As the major pharmaceutical giant, hereafter dubbed, simply, MPG, I work for continues to fire its redundant employees into the East River, the workload I face everyday gets simultaneously voluminous and meager at the same time, an impossible working model of the existential being, an entity that is nothing and everything all at once. The effect this has on our humble office is that of a sense of overwhelming responsibility coupled with the reality that there's nothing to do. It's a lot like being a boxer waiting in the locker room before a fight, and discovering that the bantam weight you were going to take on is being replaced by a rape-hungry android from another dimension. Because you can't even begin to fathom what that even means, all you can do is sit fatly on the locker room bench in a state of suspended, albeit terrified, animation and await the otherworldly ass torture you're about to receive.
This isn't the first time our office has been expecting unwanted butt sex. We've been reamed many times (and if you knew which MPG I worked for, you'd know they can go all night, baby). What we employees fear most during these business dark ages is not the threat of work but the threat of idle work, an oxymoronic masterpiece of which my boss may be both originator and master. Some of these tasks are so unbearably devoid of skill or difficulty that one assumes there's some sort of trick to it, some hidden snag for which a poor dope of an employee can be drawn and quartered. Surely he isn't serious (is he?) when he says he wants these labels removed, mounted on an 8 1/2 by 11 piece of yellow letter size paper, encased in liquid carbonite, and immediately throw away? No sane, sensible human being could POSSIBLY want that to happen. Could they? But by the time you ask that question, it's too late. Eight hours have fleetingly passed by and you've found yourself high as a kite off of adhesive remover and wrist-deep in your coworker's entrails (adhesive removal having the unfortunate side-effect of lycanthropy which really hasn't been registered with the FDA...and should).
Bear in mind that my boss speaks in cryptic riddles that would make the Sphinx talk lion and shit human. He doesn't just mix metaphors, he purees the fucking things until what was once trite business speak becomes a new, wonderful lexiconic nightmare. The game is easy, take any bullshit corporate phrase, truncate it, add the end of another one, and then throw in a mad tangent. It goes something like this:
1. "Let's run that up the flagpole and see who buys Abe Vigoda's farm."
2. "Let's just think outside the ballpark figure and I think we can all wear a dress on this thing."
3. "Six of one thing, half an Abe Vigoda."
4. "Abe Vigoda!"
I may have gotten sidetracked. Oh well. Congratulations to a certain title holder out there...