Hey Chuckles, I'm usin myopia to protect myself. I figger if I can't see objects in the distance, they ain't there. Effin sophia. I'm stickin to what I can see on my laptop screen. You see, what I tried to do when I had a job, and wasn't just answerin idiotic e-mails, or coverin my arse (that was one of our specialties back then, coverin our arses), was this: I was trying to marry intuitive intuition to analytical analysis. Tryin to sell my boss on the notion that this would give us a competitive advantage, you know, and add yet another value proposition to our strategic sales initiative. That's another specialty we cultivated back when the bubble was still inflated: makin everyday bullshite a plausible alternative to actual action. Maybe one of the savants upstairs thought that it gave us a competitive advantage. I don't know. They sacked my arse -- which everyone told me was covered -- long before they could analyze the competitive advantage to be derived from the added value proposition shite. Far as I know, they're still puzzlin it out.
I tried rationalizin it in lots of different ways -- usually with my glasses off so as to maximize my myopia -- but it always boiled down to the same thing: I hadn't covered my arse good enough. Now granted, my arse had grown in size considerably those last few years. I couldn't help it. Everywhere I turned in the office there were baskets filled with candy, trays of cookies and brownies, cases of soda pop, and bags of chips. (Even though they never had the ones I liked, the ones cooked in lard. Mmmm.) They had closets full, cubicles full, pantries full. How else was I sposed to deal with the stress and the boredom? I had to do something. So I tried munchin it away, seated on my ballooning derrière in front of that dumb flat screen that kept fillin up with even dumber, flatter messages. It filled up and I filled up. I kept thinkin, hell, the whole world is gettin inflated! Under those circumstances, it was damn difficult to cover one's arse, even if it was a specialty of the house.
So there I was, possessed of a big fat exposed arse, and one that had been given the boot, to boot. It shook me to my very coccyx. Lemme state it bluntly: I had been the unwitting recipient of Tough Love. At least, that's how I took it. Right up the Old Wazoo.
It was okay, though. I learned a lot. To stick to what I can see on my laptop screen, no matter how flat or dumb. To reason adductively and follow my hunches. (Psst -- I hear that this is the comin thing if you wanna gain a competitive advantage.) To let go of the value proposition -- nobody these days gives a hoot about value anyway -- and take actual action. You know, do something creative but replicable like postin shite on the internet. To reminisce with old friends and former colleagues about what a great load of fun it was concoctin those strategic sales initiatives, bringin bushels of Snickers into the conference room, along with Tylenol and Handi-Wipes. Hey, life is a series of tough lessons. When all is sad and gone, poot, all you can do is cover your arse.