The Mental Giants
The Sweet Release of Death

The Fist, Momma's Boy and the Collectively Stupid

06/23/2010 12:58 PM


“I’m gonna burn this motherfucker to the ground!” That little slice of vitriol pretty much summed up the first day of summer at Corporate Land. Surprisingly my dear readers that burst of verbal judo did not come from me. No that snapshot of “I’ve had it!” belongs to The Clenched Fist in Customer Service. I did not witness the tirade, I only heard about it from The Fist herself. That’s right The Fist is a lady. A rather foul-mouthed one at that when pushed to the breaking point, but I’d have her no other way. And who set off The Fist you ask? It was a rather meek but highly annoying man-child from the Engineering Department that’s who.

Apparently Momma’s Boy enraged The Fist with smarmy requests for printed folder labels, as his file folder rack was too naked without them. “Got my labels? I need my labels,” Momma’s Boy hammered away at The Fist in Rainman persistence, not unlike that of an annoying 5-year-old in the backseat of the family wagon on a road trip; the old “are we there yet?” form of torture. The Fist’s outburst set Momma’s Boy a fright and I’ll bet a dollar to a donut that it made him pinch out a Cleveland Steamer in his shorts from pure fear of The Fist’s impending vault over her cubicle to pound him like a Salvation Army drum.

As the Cleveland Steamer surely enveloped Momma’s Boys Dockers, a Cleveland Steamer of the software variety has dropped into Corporate Land with mind erasing force. Yes, we are the proud owners of Microsoft CRM software (Customer Resource Management) In all fairness to his Lordship Gates and his army of Indian tech support storm troopers, its not the program that is shit, on the contrary its quite simple. Intuitive if I dare say. It’s just that it has turned a vast majority of Corporate Lands working brains to shit. Its almost as if the Corporate Land staff were collectively abducted by aliens, and then returned to earth as an inbred cast of idiot savants. I mean its pushed Momma’s Boy to worry about labels for folders instead of actually working on something: “CRM very scary! Momma’s Boy gonna ask mean lady for labels instead. Momma’s boy like ice cream!”

From Engineering to Sales, to the sawdust shores of the Wood Shop, A noxious cloud from the collective brain-fart has enveloped the inner sanctum of Corporate Land. It is yet another glimpse into the future. A desolate wasteland scattered with the remains of Corporate Lands hollowed out factory. Where a titan once stood, now stands a corroded shell of its former self. Why? It failed because some arrogant, self-absorbed fucktard couldn’t take the time to click 3 tabs correctly in a software program. But hey, I’m certain that Superstar Fucktard can order the shit out of a double-tall, quad pump, with low fat, I said low fat not non-fat, vanilla latte with whip cream and Carmel sprinkles. Oh yes my dear reader that is what is important. The details of Superstar Fucktard’s coffee had better be spot-on. The $50,000 order for production? Eh, who needs the details? Let them figure it out.

So as a select few of us that fully understand the trappings of CRM within Corporate Land soldier on and wrangle in the Savants of Idiot, I look at The Fist’s verbal tirade as a release valve of pent-up frustration of basically having to change poopy diapers of the Collectively Stupid. As much as the “burn motherfucker, burn!” was a release, it was a warning also to the Collectively Stupid within ear range. For if The Fist snaps again and truly launches over her cubicle in a roundhouse flurry of feet and fists, it’s going to end in a Red Bull-fueled vendetta of idiot neutralization. And its gonna be sweeter and more filling than a double-tall, quad pump, low fat, vanilla latte with whip cream. Oh yes, the Carmel sprinkles. Details folks. Details.

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Slip Sliding Away The Ballad of Mr. Teflon

06/17/2010 07:02 AM


Weasel. Creep. Snake. There’s one lurking in every office. Corporate Land has one in its vast Franklin Mint collection of evildoers. But ours is special. You can say we paid extra in a certain way for this one. Why so special? The sonofabitch is coated in Teflon®. Nothing sticks. Nothing I say! Think the ramblings of Ronald Reagan without a script, with the physical appearance of a happy kid with Downs Syndrome, and you’ve painted yourself a spot-on portrait of Mr. Teflon®. It’s the smile that Mr. Teflon® flashes you as he shuns all responsibility, that gets the blood boiling. That damn smile… Mr. Teflon® is the living embodiment of Alfred E Newman.

