Nicholas Cage is Trapped in The Corporate Land Basement

06/09/2011 11:30 AM Filed in:Secrets of The Side Show


Nicholas Cage is trapped in the Corporate Land basement. You see, there is a rumor running through the Corporate Land production floor faster than a line of coke through a Charlie Sheen Goddess. The Rumor? The Freemasons run Corporate Land. Now, I take this news with a rather heavy grain of salt on the rim of my Margarita glass. Why? Probably due to the fact that the Execs couldn’t entice a Labrador into water let alone conduct business in a rather cloak and dagger like fashion. But I am dead wrong according to my production homey, The Deal. “Dude, there is some seriously fucked up sinister shit going down here man. Have you seen the picture of The King?” He said, leaning in as for no one else to hear. “ Dude, he’s a Freemason! He’s got the logo on his license plate and a frame around it that says he’s the main honcho for the state demo lay! Dude…. Check it out!” His eyes ballooning up with emphasis. “ I went and Googled that shit!” Continued The Deal. “He is like the main dude! He’s all dressed up in his robes and shit! I’m telling you man, he is connected! He gets Employee of the Year after only being here a year? Bullshit!” his voice rising as his eyes scanned over my shoulder as if to make sure no secret Freemasons were within earshot.

“The King” in question, is a baby-faced newbie that is on a meteoric rise within the drafting department. (They call themselves Technical Services, I call them the reason we are losing money at staggering rate due to their incompetence.) Now, The Deal calls baby-faced newb “The King” but since his start at Corporate Land, I referred to him as “John Mayer” due to his uncanny resemblance to the blues-pop douche. It wasn’t until The Deal filled me in on his true identity and his affiliation with the not-so-secret-anymore secret society that is the Freemasons. This is most definitely not the first wave of paranoia to wash over the Corporate Land production floor. The last one arose back in 2002 when American Taliban Gary was working himself into an Islamic frenzy over how The Jews were running everything in the world and I had better “wake up” to the Zionist plot. Editors note: This is what FUCKING CRAZY! Looks like. I would always wind him up by saying following: “I almost didn’t come into work today.” In which he would reply “oh yeah?” In which my response would be “ yeah, I didn’t hear from my life coach Sol Moysenberg to get my instructions on how to maintain the Zionist Plot.” Ah… memories.

Now “The King” was not “anointed” per se by some secret committee of elders, no, baby face is a self-proclaimed um…”King”. Like Michael Jackson before him, he has thrust upon his imaginary collection of Serfs and Peasants his title of Ruler of Fuck All! And lest we forget the secret society that has trained him to rule in the shadows of the capitalistic monstrosity that is Corporate Land: The Freemasons and their not-so-secret, secret pinky ring that always seams to glint from the overhead fluorescent lighting as if to say “Hey! Look at me! I’m in a secret club of grown men that like to dress up and play King Arthur in the basement of the local YMCA!” Editors note: It is not the gays that worry me; it’s the uptight conservatives that have me in a dither. For as they are constantly bashing the gays and trampling over the Constitution in the process. These conservative whack-jobs are gallivanting around in their skeleton stuffed closets, putting on the most extravagant productions that are gayer than a glory hole in the Castro District of San Francisco.
As much as I would love to believe The Deal and his rightfully worrisome slant that sinister groups such as the Freemasons are running things here at Corporate Land, I just can’t get over the fact that we don’t have the leadership firepower within these tear-soaked walls to muster such a covert plot to rule over blue-collar staff. The Deal still soldiers on though despite my telling him otherwise. “Dude, what ever happened to Roger? Answer me that, man. Dude gets hired away from the Docks to come straighten out the production and gets let go once he’s done? C’mon man! I’m telling you he was connected! Did you see him wearing his Freemasons ring?”

Now a word about Roger: Roger was chock full of great ideas and ways to do things, but Roger did not get one fucking fingernail dirty. Not one. And I do not trust anyone who ain’t willing to get down in the funk and get nasty. You can talk all you want, but if you aren’t gonna toss the slop with the rest of us, get out of the pen, fucker. Management– in a moment of clarity– realized the amount they were paying Roger was not equal to the amount of work he was producing and showed him the door. It’s that simple.

