The Sweet Release of Death

Executive Hugs from Above

The Wednesday Morning Minosa Meeting

06/02/2011 11:29 AM

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!

Tags: Minuteman Missle, Charlie Sheen, Coke, Mimosa, Rachel Ray, Tommy Lee, NORAD, The Dukes of Hazzard, TiVo, Bakersfield, St. Petersburg

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This Ain't No Picnic

09/28/2010 11:22 AM

It’s company function time again here at Corporate Land, and with it comes another dose of Executive approved Guilt Tripping for those of us who chose not to attend this year Corporate Land Picnic. The picnic was held on a Saturday and come the following Monday, it was the Nazi Walk of Inquisition. The walk was carried out by one of the upper executive lieutenants, and performed with such guilt preaching panache; it would have made the Pope roll on all of his boy-touching priests. But not this cat. Nope not me. I got an alibi and I’m sticking to it. I was out of town. At least in my mind I was. As far as anyone calling my home phone was concerned, I was away. My cell phone too. It was carefully shut down and sequestered into a kitchen drawer.

The thing is, this little company-sanctioned hobnob is not mandatory, but by Christ you would think it was by the Guilt Hammer the Executives throw down 1 week prior, let alone the Guilt A-Bomb they ignite the Monday following. I should say that if there were one company event to go to, it would have to be the picnic. At least at the picnic The Executives don’t have an open mic and a trapped audience; they save that special Hallmark moment for the Christmas party… sorry the “Holiday” party.
Editors Note: A hearty Fuck You! Goes out to the fucking asshole zealot whack-jobs who get so “offended” by company Christmas parties and such. Just because Susie in Accounts Payable worships a ball of foil named Ronson, doesn’t give her the right to have my Christmas party title changed to “holiday” party to appease her and her fucked up ball of foil because she doesn’t believe in Christmas and having her co-workers force their pagan beliefs on her blah blah blah… So I say fuck you Susie and your ball of foil. And remember this: If we change our Christmas parties to “holiday” parties, the terrorists win.

Where was I? Oh yes, the picnic. So what’s my beef with the company picnic you ask? Well given that the Sun is a rather fickle presence here in the Northwest, that when it decides to show itself and let loose its golden rays of warmth, its usually between the months of June and August. By the time September arrives, the rain has usually muscled its way back and has cloaked the entire state in gray. Guess when Corporate Land decides to have its annual company picnic? That’s right, pilgrims. September. Priceless. Wanna play Horseshoes in the rain? Oh can I? Nothing beats a rousing game of Frisbee football in a cold, wet and empty state park.

Yes, the old picnic gets my cynicism firing on all cylinders. Like I said before, at least at the picnic there are no walls keeping you in. You can get away with a quick “Hi & Bye” if you succumb to the pre-function guilt trip. I’ve found that a company function on a Saturday is just another work day, only you don’t get paid; unless you find stone cold barbeque and beverage tumblers emblazoned with the Corporate Land logo appealing, its just another lame, company sanctioned kick in the nuts. Factor in that you have already spent five workdays with the terminally stupid, and now you’re expected to skip on out on a Saturday (your Saturday) and rub elbows with a group of people you would gladly hand over to a pack of Taliban henchmen with a head chopping fetish.

The company picnic is a beer commercial gone horribly wrong: Cue the downpour of rain; a group huddles under a lone, wood roofed picnic area. A gaggle of your most despised coworkers and their brat kids and, the kids of course are having a sugar-fueled shit fit. “ Mmm…Miller Lite taste great!” Says the miserable worker. “Yes it does. I’d say less filling but I just wanna get shit faced and puke on these fucking kids.” Says your buddy from the Metal Shop. Ah…work induced alcoholism. Is there any other form more fitting of saturating your brain with liquid escape? Shit, just looking at my boss brings about a cartoon thought bubble over my head of a liberally filled tumbler of Jack Daniels on Ice.

So this year (after many years of attending) I decided not to attend The Annual Corporate Land Employee/Family Picnic & Tapeworm Jamboree. My excuse for my absence, was incubated in a swampy Petri dish of indifference for the whole weekend, to be served fresh Monday morning to the Guilt Cops with a piping hot side of I don’t give a shit: “Where were you on Saturday?” quizzed the leather gloved Ops manager. “I was out of town…Oregon…Eugene to be precise.” I chirped. Proud of how smooth and graceful my alibi was executed. “Bullshit!” growled The Ops as he unleashed The Hairy Eyeball Of Scorn his focus, not unlike that of Mr. Spock in the deep throes of a Vulcan Mind Meld. As the Mr. Spock of Ops kept up with his Vulcan Guilt Beam, I activated my Buffy The Vampire Slayer “Puuuuhlease!” and sauntered back to my cubicle wasteland.

If they want me to feel guilty about something, then maybe I should go to the next company shindig and give them something to be pissed about. Maybe I’ll be the drunk guy at the company Christmas party. They say that you should refrain from being “The Drunk Guy” at company parties. At least that’s what they tell you in the magazines. Well I say “They” are pussies, hiding out in some corporate periodical Shangri la. Be The Drunk. Make it a night they’ll never forget. Think “Oscar caliber performance” as you guzzle down that bottle of Petron in the Hotel parking garage. Shit, there’s a 99 percent chance that there will be a live microphone! Snatch it and let loose! I can see it now: “ Hey fuckers! Lets burn this motherfucker (airport Hilton) down to the ground! Hey Nancy! Nice Tits! (Owners wife) Heeeeyyyyyyy!! Burp! Bob! I said hey Bob! Dude, you were right about bringing a hooker to the party! Yes! (At this point Bob’s wife gets up and leaves) Hey where is Tim? Tim? Tim buddy, where you hiding? There you are! Come out from behind the curtain you fucker! Hey Tim! I thought your parole officer said you couldn’t be left alone around small children?”
That little performance ought to set the Monday morning work confessional ablaze! Thats the price you pay for being the life of the party and as any priest will tell you, confessing your sins is no picnic.

