Work Mojo Madness
I am convinced at this point that there is some form of hex, curse, or some other form of funky mojo following me around my new place of employment…even more than normal that is!
It appears that Shangri-la has not come without its price: the coin machine refuses to accept my dollar bills, cans of pop become hopelessly lodged in the vending machine, my computer logins refuse me access to our operating systems, the hot water machine sprays my hand with scalding water, my swipe Employee I.D. card doesn’t allow me easy passage through any of the necessary doorways, the pay telephone steals my last quarter, the microwave burns my ‘Strips o’ Chicken’, I pinch my scrotum on the toilet seat in the Men’s Room, the Water fountain squirts me in the eye, and I am even forced to sit beside Habib Abdul Mohammed El Jabar, whose hourly phlegm attacks could be used to pave an entire International Highway in under a week (his entire body convulsing like a wildebeest caught in an electric fence as he hacks up these throat obstructions). By this point in my new employment, I am working in perpetual fear waiting on a Grand Piano or Brinks safe to suddenly fall from the ceiling and tragically squash me dead in my cubicle workspace; or at the very least, ending up crushed under a tilted over Coke machine.
Each day when I arrive at work it’s like I am suddenly being warped directly into the plot of Steven King’s ‘Maximum Overdrive’, where the earth passes through the tail of a strange comet and all the machines mysteriously come to life to run amok in a murderous rampage. I am expecting to have the Green Goblin come crashing through the dividing wall of my work area on the front grill of a huge semi truck.
It's becoming all too crystal clear what Brian Johnson was wailing about all those years ago:
“Who made who, who made you?
If you made them and they made you
Who picked up the bill, and who made who?
Who made who, who turned the screw?”
I can tell you one thing: If this continues, then I’m going to start volunteering to have those screws inserted directly into the frontal lobes of my brain!
Perhaps I need to appease the angry employment gods somehow? Hey, it worked for Pedro Cerrano in 'Major League'! I wonder what my trainer would think if I were to bring in a live chicken each day to sacrifice at my cubicle desk before each shift in order to lift the bad voodoo and prevent it from stalking me on the work floor like a hungry beast of prey?
Surely, to prevent me from my voodoo bloodlust would be to violate some religious right of mine or something...wouldn't it?
It appears that Shangri-la has not come without its price: the coin machine refuses to accept my dollar bills, cans of pop become hopelessly lodged in the vending machine, my computer logins refuse me access to our operating systems, the hot water machine sprays my hand with scalding water, my swipe Employee I.D. card doesn’t allow me easy passage through any of the necessary doorways, the pay telephone steals my last quarter, the microwave burns my ‘Strips o’ Chicken’, I pinch my scrotum on the toilet seat in the Men’s Room, the Water fountain squirts me in the eye, and I am even forced to sit beside Habib Abdul Mohammed El Jabar, whose hourly phlegm attacks could be used to pave an entire International Highway in under a week (his entire body convulsing like a wildebeest caught in an electric fence as he hacks up these throat obstructions). By this point in my new employment, I am working in perpetual fear waiting on a Grand Piano or Brinks safe to suddenly fall from the ceiling and tragically squash me dead in my cubicle workspace; or at the very least, ending up crushed under a tilted over Coke machine.
Each day when I arrive at work it’s like I am suddenly being warped directly into the plot of Steven King’s ‘Maximum Overdrive’, where the earth passes through the tail of a strange comet and all the machines mysteriously come to life to run amok in a murderous rampage. I am expecting to have the Green Goblin come crashing through the dividing wall of my work area on the front grill of a huge semi truck.
It's becoming all too crystal clear what Brian Johnson was wailing about all those years ago:
“Who made who, who made you?
If you made them and they made you
Who picked up the bill, and who made who?
Who made who, who turned the screw?”
I can tell you one thing: If this continues, then I’m going to start volunteering to have those screws inserted directly into the frontal lobes of my brain!
Perhaps I need to appease the angry employment gods somehow? Hey, it worked for Pedro Cerrano in 'Major League'! I wonder what my trainer would think if I were to bring in a live chicken each day to sacrifice at my cubicle desk before each shift in order to lift the bad voodoo and prevent it from stalking me on the work floor like a hungry beast of prey?
Surely, to prevent me from my voodoo bloodlust would be to violate some religious right of mine or something...wouldn't it?
2 Comments:
Oh my! You seem to have quite the luck sitting beside men that couph up phlem for the duration of the shift.
At this point, I consider them equal to classical Harpies sent by the gods to torment at me at my work place each day.
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