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

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!



Tags:

0 Comments

Observational Humor Blogs - BlogCatalog Blog Directory BustedTees Black Friday Sale - Buy 2, Get 1 Free
© 2011 The Sweet Release of Death Throw me a bone