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To all my insane fans,

I finally bought a Mac. All my blog pictures are being transferred to my new computer. Give me some time and I'll have it up and running again.

Corporate Joe.

No Need for Alarm

Everyone sits in their respective cubicles working diligently. The sound of clicking keyboards, phones ringing, and copy machines humming. The harmonious sum is greater than its tone-deaf parts. Folks, it's official, this is the sound of productivity.

And then the fire alarm goes off at work.

A shrieking sound emanates from the intercom and quickly crescendos and diminuendos in rapid succession. Each iteration picking up steam as the sound reverberates off the wall and feeds into the next pulsating wave. This ear-bleeding shriek dances in perfect synchronicity with the red lights. Satan just opened up a nightclub in our hallway and the cover charge is your hearing and sight.

Press button to ignite fire.

Naturally, you would expect papers to fly in the air as people madly rush for the exit while elbowing catering service out of the way. And of course, two or three employees plowing through a plateglass window that is carefully being carried by two extras from the set of Dukes of Hazzard.

However, the reaction is counter-intuitive. The reaction is no reaction at all.

No sense of urgency. No panic. Recognition only through small talk. Question from a female who is filing paperwork, "Should we go?". Followed by the answer from a male who is masturbating, "Nah, just a drill."

Then Satan kicks it to a higher gear. Not by upping the voltage on the sound nor by bursting corneas with an orb of red light...he just uses the power of persistence.

The light continues, the sound continues, and the lack of urgency among the staff is replaced with heavy sighs directed towards the intercom. Question from a female who is doing her nails, "What's it like outside." Followed by the answer from a male who is still masturbating, "Mid-50's, bring a coat."

The employees nod at each other in recognition. They know what must be done. The only way to stop this out of tune Ozzfest is for a mass exodus down the staircase. A display of unity for the fire department. The masses clog the stairwell. They rapidly descend using short staccato steps. A centipede comprised of hundreds of people twisting and turning to exit. Finally, everyone is outside. Question from a female putting on her makeup, "Are you still masturbating?" Answer from the male, "Yeah, sorry. I like my junk."

The fire department, drunk with power, is happy with the outcome. They observe the monkeys in their suits. They confirm everyone's morning is ruined and wave everyone back in.

Alright, you overpaid asswipes. Back inside.

Except no one is heading back in.

Hmmm, it's 11:15. Technically, not too early for lunch. Plus all the fatties waiting for the elevator will clog the lobby. That's at least another 15-minutes. Screw it, going to lunch. All that masturbating has made me hungry.

Two Ounces of Common Cents

We have a new coffee machine and cups to not go with it.

Here's the drill. You choose from the assortment of descriptive coffee packets ranging from "richly complex" to "buttery" to "I dare you". Insert the coffee packet and choose either four, six, eight, or a 10 ounce cup of coffee. Newbies can be spotted a mile away when their choice is greater than or equal to eight ounces.

As a cost-cutting measure and an effort to save the planet, our company recently has decided to replace our normal eight ounce styrofoam cups with six ounce cups. It's an insidious change that everyone has to recognize through baptism by fire.

The newbie picks up the six ounce cup and stares at it quizzically thinking, "My hands are swollen today". The cup is placed under the machine, eight ounces is selected, and the java begins to take a pee. Estimated time to completion, approximately 30 seconds.

"Yes, the coffee machine is that way. The cups are tiny."

0-15 seconds - newbie whistles, dumps his lunch into the refrigerator and/or checks out the contents of the vending machine.

15-20 seconds - newbie checks the status of the coffee and the whistling goes out of tune.

20-25 seconds - first stage of panic, the newbie's eyes widen as the rapidly rising tide of coffee approaches the brink of the cup.

25-30 seconds - "Oh cryin' won't help you prayin' won't do you no good. Whenever the levee breaks mom you got to lose."

The only choice for the newbie is to watch, wait, and clean up as the two ounces overflow the limited volume allowed. A laconic but spirited acknowledgement arrives in three possible ways, 1) "Oh Goodness!", 2) "Holy Shit!", or 3) "Mother Fucker!".

I prefer, "Holy Shit".

Think of all the coffee being wasted in order to save on styrofoam. Maybe they make two ounce styrofoam cups? I think that's what I get my butter in when I go to Outback curbside takeout. I can use those to collect all the spilled coffee, consolidate it into one big pot, boil it, then pour it on the crotch of the executive who saved the company a few bucks.

Sex and the Pity

I couldn't help but hear two female workers giddily exclaim the return of "Sex and the City", this time, to the bigscreen. How cute. The show premiered in 1998 and by my calculations, both of you were 14. A time when Alanis Morissette was at the top of the charts, Clinton was being impeached, and Sarah Jessica Parker had a horse face.

