Tuesday, November 27, 2018
Funny
What’s so funny?
Indeed, what his office mates
laughed at was more often
cruel. Some asinine, pretentious
individual getting humiliated,
and the like.
He was better than that.
And even when the humor
was more cosmic, restrained
himself.
Such as when the drunken
pastry chef collapsed in
death, imprinting the delicate
batter with his face.
His family baked and ate same.
So what? Primitive Christians
all felt superior to.
Nothing funny here! Move on!
Said office mates eventually
tired of explaining why...anything--
labeled him a stick.
Fair enough, until Jennifer-Jo
caught in the wind one dark
Spring workday morning.
Demonstrating, thus, the modern
equivalent of bloomers.
She apologized, as Jerome did for
witnessing this weird fluorescence
in stranger light.
The image stayed with Jerome.
Intruded, really.
He lingered in the Break Room
one day, and they laughed about
other things.
Somehow discovering each to be
passionate and driven...at additional
impromptu meetings.
Oh well, skip ahead. Who couldn’t
guess the rest?
Neighboring state had looser
laws, so they eloped there of
a weekend.
The homespun wife of the
Justice assembled a wedding
ceremony, her perpetually-
high and Millennial son as
Best Man.
His C over C hilarity ignored
then...but roared about in stories
for children, Trevor and Cynthia,
later.
then...but roared about in stories
for children, Trevor and Cynthia,
later.
Trevor gushed that it was an old
Hollywood Romantic Comedy!
Cynthia: Same stale crap!
Labels: attitude, behavior, humor, office, repression, romance.work, taste
Sunday, February 11, 2018
Time
Quite Sweet Jeannie even sweeter
with the Honeymoon over.
Her accounts of newly married life
amuse sardonic women.
Until!
Well, something she confides, sourly,
to Account Manager, Rose.
“Now she must pray to St Punctilious,
little timing problem in the Sex Department.”
Jeannie frequently snaps then, especially at
younger colleagues.
Her six-month party celebrated with weak
martinis and cupcakes.
Rose orders some swishing of water after.
“After all, we meet the public!”
Jeannie insists the public is suet.
Labels: honeymoon, office, sex, women
Friday, June 03, 2016
Jesus In a Suit
Scene: Small inner room of
Back Door Tavern, where
Bloody Marys being concocted,
adding secret ingredients.
ART
The Army of Ecuador just marched
through my mouth.
BARTENDER MORKIE
Merry Christmas! Drink slow.
JESS
(reprising his sketch role as
last night’s Little Miss Innocence)
“Your largess doesn’t impress me, Sir.
I’ve seen bigger.”
ART
I can’t even visualize Mr Completely Good
with his pants off.
JESS
But you played him well as a raging hypocrite.
ART
Easier in the old days, when the Board sent us
fallible CEOs. Now we got Jesus in a suit!
JESS
Our sketch last night is the first step in his
destruction!
ART
I’ll drink to that! But he’s been singing all
morning.
JESS
His goodness is a slap in the face!
ART
Just another in a line of today’s utter frustrations.
JESS
We can’t really hurt him?
ART
Not a way!
JESS
It’s a Class Thing.
ART
Yeah, he’s got it and we’ll never have it.
JESS
Must pray to the Devil!
ART
HIS plate is full of the real world!
JESS
Maybe Jesus in a Suit will transition
to a skirt.
ART
Then we’d just turn all PC!
JESS
Or be shot?
ART
World’s gone to shit!
JESS
Drinking’s last White Privilege!
ART
Can’t pry that from our...
JESS
dead pale hands!
Labels: angry white men, Bloody Mary, Christmas Party, drinking, NRA, office, PC, Political Correctness, satirical sketch, White Privilege
Friday, May 20, 2016
The Team
I've filled out this same Form-19
for ten years! Nothing has changed.
-Ah but it has! Since I'm filling it
out with you!
-For some reason.
-But now we're even more vulnerable to
hackers as a team, so our password is...
I'll write it down once.
astanntm67$R
-Asta the dog in the Thin Man movies?
With characters Nick and Nora?
-How about the 67 etc at the end?
-Can't reveal that.
-And what's a movie anyway?
-You're so perfect for this experiment!
Mother's name?
-Rose.
-Must change it to Andrea.
-Rose!
-Trust me!
-And...keep trusting you?
-You learn fast. Which contradicts
the profile.
-Just a rebel!
-Or as much of a one can be tolerated
in pussy times.
-Do you superiors know that you...?
-That’d be a novelty. They know nothing!
