy had spoken to some chick poorly. She then dobbed to some other guy who in turn got involved to pretect her honour or his face or some stupid thing.

Threats were made because each of them went off to collect their weapons and posses before reconvening. R knows one of the guys quite well and was been invited to attend in the role of back-up. This invitation was extended to me I I was dead keen.

Unfortunately I was at the doctor's getting my antibiotics (Stilnox chaser of course) when the rumble went down. God mustn't want me rumbling. Can't imagine why. I would have jumped at the chance to stand in Hai Anh's gang. I could be standing, therer look at another gang. One of his goons would look at me "What the fuck are you looking at potato?" and I would look back gormlessly while showtunes played in my head. Maybe even the theme tune from Oz. Either way I'd be calm, possibly a little bored.

On my way to the airport I called R to see how his night had panned out.

Apparently there were adult themes, harsh language, and an extendable rod weapon which has a name I can't remember. And a punch to the face. Silly high school stuff really. There was a weapon though. A punch was thrown, a potato chick (one of our posse) jumped in to break up the fracas and they all skulked away to cook up grand plans. This whole country is in Year 10.

Then Hai Anh dedided he'd lost face so punched a hole in some plastic chairs, causing his hands to bleed. Maybe Year 9.

Back to the taxi.

After this incident R had gone to another skanky bar, then another and by about 1am he had met and picked up a drunk Australian girl who took him back to her hotel room. They woke up at 10.30 to the tune of her saying "Fuck! Oh Fuck! I've got a flight at 1.30!".

Me: She had plenty of time.

R: No. She had shit everywhere. It was going to take her ages to pack.

Me: Did you help her?

R: Nup. Just got dressed and left. I'm missing a sock now.

Me: OK now I think you're officially a slut, R.

R: No! Not at all! ... hmm ... well maybe just a bit. Mot chut. [Little bit.]

I arrived at the airport and while checking in I had another thought. I called R back.

Me: If she's getting the 1.30 then she's going to Singapore. That leaves 40 min before my flight so she's probably here at the airport. Do you want me to find her?

R: I really couldn't give a fuck. I'm sure neither could she.

Me: But wouldn't it be funny if I just walked up to her out of the blue and said hello X? By the way what's her name?

R: No idea. I don't remember getting it. I doubt she would know mine, either. But yes it would be funny.

Me: If I get through Customs in time I'll call you back and ask what she looks like.

I checked in relatively quickly and went to the Sky Cafe for a lemon smoothie. I called R back.

Me: "So tell me what this girl looks like.

R: "I don't really remember. She's tall though. About 5 foot 10. Blonde. Quite buxom.

Me: "Does she wear a silver necklace with a large heart on it?

R: "Yes! Fuck! Yes! How did you fucking find her!!! That's amazing. What will I say? I know - I told her if we fucked then I'd be her Facebook friend."

[I decided to drop that one.]

Me: "Yeah, or just ask her for her email address or something.

So I walked over to this girl, handed her my phone and said "I think this call is for you ..."

Checking the Children

I like to drop the C bomb quite early. So does R. It's our way of thinning out the herd in new social situations.

If someone can't use cunt with pride -- or at least a degree of skill -- they're on probation. Not that I'm exactly judge and jury in these sitautions, or even Judge Judy, but I got me standards.

I first met Cuntastic a couple of months ago. It was actually a couple of hours before I threw R's helmet off the bridge in a fit of Valium-fuelled pique. I'm not sure which was the bigger highlight.

R had tested the C bomb on her within minutes of meeting and she laughed - cackled, even - as she repeated back what he said with glee. Turns out she's quite cunt friendly so we christened her Cuntastic and have used it ever since. She thinks it's a great name. So do we. So childish.

The next time I ran into C she got my name wrong and introduced me to one of her friends as Jonathan. Years of alcohol abuse may have eroded the efficacy of C's memory, but that's probably not it. Give most people a couple of weeks and they forget not only my name, but having ever met me.

It's a themes. I don't know what it is. Could be the face. Maybe the personality. (Please, not the shoes, anything but the shoes!) Needless to say I took on Jonathan quite readily. It's better than nothing.

Whether I'm happy or not is irrelevant. She happily answers to Cuntastic so one could hardly object. I even think I look even like a Jonathan. I'm trying to comb my hair like a Jonathan.

Cuntastic lives around the corner from me and I catch up with her from time to time. It always involves alcohol and she's sometimes sporting a pet. Her last pet was a teacher from her school who we christened"JBF" after she came back from a trip to the bathroom with her hair tousled and teased. It was messy. Really messy. So I explained that her name would henceforth be based on her current messy hair - ie that she looked like she'd Just Been Fucked.

The other day R was going through his phone and said to me "JBF? Who is JBF? Do you know a JBF?" before I reminded him. But JBF it is ... kt's too late to revert because we've forgotten her real name. Could be Michelle.