During this period I did not hear at any time any Gregorian chanting emanating from any of the secluded basement areas or corner offices of Corporate Land. The only King that rules over Corporate Land is the fucking bottom line. It sure the fuck ain’t no snot-nosed John Mayer clone. That’s not to say that there are no sinister forces afoot at Corporate Land; there are, they just don’t wear chainmail or white robes. Their not-so-secret club uniform consists of Dockers and polo shirts emblazoned with the Corporate Land logo. Now that is about as scary as Paris Hilton’s snatch on a Sunday morning. Nicholas Cage can wander the catacombs of Corporate Land for eternity for all I care. There is no lost treasure. No golden societal road map to success buried within its walls. All that remains in the musty underbelly are the Pools of Workers Tears and the skeletal remains of Leadership and Business Ethics. But you didn’t hear that from me. It’s supposed to be a secret.
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The Wednesday Morning Minosa Meeting

06/02/2011 11:29 AM Filed in:Executive Hugs from Above


Wednesdays around Corporate Land are a real fucking drag. Well, more like having your face shoved in dog shit. Nice visual eh? And what pray tell has brought about this graphic revelation to you my dear readers? More than likely it’s the fact that my wage has been stuck at its pathetic level going on 3 years now with no signs of improvement… Maybe it’s the fact that Corporate Land has a fleet of inept doorknob humpers posing as Salespeople. The true source of my consternation is the fact that every Wednesday no matter the conditions be it rain, sleet, snow, etc., The Executives gather round nice and tight like Charlie Sheen over a chunk of Coke, in a secluded back office to ponder all things Corporate Land. I affectionately refer to this gathering as The Wednesday Morning Mimosa Meeting.

The reason this brings about such a wellspring of disdain in me, is the fact that week after agonizing week, The Executives get together to plot out how to fix nagging, persistent problems. At least that’s what I was hoping they were doing. Clearly after many years in the trenches here at Corporate Land, I have to admit that that is not the case. What transpires each week is an exercise in futility; the company’s cry for help, drowned in the sweet, bubbly gulps of champagne and orange juice. There has been a secret dialogue amongst the shop workers of counter acting The Executives Wednesday Morning Mimosa Meeting with our own shadowy conference to suppress The Evildoers.

Unlike The Executives cozy corner office confines, The Workers have settled on an abandoned tractor-trailer resting in the weeds next door. It has enough rust and chipped paint in its character to hasten the mighty powers we will call upon to put an end to the wickedness – The mighty powers being in the shape of a wickedly extra-flaky croissant recipe from Rachel Ray, coupled with an extra-dry bottle of champagne… we’re banking on one of The Executives choking like motherfucker from all that dryness.

In a normal office environment, problems get solved. Shitty workers with fucked up attitudes get dealt with, and sales staff that can’t cut the mustard are kicked to the curb. I shudder to think that everyday that passes here at Corporate Land; Momma’s Boy still occupies a cubicle, and continues to bleed the company dry from his incompetence. We are talking losses upward of at least six figures over his 4-year-career here. I would like to say that I’m joking or exaggerating with the previous revelation, but I’m not. Its truly mind blowing to me that it is not dealt with the heaviest of hands.

It is the ever-growing sum on the Momma’s Boy Fuck Up Tote board that leads me to believe that The Executives are truly fucking off every Wednesday. I mean, if you are an Executive that is totally cool with some inbred, coddled fucktard costing you a rather sizable stack of cash, then I guess you must be totally at ease with letting your nubile, perky 18-year-old daughter have a sleep over at Tommy Lee’s house.

At least I don’t lose any sleep over this conundrum– due to the fact that I know exactly where these clowns are, and where they are not: Not in any sensitive command and control areas i.e.; Nuclear plants, NORAD, or behind a rivet gun at aircraft manufacturing plant. I mean if I knew that any of these circus clown rejects were working for Boeing or had their Doritos-stained fingertips on a nuclear missile launch key, I would be a neurotic puddle of goo knowing full well that at any given moment they will bring about the apocalypse. I could see it now: They would be hunkered down in their launch control bunker and instead of them thinking they are punching in the codes for The Dukes of Hazzard marathon on their TiVo, they’d inadvertently launch a fucking Minuteman missile straight for St. Petersburg.

Maybe that’s why they celebrate each week amongst themselves: For yet another week has passed where they have not brought about the end of mankind. Let them have their moment of telling tall tales of perfect tits they have never seen, or the recounts of imaginary poon they laid in Vegas or was it Bakersfield? What goes on in that secluded office is nothing but safe, “You’re my buddy! No! You’re my buddy!” fluffy, bullshitting. So if it costs The Big Boss a couple hundred grand to keep an idiot confined to a cubicle of error and woe, and the rest of us safe from said idiot launching a nuclear holocaust, if that’s the price of freedom, so be it. Hell, I’ll drink to that!



