My old cubicle was the envy of co-workers. It was my personal compound tucked neatly away from the beaten path of regular office traffic. I could safely surf pornography without having to constantly look over my shoulder like Wild Bill in his final hand at poker. Except Wild Bill probably left his pants on.
"I thought I was the fastest draw."
This past week I was slapped in the face with an eviction notice from the Super. I was being shipped to the sixth floor. My old cubicle was ripped away from me faster than the virginity of a Laguna Beach cast member. I was disgusted at the thought of moving and disgusted that I actually got caught with my pants down by the Super....again.
To add insult to injury, my company has no internal support for moving. I was given a pushcart to help me with the move which oddly resembled my chair. Glances were followed with whispers as I wheeled my belongings down the hallway. I had to go through the humiliation of being fired without actually losing my job. Time to venture to the sixth floor and get a glimpse of my future home.
Let's put it this way, I went to bed at The Wynn in Las Vegas and woke up in a Super-8 off the Jersey Turnpike. My new location was jammed in a cluster of bush-league cubicles that might be comfortable for employees dedicated to the art of contortion. Each of my movements involves bumping into a calculator, cabinet, or bong. And I sit right next to the printer which sounds like a 747 when it prints. Instinctively, I securely fasten my overhead cabinets when I hear it start to warm up.
To add insult to injury, my company has no internal support for moving. I was given a pushcart to help me with the move which oddly resembled my chair. Glances were followed with whispers as I wheeled my belongings down the hallway. I had to go through the humiliation of being fired without actually losing my job. Time to venture to the sixth floor and get a glimpse of my future home.
Let's put it this way, I went to bed at The Wynn in Las Vegas and woke up in a Super-8 off the Jersey Turnpike. My new location was jammed in a cluster of bush-league cubicles that might be comfortable for employees dedicated to the art of contortion. Each of my movements involves bumping into a calculator, cabinet, or bong. And I sit right next to the printer which sounds like a 747 when it prints. Instinctively, I securely fasten my overhead cabinets when I hear it start to warm up.
"Welcome to the sixth floor! Some of this will have to go offsite."
Things got better though. I was fortunate enough to inherit a papermill from the previous occupant. Every available inch of cabinet space was taken by reports, binders, and boxes that had nothing to do with my workload. These papers were coupled with a sea of misfit office supplies ironically designed for saving space. It looks like Office Depot took a dump on my desk.
Gotta go now, the printer is warming up. I have to put on my seatbelt.
1 comment:
Way to come back strong, bitch. Good stuff. Now go burp the kid and bop your boloney.
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