Friday, August 11, 2006

Chair Rot

I learned early in life that I was not suitable employee material.
The reality of it fell on me like a giant bucket of glue around the time that I became a man. I was eight years old. I had already come to the conclusion that working for "the man" was not going to be my fate. Unfortunately, I was trapped in the body of a 45-pound runt.
My desire to enter the world of independence and begin breeding was thwarted by the long arm of the law, which dictated that I chafe under the yoke of oppression for at least another 7 years.
The breeding part of my game plan came from the misguided notion that it was not optional. I was a product of the Jesus Industrial Complex after all. It was the master plan. Grow up, get married, produce children who hate your guts and then wither away.
Having been raised on a farm, the mechanical undertakings involved in the breeding process were no mystery to me. I had witnessed the courting behavior of all manner of furry and feathered beasts and for the most part, it all seemed fairly straightforward and somewhat consensual, except for the chickens. Or, to be more specific, the roosters. They did not follow the golden rule. Chicken sex is always, and I mean always, chicken rape. Anybody who has ever raised them will agree. It is a knockdown drag-out that tends to throw a kink in the old "unspoiled animal kingdom" myth.
I rightly considered the chicken model of "procreation" to be an undesirable aberration and years later, several years later, I fully embraced the mechanical act of breeding but left the procreation to my other more motivated brethren.
Back to the point, I began counting the days. I would endure another 364 weeks of a suffering before finally breaking free of that pathetic life of violence and fear. I vowed that I would never suffer at the hands of an overlord again which brings me to the point. I have a home office.
I have mastered the art of sitting naked, freaked out bed hair, eyes closed, slumped over my keyboard, talking to clients on the phone in my "prime-time newscaster" voice as if I were sitting in a leather upholstered boardroom surrounded by minions serving up my coffee and Wall Street Journal.
You might be thinking, that is a blatant violation of the first rule of home officing, “no naked chair sitting”. I am fully aware of the dangers of chair rot. Fear not, I am a trained professional.
Anyway, coffee tastes like burnt bean juice and I don't read the Wall Street Journal but my work is pretty damn important to me. It pays the medical bills and makes me feel like I don’t have to apologize for depleting the world’s oxygen supply.
So, on occasion, I strap on a business costume and parade about various “real” offices to prove that I exist. I spew esoteric jargon as if fertilizing a garden with the highest quality manure and trade offensive jokes with people who wouldn’t piss down my throat if my belly were on fire. It’s ok though because I'm not working for "the man".

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