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I Fear For The Life of Betty White

02/15/2011 11:28 AM Filed in:Cubicle: The Musical


I don’t know when it began, but I do remember the day I was to awaken to its evil presence. Unfortunately by the time of my awakening, 3 of 4 cherished American icons were already dead and buried. The question that stood before me like Mt. Everest was whether I would be able to save the remaining 4th icon: Betty White. You see, the day after Rue McClanahan had passed, I noticed something in one of my co-workers that chilled me to the core; it was a number of things actually and when added up, equaled the fright that must have run through the veins of Milli Vanilli when that shitty MTV tape player locked up on “girl you know it…girl you know it… girl you know it.” Fucking MTV. Anyway, I had heard of dear old Rue passing away the night before and thought “and yet another Golden Girl has passed.” The following morning as I was parking in the far end of the Corporate Land lot, I noticed my co-worker Samantha walking towards the front entrance. What really struck me was how she was walking: rather slowly and each step filled with caution and anxiety as if a broken hip were to result in the slightest of missteps. This would not be such a revelation if I were to be cruising through the parking lot of Shady Pines Retirement Home and Bingo Academy. But as it were, this was Corporate Land and Samantha is only 24.

It was at that precise moment of witnessing her slow, lumbering pace coupled with the morning newscaster waxing poetic on Rue’s life that I wondered aloud to myself “Samantha is moving like a Golden Girl…” It’s funny how we get so wrapped up in the everyday minutiae that we miss little things that slip by … until they snowball into a giant iron fist and bitch slap us like Charlie Sheen in a coke-fueled rage. So as I watched Samantha’s painfully slow entrance into the Corporate Land foyer, It gave me pause and I reflected back on what in the past, I thought were Samantha’s little quirks in appearance and action: the rather elderly looking cardigan sweaters, the button up shirts with rather large lapels and equally large floral prints, the constant complaining of a mysterious cold draft that was “chilling me to the bone.” But of all the premature elderly kit that Samantha carried about herself, two things now stuck out in my reflection about Samantha that just didn’t seem right; kind of like the idea of finding talent on American Idol and, Lindsay Lohan actually giving a shit.

The two things that now appeared odd, upon my reflection as I locked up the TSROD Mobile, was the framed, autographed 8x10 glossy group shot of The Golden Girls that hung on Samantha’s cubicle wall and, the overly secured dorm fridge that was nestled under Samantha’s desk; complete with two padlocks, a “property of Samantha DO NOT OPEN!” warning sticker along with a “Honk if you love Matlock!” magnet slightly askew on the front door of the fridge. I murmured under my breath “what the heel is that all about?” as I made my way to the foyer. Samantha was still not completely inside the foyer, as she had paused to catch her breath and was leaning on the front door as if contemplating her next move. “Good morning Sam!” I said as I approached her. “Need any help?” I offered as the look she was sending was of complete helplessness. “Oh yes indeed! Thank you! What a nice young man!” I was taken aback by her response, as I am nearly twice Samantha’s age.

As I helped Samantha inside, she palmed a dollar bill into my hand and creaked out “Thank you. Now go get yourself something special from the vending machine!” My dearly departed grandmother has been for a decade now yet, there before me, she stood albeit encased in the body of a twenty-four-year old. Before I made my way to my Cubicle of Artistic Despair, I hung around the front desk area and chatted up The Fist and That Girl all the while sneaking a glimpse here and there over at Samantha. The Fist made some low murmured comments to me under her breath about the rather peculiar actions of Samantha growing more and more peculiar as time went on. I shook my head in agreement, all the while keeping an eye on Samantha to see that she did not overhear our note comparisons of her escalating strange behavior.

To break ourselves out of the not-so-secret chitchat, I offered up to The Fist the morning news headline: “Did you hear? Rue McClanahan passed away last night.” The Fist, not one for knowing of television comedians before 1995, gave a rather robust “who” in reply. “Rue McClanahan” I retorted. “Golden Girls? Maude? She was a real firecracker.” I mused. “ Ah…Yeah, the group of old ladies living together. Yeah…” The Fist replied. Then something really strange caught my eye. Samantha, sitting at her cubicle, raised her shoulders up from her self-imposed osteoporosis hunch, and said in a low whisper to no one in particular “ Rue McClanahan…truly magic.” It was then that I noticed that Samantha had a rather large thermos in her lap that was adorned with a small sticker of Rue herself, stuck to the side. My Creep Meter started to go off like a slot machine jackpot at the Bellagio. Now I was truly curious as to what the hell was going on with the world’s oldest twenty-four -year-old.

