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The Sweet Release of Death

Nicholas Cage is Trapped in The Corporate Land Basement

06/09/2011 11:30 AM


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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Wormholes of The Wizard

05/19/2010 07:41 AM


It starts out innocently enough, an e-mail here an e-mail there. A simple change to an item on a work order, uncorks a two-day festival of mental hopscotch. What seemed so innocuous and routine, snowballed into a riddle of inverted Dutch prose clicking in time to German rap music, sung by an autistic Spanish midget. Sometimes it pays to stay in bed and call in sick. Sales… Good Lord! Monday’s nemesis is not all that bad, a great guy actually, just not a great wordsmith when it comes to order writing.

But Day 1 of Mental Fest was not about words or their pecking order in a sentence. No, Monday was all about decision-making or lack thereof. The Word Wizard of Sales had broke character and morphed into Captain Indecision! (I don’t think Marvel has a claim on this one yet,) What began as a need for three sample prints on three types of materials turned into an 8-hour epic saga of “ …No…I meant the other material? Actually, now that I have you on the line, lets go with…” I kid you not. All day long about every hour and half, a new request was injected into the system just like the previous one, but ever so slight in difference. Maddening I say!

Eventually at 4 PM, my black velvet gloved iron fist slammed down for a final decision of “ This is what you are fucking getting!” As Monday faded to black, Tuesday sprang forth like an out-of-work actor. Now that the samples had been taken care of, The Project Manager for Captain Indecisive decided to call a review meeting for the project. As a meeting time for the group was agreed upon (Yeah! A Decision!) I was filled with a slight bit of dread. For if it were to be anything like Monday’s “ I believe in choice/I just don’t know which one,” boondoggle, I seriously contemplated downing a Luke-warm latte with tainted skim milk to get me out of the meeting quick.

As the PM called the meeting to order, and we all had received an updated work packet, I thought “this is might not be too bad, glad I didn’t down the skanky latte,” But as I started skimming over the updated packet, I realized that Captain Indecisive had morphed back into The Word Wizard of Sales. The 2-page sales agreement looked like Sanskrit jotted down by an epileptic crack head. “Uh oh” I thought, “We’re gonna be here all day!” As each page that I flipped became more and more jumbled and convoluted. A sense of nausea started to well up inside me and set in motion horrible fever delusions; I actually started to feel my skull squeezing my brain. “Don’t look at it!” I thought.

As the nausea was coursing through my system, the others around the table were suffering in their own, hellish ways. One started peeling off his clothes like that of an oxygen-starved Everest climber. Another began weeping. It was then that I began wondering: “Is the Word Wizard of Sales striving to open a Wormhole to another universe through his work orders?” I pondered more: “If we actually figure out what this document means, will we irreparably damage the Time / Space Continuum? Is the Word Wizard of Sales a time traveler fronting as an industrial sales person, or merely just an industrial sales person with some community college classes under his belt?” I don’t know for sure. I got a feeling about it, but I just can’t decide.

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Lady Man Hands

02/28/2010 04:27 PM


To be in sales, one must possess the ability to not take no for an answer. Ability, hell, it’s more like a DNA code of absolute refusal. The pursuit will not stop until the word yes is released in utter surrender from the sales persons prey. Along with the ability to refuse no for an answer, looks are a big, big plus. If you have looks to boot, hell you could sell just about anything to anybody. But what if there were a flaw? Pitch-lines are perfect, you have style and grace... Pizzazz lets say. But right there, smack dab in front of you, there’s a flaw of great magnitude. Your hands. And if you are a lady, it can be crushing to your career. I’m talking Man Hands here folks. Its male counterpart is the Dead-Fish Handshake, (we’ll get to that in the near future guys, this one is for the ladies) Now I don’t know what the hell happened for you to be afflicted with Manish hands, but I sure would like to know. Is it God’s little Ha! Ha! to you after giving you a 9.8 body he just went, “And now...Freakish manly hands! For I am God and I loves me a good joke!” Which is true, I mean look at some of the celebrities roaming the streets of Hollywood and New York with hot bods and some seriously creepy, manly hands. Fergie, Uma, Madonna, Ann Coulter. Megan Fox doesn’t have man hands but she does have a man’s big toe for a thumb so, sorry babe, you are an honorary member of The Freaky Man Hand Club.

It’s traumatizing, I know ladies. I’m sure it’s traumatizing for all involved. You’re pitching a deal, you’ve got them where you want them and it gets down to a signed agreement. That’s where the tragedy unfolds. A contract is placed before the prospective client and as both parties agree to sign, you, Lady Man Hands, pull out your magic Cross pen to sign, and a look of embarrassed horror flashes across the prospects face like a fart in church. “Damn” He’s thinking: “she’s got hands like my uncle Karl. He was a mechanic for the railroad... and she’s just in sales... oh my gentle Jesus.” The seed of doubt has been planted, then, there is the dreaded handshake. Some may shake Lady Man Hands, while some may simply nod and say “OK then!” out of fear. For those that shake, They’re thinking: “God...if I closed my eyes and didn’t know any better, I’d swear I’m shaking hands with my old college roommate Pete. He worked construction during summer breaks and could open beer bottles with his thumb...” Yes it could really be a mind scrambler to some.

When a fellow lady, but of the soft, supple, Palmolive variety encounters Lady Man Hands, it can be extremely dangerous, no, explosive. The energy produced when these two factions meet is palpable. The largest, most violent of manly-man prison riots pale in comparison to the kinetic energy released when these two powers collide*. It usually unfolds like this: Lady Man Hands goes to shake hands with Supple Lady-Lady Hands. Supple Lady-Lady Hands upon engagement with Lady Man Hands, instantly reacts with her own inner monologue of: “ whoa... that feels like... my ex-boyfriend Roger’s hand. The bastard cheated on me with that slut Maggie... and this sales twit looks like Maggie...Now I have to beat her ass!” And then it’s on! Some would say it was poor Lady Man Hands curse of looking like Maggie and not her freakish man hands that caused the violent reaction. True, but I’m going with the Man Hands Shake as the root cause. It reminded Supple Lady-Lady Hands about Roger and frankly, Roger is a prick.

So what’s a girl of Manish Hands to do? Well sadly nothing in the sales arena that’s for sure. There’s always a knuckle-bustin good time at the local garage, and the Fire Department is always in need of big hands. Have you seen those fire hoses? Geesh! You can always run an ad on Craigslist as “Jar Opener” people with tiny hands would certainly keep you busy... lots of peanut butter and pickle jars that need opening. So ladies, if life gives you lemons, make fresh-squeezed lemonade. You certainly have the hands for it.


*Editors note: in 1957, these two factions met by pure chance at a roadside diner on a lonely stretch of highway, in a remote part of Nevada. Our crack investigative team here TSROD have unearthed a government cover-up of the actual event. The diner and a ten-mile radius surrounding it were vaporized. The highway was diverted and the site remained hidden from the public for decades under the guise of a top-secret US Air Force base, code named “Alice” The papers obtained by TSROD through the Freedom of Information Act, detail a chilling encounter of atomic proportions, between two women and took the lives of 12 innocent bystanders and left a permanent scar on the face of the state of Nevada. For a copy, e-mail TSROD: info@tsrod.com


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