A chapter has ended in my life and I couldn’t be more thrilled.
Nervous? Slightly, but that’s because I saw the murky light at the end of the corporate middle-management tunnel and there was a wheelbarrow half-full of money glowing in stink flies.
“All you have to do to get that money is shake the Devil’s calloused claw and sign on the dotted line; in blood, of course. Oh, and … just the tip, that’s all. Promise.”
Nothing is free. There’s a trade-off for everything.
It’s ignorant of the peasant to think he could impress the King enough to befriend him and even more sloppy to think his new friend would raise his wage to a comfortable level that’d allow him to escape the straw-hut drudgery his peasant name has cursed him with.
Once a peasant, always a peasant; there is no escape.
“Unless you stand on this footstool and become slightly elevated in stature from the rest of your brotherly herd …
Of course the wage will increase with the gained responsibility and promotion in title.
But, shh … the requirements will outstrip the benefit.
That’s what it takes to move up, kid.”
… zip …
Bend over and be sodomized. No squeaking. For ten hours, if thy Lord requests it at a whim. If you suggest lube, so God help you, you’ll be fed to the wolves on the floor that you’ve turned your back on during your ill-thought climb to the lower-middle slope of the corporate pyramid.
Take. Take. Take.
Slipping down the face of the pyramid, reach out a hand …
“Huh? Give? No thanks. We have these guys who will let us take from them some more, so fuck off, why don’t you?”
Some doors in life need to be opened, so that you can see why they need to be closed forever, dead-bolted and welded shut with a bookshelf secured in front for fail-safe security.
I’ve seen what’s beyond middle management.
And, yes …
It is a mountain of sweaty old ass cheeks with over-worked sphincters pulsating in anticipation to shit in a new mouth of some gullible jerk who thinks he can be for the people while managing a machine that has no heart.
Escape the cog before you spring a leak and all your life’s inspiration is slowly drained OUT to fuel a business model that requires bosses to view people as commodities, the boss’ only duty being to continuously refresh the Google browser every few minutes to watch keenly for A.I.’s robot-workers to go on sale to the general public.
Then, “oh sweet mother Mary,” he can fire you, decrease paid wages, secure a padded bonus (paid for by your revoked paycheck), win a shiny pseudo-medal, get that promotion and FINALLY become on of those tickled sphincters twitching with a bullied giddy.
I’m full …