But which party’s box to check, of course.
-How did sunken politics begin to rule?
-Began with Hongo buying his way to
Caveman of the Month with old fish.
-Still stink!
-Anyway, we skip now until the signatures.
Omitting the same tired chorus of all your
mediocre years.
-Are you married?
-I was, but direct speech a no-no!
-I found that out also. So I presently retreat
to my single studio facing a brick wall.
-Fret not! You live on in the vibrancy of Form-19!
-In relative gaiety then?
-You’re a Derby Winner compared to the mudders
I deal with!
Labels: future bureaucracy, mild rebellion, office, office politics, repetitive forms, teamwork, working
Thursday, May 05, 2016
Reasonable Coherence
The new reorganization philosophy in an office
that had last suffered through
Team First!
RC sought sensible outcomes through sensible means,
and with personnel not bending themselves like Gumby.
Tough sell, though, by Mr Carkswell, brought in to institute it.
Mrs Carkswell's first husband was Farmer Joe, deceased.
That couple seemed to have Reasonable Coherence built in.
Anyway, she got up before Carkswell did and baked a box of
chocolate chip cookies.
Said box still warm on the train, which nearly went collectively
mad with the aroma.
Staff went ravenous, and each dropped in to his office with
a phony question re Reasonable Coherence.
The next week, Farmer Joes, a sort of molasses cookie.
To his memory also, she tossed in a shot of his moonshine.
After this, Peanut Butters cinched the deal. She ground her own.
Berts and Mongo started the office mantra, when they laughingly
said to Carkswell “We will do your will!”
Then others said the same, not laughing.
Anything could go too far. Example: the spotted box which Carkswell repeatedly used had been stolen, and some say eaten.
He didn't worry. Could scale everything back, using the principles
of Reasonable Coherence.
But, of course, the cookies had to continue at any rate.
A shiny new box each week was the compromise.
Labels: appetite, cookies, morale, office, reorganization, reorganization fatigue, workplace
Thursday, March 17, 2016
Monitors Like Flowers
Horch certainly ran an information cubicle.
Monitored to the max, all the figures spilling
in every direction.
It had once been window dressing, of course,
for the famous O'Leary.
Who never worked, and retired normally.
Horch worked continuously, and now
added a white monitor.
We called his cubicle, then, The Hospital.
So he monitored, too, all the numbers
and graphs etc of his physical and
mental being.
We could hear him muttering when his
metabolism flew a bit.
"Better breathe, sit down a moment!"
We were all sitting down for restorative
moments at that time, for we had lost the
super important Switzky Account.
Well, anyway, to look at Horch outside
the cubicle...normal-looking guy.
Even a bit of fun to him.
Until the day his face turned bright
powder blue.
Was it a side effect of new prostate pills?
“You want the simple explanation, or the
simpler one?” asked Daldad.
Opted for the latter.
“Watch National Geographic on monkeys or chimps
or whatever. That the face of one, anyway. Don't
you see?” he almost pleaded. "His girlfriend made
a monkey outa him!"
Well, she had left. All his med readings were off.
Daldad phoned her on the sly to see if she could help.
At first she said "I woudn't give him the sweat off my...!"
But Daldad is persuasive, and she sent Horch a dried
fruit wheel from Harry and David, with the note. "I must
be free. I know you understand. You are so beautifully
supportive!"
His face toned down gradually and is now just tinged
the lightest powder blue.
Bottom line: the company specializes in agitation,
so the new CEO ordered all medical monitoring
to cease. "Making staff a bunch of hypochodriacs!"
We had a litmus paper client, so she didn't
object to those tests.
Horch has gone mad in touching various parts
of himself periodically.
I give credit to us all, though, in that RP is
scrupulously observed.
Rectal Privacy.
Labels: hypochondriac, litmus, medical, monitors, monkey, office, rectal, relationship
Monday, April 13, 2015
Stages of History...in an Office
Conservative Goal
I fill out forms. I know, we all do. But it's my living.
And an easy one, until I get a 5206. Nothing auto-fills
there. Everything must be filled in. And correctly!
Or face the wrath of one, Jeanetta.
The sessions with her are memorable. Literally.
You're given things to remember.
Such as
In 14e of 5206
A dash will do it all,
while 14f is wall to wall!
And there are other tricks!
This is just a smattering of the humiliating times
I spent with this “poetic” fussbudget!
Really! I have a Master's Degree!
Headly Merse had the same difficulties, but his
solution was to fetch her a Polack with a
seven-word vocabulary for a week in the woods.