I rolled my eyes to The Fist in a “ That was really creepy!” fashion and decided I needed a better vantage point to see what was really going on in Samantha’s cubicle. I circled around the backside of the cubicle cluster and slid into the alcove where all the Post-It Notes and pads of paper are stored, giving me a direct line-of-site into Sam’s Cubicle of Mystery. The timing in my position shift paid off in spades as at that precise moment, Samantha had ever so carefully rolled her chair to the other side of her desk to the dorm fridge that sat right at her knees. From my new position, Samantha’s back was to me and she did not see that I was hunkered down in the supply nook in mock search for fresh desk supplies. Samantha, lost in thought now, reached out over her desk and slowly dragged her index finger down the 8 x 10 glossy hanging on her cubicle wall, right over Rue’s image and what I could gather from my earshot, Samantha murmured “ I become one with you now.” She then set about looking over her shoulder to see if anyone was watching before she commenced her next move. I quickly ducked down below the counter as to not get caught and ever so quietly, peeped around the corner to catch her next move: Unlocking that mysterious fridge of hers.

One by one, she removed the locks swung open its door and before any contents of the fridge came into view, a vast amount of deep freeze fog from the dry ice had to disperse before revealing its secret booty. Once the ice veil had cleared, I caught a glimpse of Samantha’s secret: two other thermos like containers lay within, one marked “Estelle” and another marked “Bea” Samantha now was sliding Rue right in next to them… and really creeping me the fuck out now for sure. I waited for her to lock down her Fridge of Elderly Souls before I could make my escape unnoticed, fully realizing that I was going to have to commando-crawl out of the supply nook or risk being caught by a soul stealing customer service rep. “Fucking hell!” I thought as I silently crawled from the supply nook. “She’s killing off the Golden Girls one by one and stealing their souls!”

To be continued…



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Maiden Babe Vs. The Rocker & Mamma's Boy: Death by Mechanical Pencil Pt. 2

01/27/2011 11:27 AM Filed in:Cubicle: The Musical


The Maiden expelled a sigh of relief upon seeing The Rocker vanish in a huff from the Purchasing Department; her thumb clicking the end of her mechanical pencil in rapid-fire succession coupled with the seductive thought of plunging it deep into The Rocker’s jugular. “Lucky fucker.” The Maiden murmured through clenched teeth. Now that The Rocker had left, she can focus on the remaining hour-and-half left in the workday and get the fuck out. As The Maiden quietly returned to her tasks at hand, The Rocker had just arrived to the Art Department rather breathless and agitated; his panting and wheezing breaking our happy silence. “May I have everyone’s attention!” The Rocker hacked up in a phlegm-coated rasp. (This was pronounced as if he owned the joint and carried with it a disapproving tone as if we had just done a group piss in his Cherrio’s.)

Myself and the other 5 artists barely gave The Rocker any inclination of attention to his dramatic entrance. We were about as attentive as Lindsay Lohan in rehab; we were there, but we just weren’t taking the message to heart. As The Rocker saw that he had a somewhat sliver of our attention, he began to blabber to us the new law From Up High about how we are to order things from vendors and, what we are supposed to do to double-check the order to avoid costly errors of the Purchasing Department.

It was at this precise moment that my Mega Douche Alarm went off and began my internal systems override shut down procedure: 1. Hearing briefly shut down 2. Motor skills engaged and chair spinning back to computer screen initiated. 3. Motor skills again called upon to initiate iPod ignition, selection and, volume control. 4. Motor skills tapped yet again for Ear bud insertion and play button activation. 5. Hearing is fully restored; the raucous explosion that is Pantera blissfully drowns The Rocker’s rant out. Being that I was in Systems Override Mode, I was fortunate enough not to hear The Rocker’s weeping Jan Brady performance. The others were not so lucky. From what I could gather (once my Systems Override was switched back to “normal” upon The Rocker’s exit) was that The Rocker, on the brink of tears and lips in full quiver, began to inform the Art Department crew that when ordering a material to be cut from a vendor, that all measurements must be noted as precise. As if his lips a quiver weren’t enough, The Rocker’s emotional plea for correct deciphering of his convoluted work orders was bringing about little pearly beads of sweat upon his upper lip.

