Sunday, April 1, 2012

Do You Want My Job? Pt. 1

Lately I have been having trouble concentrating, or even staying awake. I have found that about an hour after beginning my work day I am ready to go back to bed, feeling not only a general lack of enthusiasm for my well-paying high-powered job, but a certain physical revulsion when I hear the voices of the ninnies and cretins that populate my work day and the unquestionably soporific topics at hand. 

Today is Saturday and, in keeping with this concept we've all come to accept called the calendar, yesterday was Friday. On Friday, it almost never fails that the boss drops a few items in the inbox for discussion Monday, which in most countries is the day that follows Sunday. Suffice to say that few weekends go by without something urgent work item to "execute" (which is starting to take on a whole new meaning for me).

Today being Saturday I thought I would conduct a little experiment to see if the sudden torpor seizures I generally have during work hours had anything to do with the soporific topics I mentioned earlier. This weekend, my task is to write a brief, the kind that people used to carry around in brief cases. No I'm not a lawyer but my Dad was and he had one badass honey badger big fat mofo briefcase that he used to smack me upside the head with when he got home from work, that musky pipe smoke wafting off the suit coat he wrapped around my head to staunch the bleeding and avoid staining the carpet. Dear old Dad!
Well I farted around for several hours, played chuck it n' fuck it with the dog, did the usual Facebook prowl, took a little nap, went to the Hoary Turd (Jack's name for the Good Earth - though some of the people at the old store were a little hoary I'm not sure where the turd reference comes in, except if you're talking about the gluten-sugar-dairy-free chocolate tapioca) for a little wheat-gluten-dairy-sugar-caffiene-soy-heroin-free lunch, which was anything but FREE. (Nothing costs more than something it seems). Came home played a little more chuck n' fuck and then finally sat down to my work work. Usually late afternoon is when I get my surge but, after fifteen minutes of writing about objectives (make money), strategies (tell everybody how great it is), and tactics (like it on Facebook) I was in a swoon so wicked I could barely walk to my bed. I had memories of that bad ass honey badger briefcase smacking into my temple so hard as to knock me out of my super-natural-scandinavian remote control desk chair. Even now, just thinking about this ultra strategic best practice brief I have the privilege of writing I feel a little wobbly, my lids are drooping, head lolling forward, the first drops of drool forming at the corner of my lizard lips...

Anybody want my job? 

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