Working Man's Slack RantOpus XVIII - by LesLucid
I don't work for the company that I "Work For". That is to
say, I perform few, very few, actions, here, that require
effort, and almost none that benefit anyone but myself. I
can't even say that I follow orders since I rarely get any,
at least not any that make sense or any for which I am
accountable. I perform few actions that even inconvenience
me, here, at the company where I am employed. There is
plenty of time (and, remember, time is money) to do whatever
I please, such as writing this.
I don't "Work For" the company that I work for. I am not an
employee of this company, the company where I do this so-
called work. I am an employee, a member as it were, of
another company located elsewhere, somewhere I've never
been. My company loaned me to this company, here, for a
year. Why? Beats me, but that's the deal. What exactly is
the deal? Beats me. My company gave me no information
other than where, when, and whom to report to. And, of
course, how much I will make. Here I am.
I don't know much about my company. Like I say, I've never
been there. They interviewed me by phone, initially, for
about 30 minutes. I assured them that I could "hit the
ground running." They did check my credentials and
references thoroughly, as I found out later through back
channels. I met with my company president in a hotel bar
for another 30 minutes late one night. He was drunk, my
leader, on a business trip, and I traveled 60 miles one
evening to catch him in passing. Passing out, that is. Two
days later, a phone call: "you're hired. Report in Akron,
OH, blah, blah, blah..." So I did.
As I said, I don't know much about my company. I can't even
read the signature on my paychecks. The accompanying
statements look like junk-mail advertisements. The
paychecks work though. I tested the numbers by transferring
different amounts to different accounts. Yep, it's there
all right, to the tune of a lot, including a generous refund
for moving expenses. I still need to test the health
benefits though I'm not sure how to test the retirement. I
bet both are there too. In addition to all that, I've been
to about $20,000 worth of training classes to get me ready
for something. What? Beats me. I rarely have to do
anything now and don't foresee any formidable tasks ahead.
Gee, I hope I can live up to expectations.
The company where I work, for now, is not an interesting
place. They make and sell shit. They kiss their customers'
asses and butt-fuck their employees. Business as usual.
They have a main office where important decisions are made
and where I work. It's one important decision after
another. What kind of coffee maker should we get? Who gets
what office? What should we eat at the company picnic?
Whom do we talk about today? Who's going to answer the
phone?
These pinkos, my temporary colleagues, are especially
uninteresting, except for this one broad who just drips with
sex. She... well, I'll get back to that some other time if
I can bag her. If I didn't know better I'd say this place
recruited the stupidest shits that ever walked the pink side
of the planet. However, I do know better. This is just
another average american workplace. They competed fiercely
to get these stupid shits. In america, the laws of supply
and demand prevail. Companies demand shit and higher
education supplies it. The idea is to skim off what floats
to the top. This place is full of floaters.
The president of this company, not the drunk, is one helleva
turd. A skinny little shit. He always agrees with the last
person who leaves his office. His balls are long gone,
which may be why he loves golf so much, a preoccupation of
so many like him. For some reason he likes me. Yeah, I
thought queer at first too. Now, I don't really think so
but I have no other explanation either. Maybe I can be his
protege', his potential successor. His job is easy to do,
if not trivial. Just choose carefully whom you let in your
office last. Oh, Jesus, what a thought. Actually I think
the reason I'm here is that he suddenly "decided" that his
company should get with the times. He probably read a Time
magazine article about computers. These are the modern
days! Bring in an expert! Here I am.
Yes, here I am, in the lap of slack. It hasn't always been
this way. Burst into song: "There've been good times.
There's been bad times. I've had my hard times, too." I
have long since "lost my faith in this world..." But this
is the pinnacle of slack. After many years of living in
Brownian motion I seem to have landed in the very lap of
slack. Yes, it is the best of times; it is the worst of
times - idealistically, the worst, slackfully, the best.
And which is best, deals, ideals, or slack? A har har har.
So what counts? What matters? Stupid questions. And when
does it matter? Does it matter now, at some time soon, at
some time later, during the few minutes before death, or
after death? Just as stupid. Finding slack is like a monkey
touching a monolith. You either touch it or you don't.