He set about doing just that. No one every
found out how he did it, but Founder's Week
we were always given off, and...
Mr and Mrs Eddings, the Mom and Pop the
present employees had never seen, "celebrated"
in a flag-bedecked suite in Bide-a-Bit. But they
were too Altzheimed out to sense much.
Anyway, Jeanetta, came back refreshed and easy-
oozie. "Let all the sticky forms...go! They're a
pain in the ass. I'll handle 'em."
So, the Polack was some physician of sex! Wow!
Unfortunately, he was also now a broken man.
Everybody in Shipping remarked on it. Then...
a rogue forklift pinned him against the far
interior of a truck.
He rehabbed for a month, and when he came back,
had the most eccentric walk in the valley.
And never spoke again, though mumbled.
Was quietly retired by the company, Jeanetta's vote
being the deciding one.
Thus was Jeanetta at the peak of her power, but you'd
never know it day-to-day. She was sunshine!
There can be cloudy frames. And the one big one:
Her Mercedes shot into an overflow pond during
Hurricane Arturo, and she drowned.
Instead of her, we now have Royal. And many
days his Mrs too. Those are great days because
she brings in French Pastries from Pierre's,
the boxes decorated with crowns.
Royal eliminated ALL forms! I'm now busy
writing the history of the firm.
He's mostly austere, but does drop by
with severely rationed words of small talk.
His management style is...well simply
not apparent. But classy.
His wife is, of course, terrific!
Then, enter Melissa, on Spring Break from Smith.
Even sweeter than her mother!
But, one day of cool morning and Spring-Fever afternoon,
she leaves her ski jacket.
This precipitates a crisis because Bill Hepple
a down-the-line accountant is caught embracing,
and kissing and whispering to it. And detaching
the expired lift tickets!
By me, who really has no authority over him, but tell
him to knock it off!
"I can't help it, because I'm a Royalist!”
"We all support Royal!"
No, I don't mean that in the way you're saying it.
"They're the Royal Family! I'd give my LIFE!"
I had always been a democracy guy, and this was
all pretty upsetting.
Fast forward five years and I’m okay with it, since
I’m Pope.
Only in the yearly procession of course, but
with an unlimited budget for vestments.
The processions always go swimmingly!
The exception was the first one. The Polack
very nearly ruined it by prostrating himself
sarcastically, and mumbling fiercely in Polish
and English.
All looked to the Pope, sensing a spiritual
problem.
I blessed him with utmost peering deliberation.
“Arise! My son!”
Lion became weirdly-walking lamb, and the
procession continued
Not a dry eye.
Labels: Conservative, forms, office, Pope, Royalist, sex, spiritual
Friday, March 20, 2015
Dream Tactic
Varieties of Lying Experience
-I guess the moral question is can you trust someone who
lies in dreams?
-Let’s jettison the dream part! I don’t wanna show off my
two-bit psychology just now. Maybe the moral part too.
At any rate, what happened?
-Lorkie screaming “I SENT you verification on that!”
-“Well I never GOT it!” I lied.
-Okay, okay, that’s the Self-Preservation Lie. Real question
is how many share it?
-Whole department.
-Whole department lying? Triumph of Capitalism!
-Somebody’s gonna get fired!
-A necessary component! But, let’s recap: We have the
Self-Preservation Lie and the Social Lie together. Yeah, they
can’t let you get away with that!
-I’LL be fired?
-Most likely. They’ll trap you into lying again. With witnesses,
your former friends. Then beef up the discharge report with
additional Creative Writing.
-What can I do?
-Stick a fork in yourself: you’re done!
-In the dream or life?
-There’s a difference? But you can do what Bipsey Hockney did,
some sort of voodoo delivered Mr Cato the flu for a week. When
the obnoxious prick came back, thirsting to perform Management’s
dirtiest tricks, Bipsey fell through the cracks. So let’s hear it for
Incompetence!
-My only hope?
-Has never failed me!
Labels: business, Capitalism, firing, incompetence, lying, Lying in Capitalism, office, prevalence of prevarication, Self-preservation lie, Social Lie
Tuesday, March 17, 2015
Figuring Out Heaven and Earth 1,2
Justine & Bernadette & Bernadette’s Curley
-That man should be ashamed!
-Every chance he got, he made an
exhibition of himself. And in
a bad way!
-Yeah, he was no good all right!
But...I liked him.
-How could you like him? Thinking
of the humiliation of his wife
and children?
-Well, I obviously didn't think of...
-Hey! He was never punished on this Earth!
