Monday, 7 February 2011
Bailing Chapter 7 - Breaking Point
I always get static shocks off of the metal cages somehow. Whenever I slowly reach towards one I know my body is permeating some unseen electromagnetic membrane surrounding the metal and upon contact becomes an instant conductor.
Worse is the barrier next to the escalators, to touch both at the same time is to become a human crocodile clip. Thus I unintentionally demonstate a human electrical circuit, in brief but nevertheless blaringly regular detail.
The entire building must be positively charged as the same thing happens with the door code panels. More wonderful static shocks to make one's knee-jerk pussy-footing all the more obvious to one's co-workers. And to add insult to injury the doors tend not to open afterwards. I think its a motion senser thing.
Of course when I do get in:
Five hours & 350 absent boxes later:
and later still:
And finally the camel's back breaks.
END.
Bailing Chapter 6 - Love, Honour & Obey
The Company doesn't want you to get away.
The Company doesn't tolerate individualism.
The Company doesn't tolerate intellectual thought.
The Company doesn't tolerate items beyond The Company.
The Company doesnt want you to get away.
END.
Monday, 31 January 2011
Bailing Chapter 5 - The Importance of being wired
Can you guess what it is?
Usually, I have to rocket back and forth around work, I'm just that busy. To the casual observer I'm a streak of matted hair and muffled swearing.
I can naturally only keep up this momentum for so long and I am reduced to moving at average walking speed....
...then slow speed (and by which point my strength is waining to that of the average faun).
And lastly I finally succumb to fatigue and despondancy and wither and die like a gremlin exposed to sunlight.
Fortunately, I make it to a cup of coffee in time to prevent instantaneous liquification.
And thus the cycle begins anew.
This is the thing, I'm not another one of those beret-wearing, menthol-smoking types who absolutley has to have coffee among the other so called finer things in life. I actually DON'T like it. I really don't, once a friend insisted I try this obscenley expensive filter coffee on the basis that it was the best in creation. I still maintain the belief that it tasted like someone had poured hot water into an ash tray. Hence why I included the bad taste in mouth in the above graph. However, I read once that proper coffee addicts don't have time for real coffee - I think there might be some truth in this, because I need to down a gallon of tarry, cafeine sludge to make it through my working day.
Yes, this is a comprehensive Bird's eye view of the stockroom I inhabit. Importantly there is rarely room for two thirds of a person in the ailes due to all the massing piles of crap we get in.
So, with a stockroom as densely packed as this I have to squeeze through everything to get anywhere, I'm a skinny guy but even I have trouble sometimes. And then there's the pallets of crap I have to pull along after me. Sometimes it seems like I'm the only one who has a problem in this respect, or even any problems at all. In the great H.G Wells novel of my job the majority of my co-workers are elois, swanning about in the bright lights of banal ignorance whereas I'm something of a morlock. skulking about in the stockroom's bitter realism. Sometimes I wonder if maybe I'll get lucky and kidnap one of them and spit out the bones later.
But suffice to say I need a cup oof cofee to keep it together in the face pof such persistant annoyances.
It does. With a fresh supply of cheap coffee in my bloodstream I'm able to return to hustling the proverbial streets of my work like the crack-addled prostitute that I am.
Tuesday, 25 January 2011
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