O.K., so some things have changed. However, the draw of the show has not. Females are pumped up in their slingback pumps about this movie event. For those who live in Siberia the show centered around a tight-knit group of fashionable women with drinking problems who sleep around. Which is strange since HBO already had a documentary about those same issues called Atlantic City Hookers.

"Do I get naked now? Or wait 5 seconds?"

I find it sad that Giddy 1 and Giddy 2 are stretching their limited experiences of womanhood in order to relate to the ensemble cast. Then again, they find it sad when I'm digging through the loose change slot on the Coke machine. Ladies, that's not sad, that's cheap....big difference.

Attitude About My Latitude

On my first day of orientation I received a Dell Latitude laptop. That was in the Spring of 2004. Several years later and I still have the same piece of equipment. I am in desperate need of a new one since mine is now showing its age through various symptoms that include but are not limited to:

Logging In
I timed it today...13 minutes 42 seconds to log-in. I come into work, power up my computer, go to the restroom, go get coffee, say my hello's and by the time I'm back to my desk I'm still waiting to punch in my user id and password. I need to ask our accounting department to generate a charge code for logging in.

Mr. Van Winkle, we're ready for your user id.

The F'in F Key
The "F" key ejects when my fingers prestadigitatiously spell certain words and terms. The faster I type, the more likely it is to happen. Particularly with words I use in business emails like "Fuck", "Fuck you", "Fuck me", "Fuck Off", etc. My digits come to a screeching halt when it happens and everything immediately turns to slow motion when the "F" key goes airborne and flips end over end as it struggles to find its rip cord. After it crashes onto my desk, I jam it back between the "D" and "G" keys with my thumb only to look back at my screen and see, "ffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffff". Yeah, F you F key.

Crumbs
My keyboard has approximately 1/2 pound of food in it. I eat at my desk for lunch, often. This involves perusing the internet while scarfing down a foot-long Blimpie's sub and some Cheeto's. This event repeated continuously over a three year timeframe has resulted in an obscene accumulation of crumbs nesting under my keys. I actually saw mites in there the other day with their own Blimpie's. They were making a killing.

Where does the line start? This place is packed.

The Fan
The fan that cools down my laptop runs continuously and voluminously. I could be on an Antarctic expedition with my laptop and the fan would keep humming with sub-zero temperatures. Why I would have my laptop on an Antarctic expedition is rather odd. But I'd bring it just to prove my point. And the noise the fan projects is impressive. It sounds like a chopper preparing for liftoff. I keep waiting for propellers to jut out from the USB ports and start spinning to elevate my laptop out of the cubicle. Bye-bye laptop, safe travels.

Told you the fan would still be on.

I might pull a Filbert. Next thing you know, I got a brand new laptop with keys that don't pop out and quick access to the internet.

As for the mites, well, they're going to have to franchise because I'm opening up a new store.

Watch Your Tone

In the busy world of consulting, a landline is not enough. Most consultants have to be strapped with a cellphone at a minimum, while others of a higher pay grade carry a Blackberry. Either way, it's another line on your business card and email signature indicating that there's no way in hell your dodging the client.

I understand the necessary evil of mobile phones in the world of consulting. It is a mobile industry; cubicles, metro, cars, airports, strip clubs. Consultants can be anywhere at any time when the client needs to reach them. But these devices should serve as a backup to the landline. Several co-workers in my immediate vicinity don't understand this. And the futile ritual begins with a simple yet annoying ringtone. Here are some of the samples I've heard firsthand in the past few days:

• Snoop Dogg's "Drop it like it's hot" - Princess, the only thing you know how to drop is your daddy's Amex Gold Card at The Banana Republic. Quit trying to be so urban and go back to your one bedroom rented townhouse behind Quizno's.
  
• Classic Telephone - Wait, I hear a ringer from an old telephone. Oh, it's just the ringer on your cellphone you say? What a crazy shenanigan! You got some attention doing that. HAHAHAHAHAHA! Kill yourself.
  
• (Operator's Voice) "YOU have an incoming call" - I'd rather listen to Tiny Tim sing "Loving You" by Minnie Ripperton than that smug operator and her condescending voice. Although I'm sure Tiny Tim has some righteous ringtones of his own.
  
• The default ring - The fact that someone is either too stupid or too lazy to figure out the variety of ringtones on their cell is more annoying than the default ring itself.

Yes, Miffy, I am dropping it like it's hot.

The rings are just the beginning since my building is a deadzone of cell coverage. Over the course of a day, my battery drains faster than a strip club's ATM since it constantly struggles to find a signal. Some co-workers still try to pick up a call within the building despite the years of dropped calls haunting the ether of our workspace. Insanity is repeating the same behavior but expecting different results. And trust me, they look insane.

The volume in their voice immediately increases exponentially peppered with the words "Hello" and "Can you hear me now?" as they frantically pace for a pocket of coverage. It's almost as if they are in a shuttle run with no fixed points. Someone witnessing this with no prior knowledge of human behavior might mistake it for a cryptic mating ritual.