-You mean, they'll get him eventually?
-That Final Tribune, Baby!
-Sounds like a hip newspaper. But, it’s
Tribunal methinks.
-Anyway, he'll get it then! Worse than he
deserves, I hope.
-One can always hope. Besides, he'll have
St Peter in stitches with all those little acts
he pulls.
-He's worthless, but makes people laugh!
-So, Pete gives him a pass in?
-Probably.
-Who else gets passes?
--Well, the five-percent.
-They PAY their way in then?
-I suppose.
-You mean HEAVEN'S Deck is stacked too?
-Most likely.
----
The New Hire After a Week
-I hear nothing but bad about our boss,
Mr Hoska, but you say he's wonderful!
-And generous! Why he'd give you the
sleeves outa his vest!
-Hah! Back at YOU on THAT one! Vests HAVE
no sleeves!
-I give up trying to fool you forever!
Labels: Family, friendship, joke, office, shame, work
Friday, December 19, 2014
Monkey See
Would Marcus prove incompetent in everything?
He answered that by wearing one sock to the office.
Since he was Boss, and this being America, staff
followed suit thereafter.
Thus Incompetence became the New Competence!
Time named him Person of the Year.
Pointed out to children, who couldn’t be bothered.
Fortunately.
Labels: business, competence, example, incompetence, office, Time Magazine
Friday, December 05, 2014
Odd Job
The few times Skutz met other employees,
he asked them about their work. He had
glimpsed hints of it from the papers
crossing his desk.
This was evidently an etiquette breach,
for all communications from the company
henceforth came to his home. And no other
company person came near his office.
And what came across his desk was now
coded, except for the signature on the bottom.
He had been instructed to stamp everything
APPROVED.
Which he did. For eight years.
Then he was told to stamp nothing unless
it contained the name, Murcer.
That was easy. All signed by Murcer anyway.
A very large signature he knew by heart.
No first name.
Three more years passed, pleasantly enough.
He had gotten used to seeing no other
worker.
Then one morning, the very first paper,
contained the word, Murder.
He locked it in his top drawer.
No paper qualified after that, not having
the signature.
The obvious conclusion: Murcer was murdered.
But his not to reason why.
Soon enough, another communication in his home
mailbox notifying him to stamp nothing not
containing the name Oggnurst.
He wonders, for years now, what that name can
be turned into.
Labels: corporate ethics, corporate murder, murder, office, secret, secret work, solo worker, strange employer, working
Thursday, September 12, 2013
Non-definitive Non-guide To Punctuation
Comma Creature
-When he expired, did he take his dead commas
with him?
-One would hope.
-He really sprinkled 'em around!
-Not sprinkled. Each one with a rule,
however picayune.
-A cloud of Victorian dust just vacated
this office.
-Thank God for that!
-Isaac Babel says a well-placed comma can stab
the heart.
-We're not into stabbing hearts here. Or any other
creative pursuits, really.
-All of it's defunct now, anyway. Ninety percent of
everything is email.
-The literary equivalent of not giving a shit.
Labels: comma, email, Isaac Babel, office, punctuation, style
Monday, February 18, 2013
“Not So Super Mario”
The name hung on him
by the Irish woman,
also here to learn the new
series of switches.
He shunned her, a bitch,
pure and simple, who cut
all for even innocent takes.
During the Super Bowl frenzy
he wore a Baltimore jersey.
Only he and Group’s basic
“Drama Queen” did so.
From something this silly,
a bond formed and they,
despite warnings, dated.
She couldn’t fathom his
fascination for what she
called soccer. “Like ballet
with the Prima Ballerina
shrieking in pain over
a hangnail.” He explained
that what she further labeled
Academy Award! was similar
to her frequent protestations
for justice and equity.
Didn’t wash, so he gave up.
His attention seized,
anyway, by her performances
bordering on egregious. Such
disturbed others; he simply repeated
to her how lovely she was in everything.
When it grows time to leave,
she floats following him, now
loses that idea quickly without
his really weighing in.
Back in Bolzano, how her emails flood!
Then hop, diminish, and stop.
Two old uncles visit. They have found
a bride for him. He thanks them, but de-
tails how such rituals have truly lost force
in such a cosmopolitan area. But
certainly they will meet!–out of
respect for their love and position.
The photo shows her to be pretty.
And reserved. That proves
the clincher finally.
The name hung on him
by the Irish woman,
also here to learn the new
series of switches.
He shunned her, a bitch,
pure and simple, who cut
all for even innocent takes.