So it's mere coincidence that I find alt.slack and slack
itself at exactly the same time? I think not.
L.L.
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From: pkitty@netcom.com (Purple Kitty)
Subject: Re: Look, Ma! No "Re:"!
Purple Kitty (pkitty@netcom.com) wrote:
: Clavis has inspired me, motivated me, cajoled me into improving the ratio
: of new posts to re: posts, and hence, I post this--a brand new thread! A
: brand new post! Something to tear apart and destroy as you will!
Gee, that's interesting. Not to change the subject, but did you ever
wonder if you were the only source of Slack in your coworkers' lives?
Sometimes it seems like they would hate everything about their jobs if it
wasn't for my "fucking WEIRD-ass behavior" that they deride but still
love to laugh with/at/for. I can be cheerful at work. I have Slack. My
life is great. I have Slack. Work is great. I have Slack. My coworkers
don't like work. They have no Slack. They bitch and whine about their
lives. They don't have Slack. They can't understand why I can have fun at
a meaningless job. They don't have Slack. They want my Slack. And they
get a LITTLE bit of it. When I make them laugh, or rant at them until a
teeny crack opens in their minds and they see WHY this job isn't such a
big deal and therefore ISN'T such a pain in the ass because your ass can
just ignore it, they get a little bit of Slack. I guess it's from me. But
I have enough to go around. I can afford to spare a LITTLE on the Pinks,
and it makes me feel good, in an altruistic sort of way, so that's a
little bit of Slack-return for me, too. If I were to stop working there,
I sometimes wonder if they'd all just curl up and die.
Of course, it would be better if THEY had Slack that *I* could siphon
off, but life isn't perfect.
Rev Pee Kitty
--
Meow!
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From: bmyers@ionet.net (TarlaStar)
Subject: Re: Look, Ma! No "Re:"!
Pee Kitty my brother! I thought you were dead...you just switched
bodies I guess. Nice goin'!
Anyway, there's nothing nicer than going to work and having everyone
say, "Oh thank God, you're here!" I joke about walking up to tables
and saying, "Hi, I'm Dr.H. and I'll be your waitress this afternoon.
Would you like a little linguistic theory with those nachos?" I once
walked up to a table of real estate guys and said, "Good afternoon,
YOU may call me MISTRESS TARLA. YOU will have ____ and you, ___
and you WILL have dessert, and you WILL tip 20%!" Then I turned
around, walked off...and when I served their food, they ordered
dessert and left 20%. I HAVE MUTHERFUCKIN' SLACK!
I have the Slackest job in the world. Do you know what waitresses do
to get back at Normals? I once had a guy WHISTLE to call me over to
his table. The place was completely empty, and I'd just come from his
table. He WHISTLED at me...I didn't walk over. I STRODE to the table,
and said. "I'm NOT YOUR GODDAMNED DOG, DON'T YOU EVER FUCKING WHISTLE
AT ME AGAIN! If you want something, use my name or 'Ms'. Now, can I
HELP you?" I doubt he did it to another waitress real soon.
Sometimes in the middle of a rush...when all hell is breaking loose. I
just get silly and yell out, "Let's dance!" The rest of the crew is
trained by now to at least make a motion as though they are dancing,
even when they are busy, but if they have a free hand, they
boogie!(for about 10 seconds, but that's all it takes to get a Slack
hit)
At my other job, the writing job, they BEG me to be funny. They give
me ordinary assignments, but completely free reign (except for
profanity) when it comes to choosing my op/ed shit. They are latent
SubG's, I'm sure of it.
I'd quit working completely and just do my own thing (since I'm lucky
enough to be able to do that) but I know that they NEED me. I was
sent to them for a purpose, and I secretly think that the Mont is one
of "Bob's" training grounds for SubG's...we sure have a bunch go
through there. I keep working as a service to Yetikin...ain't I a
saint?
--
Reverend Mutha Tarla, Little Sisters of the Perpetually Juicy,
A Proud Jism Schism of the Church of the SubGenius, Worshipping
"Connie" Dobbs and Juicy Retardo since 1986
http://www.ionet.net/~bmyers/homepage.html
Original file name: Working Man's Slack
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