There's something to be said for a company whose executive leadership is not only brilliant and intelligent, but highly visionary as well.

There's also something to be said for their visions coming to fruition through a handful of people's backbreaking labor in an extremely short amount of time, with the hopes that this vision will bring in tens of millions of dollars very soon.

Both of those somethings are: HOLY FUCKING SHIT.

Which can mean either "Kill Kirk," or "Hallelujah," depending on context.

Aside from the occasional hours-long conversation with my foreign love and a hockey game here and there, I've been at work every waking moment all fucking week.

CoWorkerBuddy and I have been frickin' killing ourselves on this project, staying late every night, and growing to "NORM!" status at the local coffee shop in the early morning hours. When purchasing those little Fight-Cancer Paper Shamrocks with our coffee every morning and requesting that CuteCoffeeGirl write in our names for us, it's never a good sign that we were dubbed, "Snarly CWB" and "Itchy-eyed Zombie Jed."

I would've corrected my name spelling were I not so busy leaning submissively on the counter and contemplating weeping openly at my obvious stress.

As we were facing the wrapping up of this project on Thursday night, a full day early, we were invited out for a beer by BossGuy, immediately after he informed us that our project was being bumped and we'd sacrificed valuable chunks of our sanity for virtually nothing.

"A" beer turned into many, and after CoWorkerBuddy wussily left for his bed BossGuy got the Hall Pass from his Spousal Unit and it was on.

We drank and talked and smoked, we harassed the waitress and he offered me 10 bucks to ask her out. I never made it past, "I'm 30, how old are you?" "I'm 20 and a half."

Jeezus. I would never have pursued her anyway, but 10 bucks isn't worth the sharp decline my IQ would take by simply engaging her in conversation.

Much fun was had though, and I got to know a lot about the person most immediately involved in my career's future. He's truly an amazing man and I respect him immensely. Very cool.

He also has an unhealthy fondness for shots of Jack Daniels and toasts. Not so very cool.

Colorado's night air always has a sobering effect, but I'm not completely retarded, even when drunk, so I only made it to the end of the parking lot before I decided to either A) Call a cab, or 2) Cross the street and sleep in my office without bothering Eduardo's late-night cleaning crew and getting a vacuum wedged in my ass as I lay curled up under my desk.

I'd forgotten my phone, but have always been blessed with a perfect sense of direction and good friends, so when I showed up on the doorstep of a hockey buddy that lived nearby, he laughed and welcomed me in and to his couch, promising not to anally violate me after I passed out. That's love, people.

There's only so many times that I wish to wake up with a pounding head, roiling stomach, stinking like beer, whiskey, and smoke, with a large animal licking my face. Depending on what kind of animal and whether or not she paid for my drinks the night before, I'm thinking...

Never Fucking Again.

My buddy's Labrador apparently didn't agree to our "No Molesting of Drunken Judd" pact. Bathing in Canine Cologne is a great way to start a Friday.

That morning our office was filled with our newest multi-multi-million-dollar clients and we had a new CodeGeek starting too, so hungover-stinky-sleep-deprived-Judd was a truly magnificent sight, of this I am certain.

Even groaning, bleary-eyed, reeking of alcohol and smoke, and wearing the same slightly soiled clothes as the day before, they still love me.

Proof that I'm indelibly leaving my mark on MyCompany was shown in an interview BossGuy conducted that morning. He appeared to be completely unaffected by the previous evening's debauchery except for the fact that he traded in the standard interview question of, "Can you describe your ideal work environment?" with "How would you feel if you were deeply immersed in work at your desk and were pelted in the back of the head by Nerf darts?"

Any applicant with the proper mettle would surely appreciate the fact that the plastic-wrap from our new server racks was left on my desk and that this instantly inspired the idea of a new Office-Olympics Event I like to call, "Who Can Fuck CubeWorld the Deepest?"

I couldn't get the end of the plastic-wrap to hold in a "reservoir-tip" fashion while still allowing me to breathe, so I simply cut a hole out for my head and donned my "Don't be Dumb" helmet (aptly named after I kept repeatedly banging my head against the walls of my cube following production errors).

The phallic nature of the helmet and the sheathing of myself in plastic inspired the name of the game, but the possibility of "bodily harm," "rug burns," and other PussySissySally terms meant that I would be the only participant thus far.

One of my coworkers declined my invitation to the game and then immediately began placing bets on what parts of myself I would injure and to what degree of severity.

Despite the fact that ALL onlookers seemed certain that I was going to hurt myself, I was not to be dissuaded.

I forgot my goalie cup though, so I knew my form had to be perfect.

With a distance of 7.3 feet and a whopping 5 style points, it's probably best that no one else wanted to play anyway as they never could've beaten me with those numbers.

Plus, my madly-hopping delayed reaction to the friction-generated pain covering the front of my body caused bodily-fluid-releasing laughter from onlookers, and was poor incentive.

Next time I'm requesting that they throw in a bottle of KY with their body-length plastic-wrap, 'cause... That. Fucking. Hurt.