During the Super Bowl frenzy
he wore a Baltimore jersey.
Only he and Group’s basic
“Drama Queen” did so.
From something this silly,
a bond formed and they,
despite warnings, dated.
She couldn’t fathom his
fascination for what she
called soccer. “Like ballet
with the Prima Ballerina
shrieking in pain over
a hangnail.” He explained
that what she further labeled
Academy Award! was similar
to her frequent protestations
for justice and equity.
Didn’t wash, so he gave up.
His attention seized,
anyway, by her performances
bordering on egregious. Such
disturbed others; he simply repeated
to her how lovely she was in everything.
When it grows time to leave,
she floats following him, now
loses that idea quickly without
his really weighing in.
Back in Bolzano, how her emails flood!
Then hop, diminish, and stop.
Two old uncles visit. They have found
a bride for him. He thanks them, but de-
tails how such rituals have truly lost force
in such a cosmopolitan area. But
certainly they will meet!–out of
respect for their love and position.
The photo shows her to be pretty.
And reserved. That proves
the clincher finally.
Labels: arranged marriage, Drama Queen, Irish, Italian, office, soccer, Super Mario, tradition
Friday, November 02, 2012
When Our Office Mgr Vacations,
ocean remains calm
per directions, am-
bient air as Gold-
ilocks, therefore
not warm nor chill.
Later mountains likewise
behave, filling his camera
with pixelled serenity of
repetitious snowcaps
replacing flat seas.
Even the wildflowers
order themselves in-
to a spinster’s garden.
Last, though, Vegas,
where women
find him
out. Ditto booze,
cornucopia drugs
and Blackjack.
He has returned, boy-
babbler of high exploits
at bed and table. Office
runs itself, with predict-
able results. When half
the copiers bust at
once, we push rehab
on the now-depressive.
Of course, the exact record
re Vegas’d help psychiatrists,
but he sold the camera there,
and scrubbed the chip of sin
for a concluding whack at it.
Well, long story short, how
he’s carted away and half
the down copiers
suddenly race!
We learned it’s all of it
Karma, Baby!
Business model, in any case,
more discrete. Thus, probably,
Karma, Colleague.
ocean remains calm
per directions, am-
bient air as Gold-
ilocks, therefore
not warm nor chill.
Later mountains likewise
behave, filling his camera
with pixelled serenity of
repetitious snowcaps
replacing flat seas.
Even the wildflowers
order themselves in-
to a spinster’s garden.
Last, though, Vegas,
where women
find him
out. Ditto booze,
cornucopia drugs
and Blackjack.
He has returned, boy-
babbler of high exploits
at bed and table. Office
runs itself, with predict-
able results. When half
the copiers bust at
once, we push rehab
on the now-depressive.
Of course, the exact record
re Vegas’d help psychiatrists,
but he sold the camera there,
and scrubbed the chip of sin
for a concluding whack at it.
Well, long story short, how
he’s carted away and half
the down copiers
suddenly race!
We learned it’s all of it
Karma, Baby!
Business model, in any case,
more discrete. Thus, probably,
Karma, Colleague.
Labels: business, karma, model, office, organization
Sunday, June 03, 2012
How Do You Say Banana Daiquiri?
Grizzled old head pops over his cube, scarlet face.
“Can still hear the woodwinds. They carry better
on the breeze than the oom-pah-pahs. Never run
after the parade. It's passed, and the faster you
run, more it gets away.”
He phones Gretchen with the bizarre account.
“Missed it, huh? No fuckin surprise there!”
She was still bitter at having been laid off from the Dentist, who brought in his girlfriend after his divorce.
“At any rate, I lift a glass to the passing parade.
Moves me so, I might do it again!”
Gretchen was proving over-sibilant.
Tells accountant Jerry who quips “Yeah any parade's
far gone from us! But why don't they have security here?
Bums wander at will. Hey! Do what I did! Two part plan:
buy philosophy books and bore the shit out of yourself
for a year. Then, ketchup Corvette!”
He goes to boardroom to study himself in the full-length
mirror the tycoons use to check their entrance.
"Lumpy," he concludes.
Lunch at Reading Terminal Market where he buys
the greens and fruits to get them eating healthy again.
An afternoon call enrolls Gretchen in a support group
called Tomorrow. She’ll dress beautifully and con them
until they turn on her.
When he gets home she has passed out at the kitchen island mid a blender spinning nothing. He drops his grocery bag among scattered banana daiquiri makings.
Get her into the shower after checking the mail.
Then, they cook.
Labels: alcohol, office, parade