Of course this had no fucking impact upon his now highly annoyed audience. The Rocker seeing the indifference to his plea, began waving Jazz hands about to really drive his point home. This last act only set into motion a group reaction of smirks and tongue biting to keep from laughing hysterically at The Rocker’s flailing appeals. Whilst the Art Department was thoroughly entranced by the comedic tour de force that stood before them, The Maiden, counting down the remaining hour left in the workday, was dealt another indignant blow. King of the Fucktards; the ineptness that is the Momma’s boy, sauntered into The Maiden’s space to push her to the brink.

You see, along with the inability to correctly read a tape measure, The Momma’s Boy also has the fucked up ability to request materials for order that simply do not exist. Further exacerbating the situation was that the Momma’s Boy was not only standing before The Maiden asking for this mystery request, he had also sent an e-mail that acted as a compendium to the oral diarrhea that as currently spewing forth before The Maiden.
Momma’s Boy, not exactly one of the strongest links in the Corporate Land chain, began getting flustered like Paris Hilton with the thought of wearing underwear. The Maiden began feverishly clicking her mechanical pencil as her mind raced with thoughts of dispatching Momma’s Boy with a few rapid plunges to his jugular and dispensing his lifeless body in the nearby storage room.

As The Momma’s Boy saw the half disdain, half confusion on The Maiden’s face, he began speaking faster in what doctors from Stanford Medical School call a “spastic fluster stutter.” The Maiden simply stated, “I don’t know what you want.” This only set about more convulsions of verbal hopscotch from the Momma’s Boy: “bbbbbb…but its in my e-mail … I don’t understand!” The Maiden, pen now clicking away at a seriously fast clip, countered Momma’s Boy with “You have requested something that does not exist. They don’t manufacture it. It. Does. Not. Exist. Whether you come down here and tell me in person or whether you send it in e-mail, it makes no difference. Got it?” Momma’s Boy, on the verge of tears spun quickly and briskly headed back to his department in an “I’m telling dad!” manner.

The Maiden, now fully perturbed by the tsunami of idiots, began croaking, “RedRum! RedRum! REDRUM!” all the while her mechanical pencil clicking away like Rambo’s machine gun. It was only when the pen’s spring heart gave out and its silence broke The Maiden from her murderous chanting. As The Maiden regained her composure, she pulled focus onto a photo upon her desk; an inviting shot of a sunny beach with aqua blue waters kissing its sandy edge. “Yes…Yes indeed.” murmured The Maiden Babe. She then rose from her desk and quietly walked to the HR office, a smile on her face getting bigger and bigger with each step. As she crossed into the HR office and closed the door behind her, she gleefully pronounced, “I quit! I’m done. I’ll give ya 2 weeks and then I’m heading to Jamaica!”

Corporate Land, being the heartless non-caring entity we’ve all grown to loathe, found it in its cold, black empty chest cavity to accept The Maiden’s notice and to pay her for the remaining two weeks and have her leave that day. A nice little paid “ Well fuck you too!”
It’s only fitting that The Maiden Babe chose Jamaica. That’s the perfect type of place for a sexy Bond Girl to hole up after a long stretch of bloodletting: a sexy fine thing lying ever so seductively on the white sand beach. You can buy her a drink, just don’t ask her about that pencil strapped to her thigh.


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Hey...Where Ya Been?

01/27/2011 11:26 AM Filed in:The Boomtown Rants


I feel as if I should be on the back of a milk carton it’s been so long since my last post. Nothing irks me more than an expansive amount of time between blog posts, but I have a good reason for my yet again lengthy absence from TSROD: Overwhelmed with disgust. Usually I simply pass the workday let downs of humanity onto you, my loyal readers, cleansing my soul for yet another treacherous day at the Corporate Land Amusement Center. Most of you are waiting for The Maiden Vs. The Rocker & Mamma’s Boy Pt.2, while some just want to know “ Dude, WTF?” There’s an old saying that gets uncorked from time to time when some shit is about to go down, the old “mother nature’s a bitch and she’s in heat.” Well Corporate Land has been in heat like Octomom at Charlie Sheen’s house. I’d laugh if I was joking but I’m not. The amount of sleaze ball, backstabbing, de-humanizing bullshit they have been churning out since the middle of October, makes the Bush Administration look like a watered down episode of Father Knows Best.

So in the coming days look for the much anticipated conclusion to The Maiden Vs. The Rocker & Mamma’s Boy and a shocking expose on my uncovering of a sinister plot to kill Betty White. Also, new for 2011 The Friday Moment of Zen will be spruced up a bit starting with the sultry Daisy Lowe. Oh yes my dear readers, I’m back!


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