Sometimes when the paper jams in the copier and I follow the flashing lights on the console, open the flaps and find nothing, it decides there was no paper jam after all and just keeps going. Attention seeker! Only after running off my copies do I notice the edge of my shirt sleeve visible against the copied page margin. My red shirt, love that red shirt. Photocopiers, the cartoon is telling us, serve as reminders of the menial side of apparently skilled work, yet humourously so. Ah, Dilbert. Turn your eyes radioactive green staring into the copier's heart. Warning: in the event of green glow spillage this room/your life may be encased in lead. If this happens, attempt futilely to evacuate in an orderly fashion before returning to your work station, singing to yourself all the while. Another half-life will be along any minute now. No, you go first if you've only got one to do. I've got loads; I'll be ages. (Paper jams.) Hypochondriac!
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