The meek shall inherit the executive bathroom.
The weasels are frantic. I can see the panic in their eyes as I walk by them in the halls, smell it above their cologne, and hear it in the quiver of their false greetings. The word these days on everyones mind is 'buyout'.
The silent catacombs that make up mahogany row reek, the bitter scent of fear replaces the air of treachery and sychophantism that has so long lingered in these halls. That scent still lingers in the furniture, a subtle reminder that not even great Caesar is immortal at Big Evil Inc., despite the hastily drawn alliances between Vice President and Director alike. Armani clad corporate yes-men dance about in complete confusion, secure only in the knowledge that the axe is coming, yet still they try to maintain the corporate line. Still they profess that nothing is certain yet, and that all hands must continue to see to their duties as if nothing has changed, all the while glancing over their shoulder to make sure Carlton from Public Affairs hasn't made off with the last lifeboat.
Meanwhile, downstairs, those who man the oars for Caesar toil away, secure in the knowledge that Big Evil II will simply incorporate them into the guts of the new galley. They toil along with us, the taskmasters who quantify their value to the company though intense statistical analysis and constant, overwhelming surveillance. Together we stand and observe those we have served these past years and reflect on their abuses. We look to the abandoned ivory tower from whence they would look down upon us with disdain and criticize us for the way we looked, regulate away the things we liked, and execute policy that makes Pharoah's 'make bricks without straw' seem like an extra week of vacation. We look to that tower now overgrown with cobwebs, the runnels of bird droppings a testament that new days are ahead, and think things can only get better.
Already the closed ranks of the six-figure incomed have begun to break. The first weasel squeal echoed through the mahogany tomb, sending pigeons scrambling to the air from the tower of disdain.
The rest of us, lackeys to the man, patiently await Christmas. By then, they should be feeding on each other quite nicely.
Smell the air fellows, vengeance has come, and for once, she's on our side!
The silent catacombs that make up mahogany row reek, the bitter scent of fear replaces the air of treachery and sychophantism that has so long lingered in these halls. That scent still lingers in the furniture, a subtle reminder that not even great Caesar is immortal at Big Evil Inc., despite the hastily drawn alliances between Vice President and Director alike. Armani clad corporate yes-men dance about in complete confusion, secure only in the knowledge that the axe is coming, yet still they try to maintain the corporate line. Still they profess that nothing is certain yet, and that all hands must continue to see to their duties as if nothing has changed, all the while glancing over their shoulder to make sure Carlton from Public Affairs hasn't made off with the last lifeboat.
Meanwhile, downstairs, those who man the oars for Caesar toil away, secure in the knowledge that Big Evil II will simply incorporate them into the guts of the new galley. They toil along with us, the taskmasters who quantify their value to the company though intense statistical analysis and constant, overwhelming surveillance. Together we stand and observe those we have served these past years and reflect on their abuses. We look to the abandoned ivory tower from whence they would look down upon us with disdain and criticize us for the way we looked, regulate away the things we liked, and execute policy that makes Pharoah's 'make bricks without straw' seem like an extra week of vacation. We look to that tower now overgrown with cobwebs, the runnels of bird droppings a testament that new days are ahead, and think things can only get better.
Already the closed ranks of the six-figure incomed have begun to break. The first weasel squeal echoed through the mahogany tomb, sending pigeons scrambling to the air from the tower of disdain.
The rest of us, lackeys to the man, patiently await Christmas. By then, they should be feeding on each other quite nicely.
Smell the air fellows, vengeance has come, and for once, she's on our side!
posted earlier by DM, the resident idiot
3 Comments:
then whats the poop deck for?
this post reminds me of that movie with the office guy's and their ship was a building.shit what was that fucking movie,later's..
The Crimson Permanent Assurance.
It's a short film by the fellows from Monty Python that appears at the beginning of The Meaning of Life I think.
Post a Comment
<< Home