Why I Do Not Belong in a Cubicle. Seriously.
Posted by Steve Bagley
Sure, I could last two, maybe three weeks. I could put on a smiling face and engage in activities for the betterment of an organization which transfers liability and helps other organizations assimilate product and service lines through third-party communications so as to improve communications and product/service lines while transferring liability. Sure. I could. I could bathe in the rhetoric. For a while. I could put my ego aside and take orders from pretentious nice-watch hair-gel nice-shirt sporting sports. I could take the plastic smiles. For a while. I could engage in hollow banter about the acquisition of newer and nicer possessions as my soul begins to take poison jab after jab of what this consensual thought-form dictates to me what it thinks will make me whole. I could deal with whining customers from other organizations who are having trouble with their communications service rhetoric and product lines, and deal with the fact that it is hindering their ability to acquire more possessions at the rate in which they deem acceptable. I could take orders from a Beta male a few times. Sure, we’ve moved on a bit since the last few million years. Maybe his strength lies in his brain. But after all I know this isn’t true. It lies not in his will for comfort, which I do not abhor, but rather his distortion of his will for comfort which translates to—yes—greed. Which I do abhor. But oops, this is rhetoric. Forgive me.
Then one day I will show up at work late. No tie and stinking like a pirate. There is a great possibility that I will be stoned out of my head. Whatever the case, I will receive an onslaught of communication product/service line-acquisition of possession rhetoric. I will be reprimanded. And that is when my hypothalamus will reawaken from its placid give-and-take relationship it previously had with my cerebral cortex. (The hypothalamus is the core of the human brain and is inherited directly from our reptilian ancestors and is, in fact, the seat of all aggression as well as drives for sex, food, sleep, self defense and anything else we humans find strangely excellent. On the other hand, the cerebral cortex is our most recent development, and has grown around the reptilian center like an onion, and is what allows me to sit here and smith visual-language regarding parts of the human brain, while you sit on the other end and process it. The cerebral cortex is also responsible for art, imagination and science. So just to recap, if you read this and you find you may have other things on your mind… like sex and food—then remember—it’s coming from the alligator control center, not the cerebral cortex. With that cleared up, let me continue.)
As I am being reprimanded, I will find myself puzzled momentarily at the standoff we will find ourselves in, and I will eventually conclude to myself that these assholes are part of the problem. They are outright denying their reptilian monkey-fuck heritage. That is divorce from your truest nature—if he who precedes man is God, then this is heresy. I must help them see.
The plastic hair, plastic smiling beta will step up and I will lunge forward with a brutal head butt that will immediately crush his nose and send blood spraying in all directions—on coworkers and cubicle walls. He will fall to his knees and decide that he has already lost this fight. Yeah—that’s how I roll. Then another worker will come over in his nice suit and plastic face that is no longer plastic but real and oozing with fear, and he will try to restrain me. As he approaches me I will step towards him and swing my fist directly into his throat, so as to send him flying bitch-like over his desk, nice shoes and tie flying backwards-up-and-over. I will take the blood that sprayed everywhere and paint my face with it like a mad Apache brave on the war path. Other employees will dash at me in desperation but will receive universe-shattering spin-kicks to the sides of their heads, blasting them outward and knocking over the cubicle walls—then I will set fire to my computer and eat all the paperwork I had been doing. Then, as the sprinkler system rains down I will engage in battle with two security guards who came to investigate all the commotion. I will dodge their fists like an afterthought so as to toy with these minimum-wage earning motherfuckers. I will form-tackle one of the guards straight to his back and proceed to bite his ear off. As he wiggles in pain on the floor, I will turn my attention to the other security guard, who by this point has turned and began to run. Using nothing but instinct, I will chase him down with frightening speed and drive him face-first into the wall, consequently dislocating his jaw from his skull. Then—with squirming, moaning bodies all over the floor, a desk set on fire, and sprinklers raining down—I will proceed to smash the nearest desk with my fists and rip free a flat board of wood from it—sprinting towards the nearest window I will mount it in mid-air and crash through the glass—surfing the broken desk-piece down through the shimmering shards, into the bushes three stories below. I will hide in the shadows and eventually make my way home.
When I get home after this long day I will shower up, order Chinese food and put on some Scooby Doo.