Tags: Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Miller Lite, Taliban, Christmas,

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The Melancholy follies

06/03/2010 09:05 PM

You hear about it online sometimes in a news blurb, about an airliner that had to turn around because someone smelled something foul (other than the in-flight meal,) and the plane had to turn back for home and land cause people were getting sick. Hell it happens daily on cruise ships– The whole bit of you getting violently ill with the Norwalk virus…Carnival leaves that little tidbit out of their “Lust for Life” commercials. Well it isn’t the Norwalk virus nor is it the Ebola virus. What has swept through Corporate Land is a highly contagious and debilitating case of the “I Don’t Give A Fuck” virus otherwise known as IDGAF. Its source (patient zero, you can say) is usually a victim of a demoralizing comment made by someone in management, or a shitty, sleazy maneuver executed on a fellow employee by management (see Douche Chronicles) this is compounded by the fact that Management in their infinite wisdom carries on as if nothing sinister has taken place. Playing large groups for fools is meant for American Idol, not the workplace. Ah executives…

Everyone has felt it, the IDGAF virus at one point or another in his or her career, but when it is in mass form, possessing a majority of the company with a constant feeling of 1. Dog died 2. Mom died 3. Did I leave the iron on? Plus, an overwhelming desire to check the Craigslist want ads every 30 seconds to see if anything is available, anything to escape the madness throughout this hovel of gloom, the workday is anything but pleasant. Maybe it’s the sad looks from the girls up front the moment I cross through the doorway in the morning. Maybe it’s the ten-thousand-yard stare that has engulfed the eyes of the production workers. From the temp to the bean counters, it is clear that everyone is in a funk – and not a James Brown kinda funk but an “I just breathed through my mouth the stench of a brown crime in the Men’s room,” kinda funk. That will ruin anyone’s day.

With the funkiness fueling the dour mood throughout Corporate Land, it has spawned an awakening. Resumes are being dusted off and updated. Websites are being crawled for jobs. Certifications are being updated. We the down trodden, the devalued, the workers…we’ve seen the iceberg ahead and we will be damned if we are going to be playing in the company band as the Good ship Lollipop sinks into oblivion. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad if the douchyness weren’t so obvious: Junior and the Golden Boy and their homoerotic cackling bromance, the blatant disregard for company policy (Editors Note: our executives adherence to company policy is “What policy?” and the ever so touching “Fuck’em!”) Between the backhanded comments, the frozen salaries, the lack of benefits, the “you guys have nothing to be proud of” motivational speeches, it’s a wonder there are any fucking cars in the lot in the morning!

So as the dourness continues on and the answers remain short and abrupt, I trudge forth in this wasteland and daydream to the future: my girls and me are long gone, moved on to greener pastures. Corporate Land has run amok. Ass kissers and yes men were the only ones that remain, albeit chained to the floor with gag-balls in their mouths and tattered assless chaps (kids when you dream, dream big!) the years of arrogance and blatant disregard writing their final chapter. They say when times get tough, the tough get going. Yes they do indeed. Right out the fucking door.

Tags: Carnival Cruise line, tough economic times, , James Brown

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Pirate Pride & Prejudice

05/13/2010 09:52 PM

I must admit that I have been kicking around multiple examples of the love that pours like the deep sea crude from our executive staff here at Corporate Land, but it took a vacation to finalize my decision for the perfect contender. You see, naturally, the further away you get from your horrible job, the better you feel so it’s only a matter of moments to rapidly gain back all of that volatile animosity towards work upon return. So as I have been settled back into the fold now for a few days, I get the privilege to get caught up on what I have missed the past few weeks.

Seems that right after I left for vacation, the powers that be had their weekly management meeting and it was anything but pretty. Most of these things usually are but of two types: Nasty or Boring. Apparently, The Uppers decided to liven things up a bit and deliver a brutal verbal beating that is usually reserved for the end of the year company party… kind of like a Friars roast without the jokes.

After a weak financial performance in the first quarter, the word was rained down with lighting bolt precision that “We” (the managers) suck. Once that was delivered, the old pick-me-up of “you have nothing to be proud of” followed it up. Brilliant! Thanks dad!

Now when I was in management, I likened these meetings to walking onto the set of Gladiator: “Those of us about to die, Salute you!” The group consisted of the proverbial “Yes” men and a couple of whipping boys. All in all, the meetings provided entertainment and always delivered a mental Jerry Springer moment of “what have we learned here today?” in my head. Usually I would tell myself “ well I sure as hell wouldn’t have said that if I was running this place.” So when some of my peeps gave me the rundown, I wasn’t really surprised.

Given the over abundance of Business leadership books, websites and the “Boost your company morale” gurus in the world, Corporate Land chooses to define its corporate culture on a phrase splattered across a t-shirt: “The beatings will continue until the morale picks up.” Its good and damn funny when it’s hanging in a cheesy pirate store in Fisherman’s Wharf, but as a business plan, well it’s fucked up. I mean good god man! Get a slogan the workers can unite around! A good “Who Farted?” will get the troops rallied and an extra 2 hours of work out of them. I don’t even want to think of the bliss that would be delivered if they chose a “it’s only kinky the first time” slogan or even “Beer Pong” Damn… now that would be something to be proud of!

Tags: Fishermans wharf, who farted?, beer pong, Gladiator