Cuntastic works as an English teacher in a new, sham school which feigns world-class accreditations in order to con rich Vietnamese parents out of their dough. Her students are fat Vietnamese children (a sign of wealth) whose parents have declined the nutrition route, instead feeding them a "best of the west" diet. Red Bull is served in the canteen.

I called Cuntastic last Friday night:

C: "Hello?"

A: "Hi Cuntastic - how's your week been?"

C: "It's been fucked, Jonathan. I've been coughing like a cunt. I need some alcohol to kill it once and for all. See you in 20."

My kinda girl.

So we met up with R for a few drinks, which turned into a few more and a few more still. Finally we all decided to get some more wine and hang out on my balcony so that Cuntastic and R could roll some joints.

Yes. That's right. Joints. So now I'm harbouring drug users. This means that I probably won't be sent to gaol but I could always visit. In fact I've already picked out what I'll be bringing them: Tally Ho papers for Cuntastic and a jar of Vaseline for R.

As they were puffing and boozing away I went in side and fell asleep on the couch. Classy host that I am. I woke up at about 2am and everyone was gone.

The next morning I got up at about 8am. I was a bit dusty but by about 8.30 I had motivated myself out to go out and grab breakfast. The occasion demanded air conditioning and wifi.

At about 9.30am I sent Cuntastic a brief sms which said "Thanks for not stealing anything while I was asleep. I know how tempting it must be for drug addicts like you and R."

15 minutes later I got a response "The only thing I stole is your spare room. I'm still trying to peel my head off the pillow."

She was in my apartment. She was still in my apartment! The call was coming from inside the house! Clearly I had locked her inside, and left.

Later I pieced together what had happened. When I threw out an old milk carton (never opened) into the bin it started spurting out milk. This was because it landed on a broken wine glass stem, sitting upright in the bin. The broken stem from where?. I looked out on the balcony and there were still pieces of glass everywhere. This could only mean 2 things:

1. A wine glass had been broken

2. It was R who had dunnit. (No one else could have cleaned it up so badly.)

Turns out that during this time, C was having a "moment" in the bathroom where it all got to much. Toxic shock, as it were. She started to have a lie down on the tiles for a nap and thought better of it.

After a solid 15 seconds cleaning effort, R had moved onto C. He turfed her into my spare room, went down the stairs, jumped onto his bike (pissed and stoned) and rode home.

Bad R.

Bad everyone.

Aerobics, Oz Style

I've been watching Oz for a few weeks now and I'm up to season 3.

It's set in the Oswald State Penitentiary and it's a lovely show.

Firstly, there is an Aryan group, They hate dark skin. And Jews. And they hate dark-skinned Jews the most. (I mean ... who doesn't?)

The other whiteys still constantly use the word Nigger. As for the Niggers ... well ... they hate the Micks. The Micks hate the Spics. The Spics hate the Fags. The Fags hate the Muslims (and vice versa). The Muslims hate the Garlic Munchers and also the Aryans but seem surprisingly OK with the Jews. Except for the one they tortured for laughs.

There's a Hispanic—sorry, an Hispanic—sorry, a Spic—who poked out someone's eyes with a knife. Trannies sew pretty dresses in between poisoning people for money. Those with swastikas tattooed on their biceps typically require their bitches to get one tattooed (lovingly, if somewhat forcefully) onto an arse cheek.

In the gym, the occasional barbells winds up crushing someone's face. Or leg. The avuncular long-termer knows how to hit a neck artery with a screwdriver on his first attempt. Some people pour acid in other people's faces. ("Didn't your mother ever tell you not to—oh never mind.")

Sometimes they push each other down the stairs. Or hold a victim down while others defacate on his face. There is often a knife in the kidney in the lunch room. I'm not talking about dividing up a steak and kidney pie. Although you do hear them say "you cut, I'll pick".

Oral rape victims seek revenge by biting off the end of the perpetrator's penis. One guy was fed crushed glass in his meals until his digestive tract bled him to death. One guy was cruxified by being nailed to the wooden basketball court floor. One time they killed a Russian and carved J E W into his stomach before stringing him up from a hook in the ceiling.

I've decided to look beyond all this. Because these prisoners are in very, very good nick.

There was a stabbing in the kitchen?I was too busy scanning the background scenes for diet tips and examples of portion control. (That can't be mashed potato.)

A skull being smashed open by the end of a barbell in the gym? I'm scanning the periphery for examples of effective exercise routines. (It's chin-ups.)

A prolonged riot in the library ? I'm wondering how many calories that would burn. (More than a treadmill.)

Oz is my new motivation to eat well and exercise. These unrepentant impenitent pond scumbags are my new role models.

I figure if a prisoner on death row can look so good, then why can't I?

The prisoners of Oz are going to make me a better person.

Hopefully not out of leftovers.