Fuckles McShitballs; another day at the soul-crushing office.
As I pull into the parking lot, I see Sally Fayden sitting in her car. She rattles a white pill into her hand, gulps it down, thens stares at the bottle. She tips it up to her lips, about to swallow the entirety of its contents…then sees me looking.
She caps the bottle and stows it in her purse. A false smile leaps to her face and she waves cheerily at me.
I know exactly how you feel, Sally; I wouldn’t blame you if you did.
I trudge into a halogen-lit fortress, and sit down at my cubicle. One time, as a joke, I glued a pair of manacles onto my desk. My boss didn’t think it was funny; I had to attend three sessions of “workplace sensitivity training” where they force-fuck your brain into accepting a namby-pamby rationale of why you should drink the pin-striped kool-aid, along with veiled threats of more training.
As I peruse various graphics to attach to the next powerpoint presentation, my boss wanders over.
“Whatcha looking at, Kent?”
“Hmm?” I look up. “Oh, it’s stained glass art. Check out how the red and the green blend together and catch the—”
My boss shakes his head, sighing. “I don’t see color, and neither should you.” He taps firmly at his tablet. “That’s two sensitivity trainings, Kent.”
“Oh and I need you to take this test.” He slaps down a 300-page sheaf of paper. “It’s a comprehensive exam designed to see if you know all 389,405 X 10908 gender pronouns that are currently in usage. For each question you get wrong, you’ll need to attend five sensitivity trainings, and run the risk of 2 years in jail.”
“Please.” My lower lip quivers. “I can’t take anymore sensitivity training; it makes my anus bleed.”
“Oh hey!” Gary from Accounts Receivable bursts into the room. “My nipples now produce five gallons of milk per hour! I’ll be spending nights and weekends breastfeeding newborns!”
My boss starts clapping. “Big round of applause for Gary!” As forced cheer sweeps the room, he gives me a pointed look. “If you underwent that same surgery, we could reduce your tab by a hundred sensitivity trainings. That would bring you down to—” he glances sideways and hisses through his teeth. “—five thousand? Four thousand?” He shrugs. “It won’t matter—soon enough, you’ll hit the ten thousand mark and the surgery will be forced upon you.”
That is IT! I open my eReader to Echo, activating its reality distortion powers. Magic flash.
My gigantic penis rips free of my pants and rears up, hissing at everybody like an angry snake. As shocked employees stumble back, my manager begins clicking furiously at his tablet.
“A hundred thousand…no a MILLION sensitivity trainings—”
But Kent-Cock doesn’t care. It raises its head toward the sky and trumpets deafeningly. Then it breaks through the high-rise glass, using it’s pee-hole to suction onto the outside panes. As I escape from my work place, I laugh maniacally—like a sheltered nerd who’s just discovered porn.
Being the tail-end of a gigantic penis-monster is FAR better than attending sensitivity training!
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