13 April 2006


I’m better off than 99% of the people on this planet and still I moan. Oh, it’s true that I’ve seen more idiocy of late and the stress at work is growing to infarction levels, but we don’t have to lay any one off and soon the lawyers will be gone, taking with them the bulk of the money. This is normal, I suppose, but it does nothing to slake my desire to beat them severely about the head and shoulders with a blunt accountant.

The downside seems to be an endless mind-numbing life, glued to the corporate teat. We have already been given procedure manuals from our new corporate overlords.

Frankly, they’re amazing. There are guidelines for what food can be eaten on the premises, vendor interaction, bathroom comportment and team building exercises!

“Your company loves you!” the manuals exhort. They were written by pod people and predict my fate in Nostradamic quatrains.

“The chubby one shall piss and moan;
Alcohol will be banned on the premises;
And should he resort to arson;
The company shall recover its money by selling his organs.”

I am doomed. I shall grow old; my body kept alive by life-support machines, my brain hooked up to the company’s computers to be accessed at will by nerds with no desire for world domination.

It is an ugly future; all porn sites are blocked.

I spent last night contemplating my options whilst ignoring the familial hullabaloo. The cats were chasing each other and the dog was trying to dig a hole in the carpet. The boys were taking turns punching each other in the shoulder. (I remember doing this with my brother, but not the reason. Perhaps clots forming in the contusions are supposed to migrate to the brain and slowly kill it, allowing adequate blood supply to more important male organs, like the beer gut.)

Gretchen tried to engage me in conversation, but I just sat, staring vacantly at the TV, dranking beer and brooding.

“Honey,” I finally said, "Just so you know, I never want to live in a vegetative state, dependent on some damn machine and fluids from a bottle. If that ever happens, just pull the plug."

So, she got up, unplugged the TV and threw out all my beer.

“Get a hold of yourself!” She said. “Think of your new bosses as fresh meat! New peasants to subjugate! New victims to fleece, sheep to shear, lemmings to mallet! Now get out there and start scheming. And don’t forget to bring back any valuables that they are foolish enough to leave lying about in the company safe.”

So it turns out that I am a very lucky man after all. My love always knows just what to say.

And that's the way I likes it.