The Turd Circus Team

The origins of the Ringmaster are unknown. Some say he was born of immaculate conception by a continental European diary maid sometime in the last century. Others say he came from the dark side of the moon in a space capsule made of hand chiseled moon rocks. Others still say he was mail ordered from Russia With Love.
The one thing we DO know about The Ringmaster however, is his ability to smell numbers. And, that he could art direct his way out of a paper bag full of paper bags. People often ask The Ringmaster where he gets his ideas from, but if you were to see him in is office at 4am on a Monday night, surrounded by his 3 dozen illegally imported Birds Of Paradise, listening to Hans Zimmer soundtracks at full blast, wearing nothing but a paper napkin loin cloth and beer can hat, smoking a peyote laced cigar — you wouldn't need to ask.

When not touring Asia with his Ghetto-Funk band Phant-Asia, Wo–Hen is usually dancing around the office in one of his many 12 foot long studded silk capes. Not an official duty of his but wildly endorsed by both the staff and visitors to the office. Wo-Hen IS fashion and Wo-Hen IS entertainment. For example, our last Christmas party, organized by Wo-Hen, started on a yacht in Sydney Harbour December 15 and ended seven weeks later in a open pit gold mine in Romania before we all got extradited back to Australia. Just another classic Wo-Hen party.

Raised by farm equipment in a shed in outback South Australia, J-Rob has a different view on life than most. More at home with the buzz and hum of our server room, it's almost like he can speak with computers. Affectionately known as the Mac Whisperer in the office. And hence why he makes such an exceptional Finance Officer — he can make any books balance. Another perk of his mechanical upbringing is his super human strength and throttling anger management issues. So when J-Rob's not cooking our books, he's mercilessly pursuing our debtors, who always pay up.

Given the broad cross section of society working in our office, the sheer breath of mind bending human diversity can only be handled by a non-humanoid. That's where Professor Milky comes in: a 42 year old stunted Labrador with a PhD in Human Resources. None of that "he said" "she said" bullshit — his one track analytical mind cares not for human emotion. That being said, if you're getting grilled in Professor Milky's office for lacing Guavo's muesli with laxatives again, all you need to do to stop him raining fire on you is pull out a Schmacko. It's a real game changer. That dog goes whacko for Schmackos.