Your powers are useless in my building, four eyes.

The rare but enjoyable scene is when two employees in close proximity answer separate cellphone calls at the same time. If you close your eyes you can pretend that two half-deaf retards are trying to talk to each other.

HALF-DEAF RETARD 1
Hello?

HALF-DEAF RETARD 2
What? Pardon? I CAN'T HEAR YOU?

HALF-DEAF RETARD 1
Can you hear me now?

HALF-DEAF RETARD 2
HELLO?

The two half-deaf retards hang up their phones and get their retarded lunches.

Oh sorry, my eyes were still closed.

Here are two ideas 1) put the cellphone on vibrate so you won't wake everyone up from being bitch-slapped with excessive calls from the client and 2) look at the phone number and call it back on a landline. What a psychologically exhausting solution. But it's hard to think above the din of a thousand rings.

The Hunch on My Lunch

Approximately once a quarter I decide to give myself a break from the overpriced deli meat and pack my own lunch. Usually leftovers from the night before or a PB&J when I'm in a hurry. Packing my lunch makes me feel like I'm back in high school when my life was all ahead of me. Except unlike high school, I don't have to worry about some jock who lettered in three sports taking my lunch.

The building I work in doesn't employ the high-school jocks I once feared. It is filled with people who fit the suggested criteria of an ideal roomate; single, non-smoking, well-paid professionals with a weekend drinking problem. There is an inherent level of trust with these existing standards. Unfortunately, my belief system was destroyed this week when some jackbag stole my lunch out of the community refrigerator.

There are two refrigerators on each floor of our corporate office. Both are well-equipped with enough cubic space to handle the capacity of food imported daily by the employees. The late arrivals usually have to jam their bags into the vegetable drawer but there's always space if you make it. My lunch bag is marked not because I don't trust anyone but because it's easier to spot when I open the refrigerator to peruse a stunning assortment of dimly lit lunches waiting for their respective owners to pick them up.

This day was no different than others. My arrival was at a decent time in the morning so I got a nice piece of real estate in the refrigerator. I prefer the bottom shelf of the refrigerator door. This is strategically chosen because most people are 1) too lazy to bend over and 2) my lunch cannot be pushed deeper into the tundra of a regular shelf by late arrivals. Despite the tardiness of others, my food is only a knee-bend away. I know, genius.

This lunch was good too; a Walton's sized portion of chicken, green beans, and rice. The meal was accessorized with a 20-ounce Coca-Cola, grapes, and a bag of Cheeto's. By 11:00AM I was already salivating. No waiting in line at the deli, no visit to the ATM, just stroll down to the pantry, open the refrigerator door, and where the f*ck is my lunch.

Umm, what the f*ck?

Gone, conspicuously absent from its habitual nesting place. My disbelief was quickly replaced by rage. The normal default for my narrow-minded self would be that either cleaning services or maintenance was chowing down on my grub. But this was office hours, too risky an operation in broad daylight. No, this crime was willingly committed by a single, non-smoking, well-paid professional with a weekend drinking problem. Someone qualified enough to be my roommate.

Then my rage exited as an epiphany entered. I began maniacally rubbing my hands together and let out a shriek of laughter that would have made Dr. Shrinker proud. As the veins popped in my flushed face the pantry filled with another shriek that rivaled mine. This was from an intern who was staring at me in complete fear. She dropped her Lean Cuisine and headed straight back to college (note to self, internalize diabolical plans).

I realized my stolen lunch didn't deter me at all. In fact, I vow to pack my lunch every day with no intention of ever eating it. My next PB&J will be filled with an intolerable amount of Dave's Insanity Sauce containing capsaicin extract which makes habanero-pepper sauce taste like iced milk. I'll be able to find the at-large criminal by following the piercing screaming and the trail of scar tissue left from their tongue. Like they say, if you mess with the bull, you're going to get those two pointy things or something or other.

Excuse me, I think you have my lunch.

We'll shall soon meet, jock roomie. And this time, things will be different than in high school. Moooo-oooooh-ahhhhh-ahhhhh!

Goodbye for Now

Dear Readers,

It is with mixed emotions that I take a hiatus from this blog.

I have thoroughly enjoyed writing "Corporate Joe in cubicle land" but I'm afraid this blog has kept me from my true love. What began as a casual hobby has taken up more time than I originally anticipated.

I am taking a four month break to focus all of my writing efforts towards finishing my third screenplay. Right now I'm about 1/3 of the way through and I have to converge all of my energy towards completion. This means my near future holds late nights in my basement devising plot points, character arcs, and finding scenes for product placement and gratuitous nudity.

