Office Chatter

Ok, I work in an ocean of cubicles. There is a veritible labarynth of cubes everywhere you go. I keep waiting for a bizarre all-in-one David-Bowie-with-Michael-Motion's-hands freak contact juggling 4 crystal balls to pop out with some of Jimmy Henson's minions and serve me up a big, steamy riddle. But at times something far worse appears.

It's the office worker that speaks only in nonsequitors and cliches.

Try this one on for size:

Me: "Good morning, Cubie X. How's it going?"

CX: "Welp, it's Monday."

Now, of course I know what they mean. But I'd rather have them wax postal and hear their manifesto than deal with this trite bullshit. How about something like this?

Me: "Good morning, Cubie X. How's it going?"

CX: "'How's it going?' 'How's it going?' I'll tell you how it's going, asshole. I work in an ocean of cubicles. I'm a worker bee, a drone for a queen I shall never meet. I come to work everyday solely because I am in no way qualified for any job which could possibly provide me with any more pleasure or self-worth than the one I currently hold. Everyday I come here is one more day in which I am reminded of all the great things I could have done but will never attempt. I could be finishing my novel or touring Europe. I could be teaching a blind child the true meaning of friendship while saving the manatees and looking good in a wet suit. Instead, I'm here, drinking coffee and waiting somewhat patiently for my turn to die. I spend a bulk of my day thinking of new and inventive ways to kill everybody here using some cartoony Rube Goldberg executionator. In short, I hate this place, I hate these people and I hate my job. Every Monday, every beginning of a new cycle along my Mobius Strip in Hell is an agony with which I can scarcely bare."

See, if they said that, I'd likely high-five 'em and offer up my Erector Set to aid in the construction of the Executionator. But they deliver this simple cliche, instead, which is only indicative of their sad and pathetic lives in which they do not have the fortune of enjoying their job.

The same is true of Friday. They're sending the same message but it's got a little bit more of a manic excitement to it, as they get to pretend that maybe, just maybe, THIS is the weekend in which they take one in the face while cleaning their shotgun or get hit by a speeding truck full of cynderblocks and rusty razorblades and they can finally end the grisly nightmare known as Life.

Aaaanyway, I gotta' go to bed now.
Tomorrow's Monday and I can't WAIT to get to work!

Rev. Joshua