I have witnessed the most disastrous of project screw-ups unfold under Mr. Teflon’s watch and, have seen him escape unscathed from said projects wreckage, flashing and Ultra-Brite smile and, walk away with a jovial spring to his step. The only thing missing was him whistling Andy Griffith’s “Fishin’ Hole” theme song. Back in my Management days (even when I write the word management I get a bad taste in my mouth) I would witness Mr. Teflon® getting the most brutal, demeaning smack-downs from the Execs in the Ops meetings (border lining on masochistic,) but the smile would remain. After witnessing so many beatings of Mr. Teflon® from the Execs week after week, I realized that not only will cockroaches and Keith Richards survive an all-out nuclear holocaust, but that Mr. Teflon will be there right beside Keef. Hell for all I know, he may very well be the deliverer of civilizations end.

They say ignorance is bliss and I’m here to tell ya, Mr. Teflon® has achieved such a level of bliss oblivion that it would make David Lynch’s head explode in a monochrome fury. As Mr. Teflon® slithers his Cheshire grinning self in and out of trouble through Corporate Land’s Chasm of Ineptitude & Sorrow, his slippery ways have not been lost on those under his command. If there is to be an all-out departmental war in Corporate Lands future, Mr. Teflon’s department will be squarely in the sights of every other department’s first-strike commandos. Years of ignorance and blame gaming other factions have taken their collective toll on the nerves of the other departments. Mr. Teflon® and his inept crew are looked upon with disdain and disbelief in their survivorship.

Mr. Teflon® and his minions have mastered the art of “Cover your Ass” to such degree, that it has galvanized their shop reputation of “The Land Where Jobs Go to Die” Its basically group inactivity by fear of failure, therefore since they can’t think for themselves, they fail miserably. But hey, don’t think for a second that Mr. Teflon® does not have that e-mail from two weeks ago, where you said, “use your best judgment” and low and behold, the project failure is left at your cubicle like an unwanted baby at a church doorstep. It is situations like these that fueled my cold, vengeful heart with glitter-coated glee when I would bear witness to Mr. Teflon® getting worked by the Execs like a leather slave at an Elton John slumber party.

So as Mr. Teflon® was getting the Corporate Gag ball/Bullwhip 1-2 punch, my fellow department heads and I would sit and revel in his much deserved punishment like giddy little first graders. But as Mr. Teflon® was methodically taken down brick by brick, one thing remained a constant: that damn smile. Was he enjoying it? Was being a managerial imbecile (oxymoron, I know…) his special kind of kink? That smile… it would send you into the darkest reaches of your imagination, for you did not want the bastard to be enjoying his punishment. In the end I figured that smile was his Raging Bull moment; his “I never went down, Ray…I never went down!” Determination. That’s the one thing that does stick to Mr. Teflon®. The determination to keep smiling whilst getting your ass handed to you. So some things will stick to Teflon®, you just have to apply lots and lots of heat.


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da Vinci's Junk

03/14/2010 06:33 PM


A funny thing happened the other day, a little sprinkling of comic dust over Corporate Land, The day was chaotic to say the least. Time sensitive projects were going sideways and had to be roped in and dealt with to hit our deadline, tempers were flaring between sales and production staff, with yours truly caught in the fray of at least 3 fire fights. So as the day was coming apart at the seams, a little corporate soldier from sales appeared at my 4x4 cube-of-doom and asked for a favor. The favor? Well, it was rather peculiar and kind of threw me for a loop. I was right smack dab in the middle of fixing a computer glitch, when I heard the strange request squeak from Sales Boy; “I need you to print me a leaf” What? Did I hear him correctly? “ You need what? A leaf printed?” “Yeah” Exclaimed Sales Boy. “We gotta cover something...well yeah...something” This request snapped me out of the chaos on the second go round. The request just sounded so bizarre, surreal given that all hell was breaking loose in production and Sales Boy is asking me for a print of a leaf. “OK...I’ll bite” I snapped back at him.

