Ramblings from the Desert

The man who trades freedom for security does not deserve nor will he ever receive either. ~Benjamin Franklin

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Location: New Mexico

Author of the urban fantasy novel, The Music of Chaos, and the paranormal romance, The Canvas Thief.

Thursday, September 08, 2005

Meetings Are Tools Of The Devil

I've committed just about every sin known to man during workplace meetings. In my head, anyway. Which, makes meetings a recruiting tool of the Devil.

The worse kind is the weekly company meeting. The point, one assumes, is to keep everyone informed of company happenings, communication, blah, blah, blah. It's really an opportunity for the usual sycophants to repair any anal-oral breaks between themselves and management.

The rest of the mere mortals are broken into two categories: those who put on a good face and really care and those who don't give a shit and write porn scripts in their heads. Gay porn.

"And I spoke with Oran Goldberg about the I-29s and he said..." says the usual generic white guy with a name like Mark Peters.

Oy. And I'm outta there:


"But what about Arwen?"

"Bitch's father hates me. Come here, pretty boy."

"Okay, Elessar. But, first, how about a sponge bath? Because, day-um. The King has returned and he has B.O."

Of course, this is a problem later when your immediate supervisor--Company Guy--wants to chat about the meeting.

"That was really interesting about Mark Peters, wasn't it?"

I try to look like I know what he's talking about. The effort is about to give me an embolism. "Er, em, yeah?" I see a twitch in his face, and I know he knows I'm full of shit. But he persists in yammering about Mark Peters and contracts in China, yadda, yadda, yadda. And I'm off again, writing fan fiction in my head. Vile Shannon of "Lost" has been devoured by a tropical flesh-eating virus, leaving my Mary Sue character, Rachel Parker to comfort Sayid. "Sayid," says Rachel. "Wouldja rub my calf? I've a muscle cramp. Thanks, babe. Um, a little higher. That's right...higher."

You might think I'd avoid meetings by working part-time. Oh contraire. For a brief period, current supervisor thought bi-weekly meetings at seven in the morning would facilitate communication. Right.

Star player at these meeting is one of the sales guys. He's probably good at what he does. Heck, I'd pay him to go away.

Every one of his sentences starts like this: "Now do yeewww know...Bob Thompson? He runs Jiminy Cricket Printing. Now back when..." Every meeting, the boss would inexplicable let him suck the air out of the room for an hour.

So he'd ramble and I'd think, "Oh, dear, God, smite me now. I've been wicked. I speed; I take your name in vain. I think unclean thoughts about John Cusack. I leave the toilet seat down. Lightning, tornadoes, carnivorous locusts; pick your pleasure, just smite me."

Alas, God hates me. Or not. After a few weeks, boss-lady loses interest and Monday morning meetings go the way of television worth watching.

Had to sacrifice a lot of cute kittens to dark god at midnight, but no more meetings.

May your Friday be meeting free.



Graphics and Content Copyright © Patricia Kirby 2005