Abstract: Click the "LIKE" button. End of Abstract
I know this may be difficult for you to read, but
I have to do that shit-sandwich thing, you know, like when your boss, which is undeniably me at this moment, because you came here under my direction, so far so good —when your boss calls you into his glassed-in corner of your office and sits you down for a “talk”.
There is a hideous word, even more hideous than “shit–sandwich”, which makes explicit the “I work in an office/I live in the prison system” analogy, or maybe that’s really a metaphor, I get them mixed up.
You know, and can I just say, seriously. If you didn’t try to be so difficult and contrary all the time, we’d both be out in the climatically changed sunshine right now working on our melanoma and having Cosmo’s for breakfast. We wouldn’t have to be in my office, where I am seven-of-nine to your plain old borg, with you listening to my shit-sandwich.
So think about all the negative things in our lives that you are responsible for, is my first comment.
I know that in a “shit-sandwich” you’re supposed to give the nice white slice of bread and butter first, before you slather on the thick coating of shit, making sure to get right to the edges of the bread, right to the edges, and no skimping. So sue me, I’m doing this one Danish open-face style. On rye.
And NOT the rye with the little seeds, either. The seeds are gross and make me think I am eating bread infested with something like ants. Plus, the seeds get woodged in between my teeth, because I’m old and my teeth are finally arguing about the correct amount of allotted space, having spent their lifetime crowded together like Toronto commuters on the Queen streetcar.
Now that one or two have achieved their lifespan and, as it were, got off the streetcar outside the Drake Hotel or the detox centre or the Parkdale branch of the Public Library, the other commuter-teeth are elbowing each other and stretching their legs and going, “This is more like it! Hot damn!”, and little chinks have appeared in between them that allow bread seeds and raspberry seeds and bits of unmasticated peanut to infiltrate, like spies hiding in phone booths.
And they are the very Dickens to get out. The very Dickens!
Anyway. The word is “panopticon” and it was a way of arranging a prison so the head guard could see absolutely everyone and what everyone was doing at any given moment. “Pan” is like Greek for “all” and “opticon” means “seeing”.
That’s it. What was I saying? Oh, yeah.
Now, moving forward, I need you to be, and don’t vomit when you hear this word, but I need you to be pro-active. That means I need you to think of all the things I’m too lazy to think of myself, that’s like the “pro” part; and then I need you to DO THEM, not just think about them, that’s right, that’s the “active”. And as boss, that’s one of the things I am perfectly entitled to ask you, OK? Suck it up.
And then I’ll say, “What, you expect thanks for DOING YOUR JOB?” Ha! Caught you off-guard, didn’t I, and that’s why they pay me the big bucks, Virginia. Big bucks.
I need you to click my LIKE BUTTONS. You don’t have to friggin’ like it, jeezus, are you retarded? I just need you to publicize me. For free.
Let’s take a step back and make sure we’re all on the same page. Or sandwich. So, I have to tell you that although you’ve ingested some of the shit-sandwich, I actually have no other slice of seedless rye bread, seeing as it’s a Danish open-face style and all.
Sorry, my bad! You were right to do what you’re supposed to do, and the fact that I’m not fulfilling my part of the bargain is just unfortunately one of those things that happens. You know?
So here’s the pickle on top, which is the good bit, whether or not you actually like pickles.
Are you getting the connections here? Good. That’s what’s good about what you do, also that you’re actually reading this far (= this is a dill pickle, by the way).
OK, so summing up:
Like or Don’t Like; followed by, “LIKE”.
Now get back to work.
That ’70’s Post! -or- I wanted my life to be like a work of art. But it’s turned out more like an abandoned macramé project.
I saw this guy and instantly dubbed him “Macramé Pizza Face Perv Boy”. Do you get that too? I’m not sure what the actual macramé is supposed to be. I DO know that at some point Cher will wear this to the Met Gala.
In case you’ve been beside yourself with frustration due to having no method of holding your 60-lb speakers suspended beside your hot tub.
Well, kick me hard in my seventh chakra – it’s macramé to the rescue!
Anyone care for a Fresca?