“What the hell do you need a leaf print for?” A dry grin started to spread across Sales Boy’s face. “The installers just finished putting up a new trade show booth by our desks upstairs and we need to cover some of the graphics.” Hmm... I thought. What the hell could it be? Whatever it was it had to be good as some of the staff upstairs, are so wound up tight, they make Reagan look like Sam Kinison. “Well, before I print anything, I need to know what we are covering and how big it needs to be” Sales Boy’s face lost its grin and became ashen. He leaned into my cube a little closer and a covert whisper hissed out of his mouth with the punch line I was looking for; “we need to cover da Vinci Man’s thing” WHAT? I croaked with an uncontrollable chuckle. “You’re kidding right?” Still chuckling. “No!” Sales Boy shrieked as he recoiled back from my insane chuckle. “Ok...Maybe later” I chirped. “ I’ve gotta put some fires out and then maybe I’ll come see the booth. OK! I’ll e-mail you a leaf to print” Sales Boy said with a sliver of giddiness that reeked of Joe McCarthy.

Hours had passed and the leaf request was forgotten amongst other things in the minutia of the day. Curiosity did get its hooks into me before I left for the day, so I sauntered upstairs to see what all the fuss was about. As I rounded the corner at the top of the stairs, there it stood: The booth with daVinci Man and his Junk. One thing though, daVinci Man’s junk was covered by... you guessed it, a fucking leaf. But not just any leaf. No, the Sales Storm troopers printed out the maple leaf from the Canadian flag! I thought “Are they serious?” Good God. It’s 2010 folks, and you are censoring daVinci? In a rebellious fit, I walked over to the booth and ripped off the leaf. Not quite as dramatic as the cry of FREEDOM!!! at the end of Braveheart, but it was fairly invigorating. Your welcome, Leonardo. You’ve been long gone for quite some time but your drawings certainly have a pack of middle-aged men all in a dither on the outskirts of Seattle. I had stopped censorship. Or so I thought. The next morning another leaf and, another rebellious takedown.

As I passed by one of the elder salesman’s desk, he quipped “ We need to do something about that damn thing” “Yes I replied. And we need to execute all of our Vietnamese workers in the sew shop too. They’re Communists you know.” No answer from The Elder. The daVinci Man’s junk remained free for the world to see. His junk has exposed the censors at work and for that, I’m eternally grateful, Leonardo.


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My Mel Gibson Meltdown

02/23/2010 07:49 AM


Some day’s just breeze by like greased lightning and if you work in an environment of toxicity like I do, the quicker they pass without major incident or discord, the better. Some days flow effortlessly and then a Mack truck of office chaos barrels down your happy little road of life and T-bones your perfect day with extreme prejudice. My Friday was the latter. Oh it was going smooth as the finest silk from Asia, and then it happened. The phone rang. 3:35 to be exact. Damn. I almost made it. On the line, was the Mack truck, revving up to lay waste to my perfect, incident-free-day. This Mack truck, a long time client of 8 years, was calling from out of country to check on a project status. I had found an error in a file and it was holding up the production. The error? The clients. Well, this project had been dragging on the past 7 months and had put Mr. Mack Truck on the express train to Stressville. Needless to say, he redlined and for the next 10 minutes I endured a barrage, no, a never ending loop of “ I haven’t had a day off in months and now you’re telling me I have to work, you’re charging me extra, I haven’t had a day off, Blah, blah, blah.” You know, just a complete shit-fit.

As the Mack Truck Shit-Fit rolled on, Mr. Bloodpressure showed up with his 2 cousins in tow, Zero Patience and his twin, Intolerance. Editors note: Cousin intolerance is bat-shit crazy of coarse and follows the “Scorched Earth”way of life. Nothing is spared with that man. Well, Mr. Bloodpressure was able to keep the twins at bay and keep himself from erupting like Pompeii and raining hot death down on the Mack truck. But the Good Ship Lollipop had taken some severe hits and when the conversation was over, and the phone laid down, something akin to an out-of-body experience had happened. Like a nuclear reaction, Mr. Bloodpressure gave way to his cousins and with the 3 combined; it set into motion The Conjuring of Mel. The next 2 minutes are a blur and like I said, it was like an out-of-body experience, so what follows is what I saw from above my body as I floated in the shaft of white light: I watched as I flipped the bird at the phone about 6 times with a couple of F-Bombs thrown in cause hey, everybody loves garnish with their rage.