Sure, I could last two, maybe three weeks. I could put on a smiling face and engage in activities for the betterment of an organization which transfers liability and helps other organizations assimilate product and service lines through third-party communications so as to improve communications and product/service lines while transferring liability. Sure. I could. I could bathe in the rhetoric. For a while. I could put my ego aside and take orders from pretentious nice-watch hair-gel nice-shirt sporting sports. I could take the plastic smiles. For a while. I could engage in hollow banter about the acquisition of newer and nicer possessions as my soul begins to take poison jab after jab of what this consensual thought-form dictates to me what it thinks will make me whole. I could deal with whining customers from other organizations who are having trouble with their communications service rhetoric and product lines, and deal with the fact that it is hindering their ability to acquire more possessions at the rate in which they deem acceptable. I could take orders from a Beta male a few times. Sure, we’ve moved on a bit since the last few million years. Maybe his strength lies in his brain. But after all I know this isn’t true. It lies not in his will for comfort, which I do not abhor, but rather his distortion of his will for comfort which translates to—yes—greed. Which I do abhor. But oops, this is rhetoric. Forgive me.
Then one day I will show up at work late. No tie and stinking like a pirate. There is a great possibility that I will be stoned out of my head. Whatever the case, I will receive an onslaught of communication product/service line-acquisition of possession rhetoric. I will be reprimanded. And that is when my hypothalamus will reawaken from its placid give-and-take relationship it previously had with my cerebral cortex. (The hypothalamus is the core of the human brain and is inherited directly from our reptilian ancestors and is, in fact, the seat of all aggression as well as drives for sex, food, sleep, self defense and anything else we humans find strangely excellent. On the other hand, the cerebral cortex is our most recent development, and has grown around the reptilian center like an onion, and is what allows me to sit here and smith visual-language regarding parts of the human brain, while you sit on the other end and process it. The cerebral cortex is also responsible for art, imagination and science. So just to recap, if you read this and you find you may have other things on your mind… like sex and food—then remember—it’s coming from the alligator control center, not the cerebral cortex. With that cleared up, let me continue.)
As I am being reprimanded, I will find myself puzzled momentarily at the standoff we will find ourselves in, and I will eventually conclude to myself that these assholes are part of the problem. They are outright denying their reptilian monkey-fuck heritage. That is divorce from your truest nature—if he who precedes man is God, then this is heresy. I must help them see.
The plastic hair, plastic smiling beta will step up and I will lunge forward with a brutal head butt that will immediately crush his nose and send blood spraying in all directions—on coworkers and cubicle walls. He will fall to his knees and decide that he has already lost this fight. Yeah—that’s how I roll. Then another worker will come over in his nice suit and plastic face that is no longer plastic but real and oozing with fear, and he will try to restrain me. As he approaches me I will step towards him and swing my fist directly into his throat, so as to send him flying bitch-like over his desk, nice shoes and tie flying backwards-up-and-over. I will take the blood that sprayed everywhere and paint my face with it like a mad Apache brave on the war path. Other employees will dash at me in desperation but will receive universe-shattering spin-kicks to the sides of their heads, blasting them outward and knocking over the cubicle walls—then I will set fire to my computer and eat all the paperwork I had been doing. Then, as the sprinkler system rains down I will engage in battle with two security guards who came to investigate all the commotion. I will dodge their fists like an afterthought so as to toy with these minimum-wage earning motherfuckers. I will form-tackle one of the guards straight to his back and proceed to bite his ear off. As he wiggles in pain on the floor, I will turn my attention to the other security guard, who by this point has turned and began to run. Using nothing but instinct, I will chase him down with frightening speed and drive him face-first into the wall, consequently dislocating his jaw from his skull. Then—with squirming, moaning bodies all over the floor, a desk set on fire, and sprinklers raining down—I will proceed to smash the nearest desk with my fists and rip free a flat board of wood from it—sprinting towards the nearest window I will mount it in mid-air and crash through the glass—surfing the broken desk-piece down through the shimmering shards, into the bushes three stories below. I will hide in the shadows and eventually make my way home.
When I get home after this long day I will shower up, order Chinese food and put on some Scooby Doo.
This entry was posted by Ben Myers, on
Thursday, May 18, 2006.
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11:40 AM
Mcsweeney's humor with a twist of violence... nice.
If typing a memo in an adjacent cubicle, I notice an Apache warrior on a rampage, this piece has inspired my reverting back to my natural state: that being, of course, "reptilian monkey-fuck heritage.