My co-workers took my possession in stride (it’s happened before, Thanks Mel) with the torrent of F-bombs and the acidic replay of our phone conversation, I could see from above, a vein bulging in my head and neck, arms flailing with multiple middle-finger salutes at the phone again. Geesh... it was ugly. But wait, it gets worse. From my vantage point in my tube of white light above my Mel Gibson possessed body, I heard a mutter of “that sonofbitchinjewbastard” Oh thanks Mel! Fuck! What have you got me into? But hold on folks, that’s not the half of it. Oh no, not even close. Just as Mel, yeah you Mel, muttered that horrible phrase, why Mr. Production Manager had happened by and got a front row seat to this magical performance of my possession. Just then I heard a voice within the shaft of white light I had been floating in and it said: “deal with that Sugartits!” and then a diabolical laughter faded into nothing. Next thing I know, I’m back in my body and I have a Production Manager staring at me wide-eyed and speechless.

What happened? I asked. When I was told what had just happened and what I, no fuck that, what Mel had said, I felt nauseated. Dirty. Just downright lower than a snake. I apologized for Mel and piled the remains of what was left of a good Friday into a mental casket, lowered it into the ground and buried it. What of Mel? He’s in a trunk of a Lincoln Town Car somewhere in Jersey. Now if I can just find Michael Richards...

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Accounting: No One Can Hear You Scream in Space

02/18/2010 07:01 AM


There’s a place within each company where evil lurks. Its not a sinister evil like say Ted Bundy or Florence Henderson, no, its more like that of a 14 year old Asian kid that’s graduated Stanford (with honors) and can solve a Rubik’s cube blindfolded, with his bare feet. That kind of evil. The evil of numbers and quotients and, special algorithms brought forth with the blessings of the Sum Gods and the magic of the Wizards of the Kingdom of Excel. Ya know? The Accounting Department. To set foot in the accounting department is to travel to another dimension. It solidifies the theories that, yes indeed Carl, Wormholes do exist in space. You may be only 20 to 30 paces from this area, but the quantum mechanics involved from your desk to their threshold are astounding. Why do you think you feel woozy upon entering their desolate land?

For most of us it’s a bit too much to take. I mean, you won’t be building models of The Devil’s tower out of mash potatoes at your dinner table, but you won’t be whistling Dixie either. For this is where the numbers of time and money collide on a daily basis and the aliens before you, hold it all together. My biggest fear is not nuclear proliferation or the terrorists of radical Islam. It’s the frightening idea that if the accounting department was left to its own devices, they would have too much fun with numbers and they, in their zany number-crutching frivolity, would create a disruption in the Space-Time continuum. The Earth that we know and love would simply collapse into a Black Hole. Thanks Accounting! Thanks a lot!

Luckily devices are in place to keep these maniacs from turning us all into anti-matter and their demeanor on an even keel. Talk radio is piped into their work areas to slow their brains down, kind of like white-noise static to keep their telepathy between each other at bay. Crossword puzzles are in generous supply for more distraction. There was The Great Suduku Incident of 2004 where the human race came perilously close to annihilation. Luckily black hole death was avoided, but the power that the Accounting department and Suduku conjured, did create a massive Tsunami in Asia. It was a brave soul in HR that flooded the offending accountants with a massive audio wave of Celine Dion. Each spring, HR departments all over the world are sent fresh batches of Celine to make sure this never happens again.

To occupy any amount of time over a minute in accounting is akin to being beamed aboard the Starship Enterprise, with the exception that the whole crew consists of 5 Dr. Spocks. Accounts Payable, Accounts Receivable. Dual flat screens awash with multi-paged Excel spreadsheets at every desk. Quizzical stares emanate from the group of Spocks, for you may as well be a great big pink blob with garden hoses sprouting forth from you. To them, you are the alien. So as I drop off my inventory sheets from the day before, I nervously look for The Transporter to beam me back to my world. Just then, my name is beckoned over the office intercom system. I am needed at the front desk. Whew! I now affectionately refer to the intercom as “Scotty” for it truly beamed my off of another planet.


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