There will be a few moments of joy when the final product is ready for submission. I'll have delusions of grandeur about people watching my film on the silver screen, acceptance speeches, and owning a Toyota Prius to stop the glaciers from melting. This joy will quickly be replaced with despair when a producer on the fringe of the industry tells me my story is "sophomoric", "predictable", and "perfect for Tina Yothers". Eventually, my 110 page document will be used as a coaster by a location assistant in the soft-porn industry who lives in La Mirada.

For those of you who are curious, the subject matter of my screenplay is the same information in my blog. It's all about Corporate America and the story involves an ageing CEO, a newbie, and their reluctant alliance to challenge a corporation. Think "Pippi Longstocking" meets "Full Metal Jacket" with a touch of "8 1/2". Yeah, I know, it's gonna' be good.

In all seriousness, I am a believer in pursuing your dreams. And I do dream that one day my screenplay will be picked up. We attract what we believe, and I believe it will happen. It's a longshot for every screenwriter. Except for Joe Ezterhas, that guy was money.

Sorry about that last paragraph. Tony Robbins got a hold of my keyboard. I'm surprised he could even type. His hands are freakishly large.

You can do it, Corporate Joe!
That'll be $500.

I do want to take the time to thank everyone for the encouragement, flattering comments, and even the occasional criticism. I appreciate all who have taken a few minutes out of their day to read the stories that I have put effort into writing. It's nice to know that I have an audience. And it doesn't bother me that my audience is very small compared to the majority of blogs that are out there. I actually take comfort in knowing my message isn't diluted for the masses. And that I'm too lazy to advertise my own blog.

I'll be back with a vengeance in June of this year. There are plenty of stories left to write about concerning the day-to-day drudgery of 9 to 5 life. In the meantime, if you would like to be on my distribution list (for when I return in June) please send me your email address to cubicle.land@gmail.com. I'll be happy to add you. My emails usually have a bit of humor in them also. The more the merrier.

For now, take care and I'll see you in June.

Sincerely,

Corporate Joe in cubicle land.

Oh, The Places You'll Stay

B.F. Skinner was an American psychologist who believed that if science was able to psychologically dissect human behavior down to the molecular level then every future human action could be predicted. The sobering part of this behavioral theory is that free will is an illusion. We have no choice in what we take in our coffee, what time we go to bed, and how long we keep watching a "Diff'rent Strokes" marathon on TV Land.

Wha'choo talking about B.F. Skinner?

After reading over my company's current goal-setting matrix for future performance, I'm beginning to think our executives are big fans of B.F. Skinner's school of thought.

This year our company has given us the unique opportunity to create our own careers. We actually get to choose our goals. Employees can take the corporate journey on their own terms. We can go only as far as the limitations we impose on ourselves. May the force be with you, NaNoo NaNoo, and all that other shit.

Orson, these humans are crazier than shithouse rats.

So let's begin...

The first thing I realize is that my future career is quarantined by my current capabilities. As long as my career dovetails with my experience and business line, the sky is the limit. This makes sense. If I was hired to be a consultant in let's say, writing code for Homeland Security, then my company wouldn't want me spending my days writing for a blog. OK, bad example, but you get the point. The corporation would want my work to speak to my expertise and vice-versa.

Mental note, keep goals that speak to my skillset.

Now before I can go crazy with my goals I am politely reminded within our performance database that goals are preassigned by position and level. That makes sense. You can't create subpar goals for yourself and expect to succeed. Conversely, you can't expect a new hire to be operating at the same level as the CEO.

Mental note, set reasonable and achievable goals that speak to my skillset.

Metrics are pre-populated. Hmm, options are dwindling. The metrics detail the amount of chargeability that is expected of me. They also list how much money I should bring in for the company, and the necessary training I need to complete in order to remain compliant with corporate standards. These metrics are based on my current position and skillset.

Mental note, adhere to pre-determined metrics and set reasonable and achievable goals that speak to my skillset.

Here's the section I've been waiting for. Individual goals. Sweet freedom! Time to let it rip and shoot for the stars. Oh, the places I'll go. Oh, the fine print. Let's see, "goals should be linked directly to your business line and sector". Alright, so basically my individual goals are what I'm already doing. I have about as much freedom as a prisoner on furlough.

The sky's the limit! Scratch that.
According to our monitor, your cubicle and the restrooms are the limit.

Mental note, just get back to work. Not because I have to but because I want to. That's right, SSSSSSS, burn on you executives. I'm here by choice, man.

Well, Come to the Dollhouse

Every 14 months Senior Management gets an itch to juggle their personnel. In corporate jargon it's called a "re-organization". In layman's term it's called "f*cking shit up". A reorganization is the leveraging of available skillsets with projected business needs to fully optimize the potential of a company. Sounds fancy, doesn't it? In reality, it is the opportunity for Senior Management to play with their dollhouse in the belief that they are building a better Weeble home.

I'm Jack, please keep me.

I'm Jane. Please fire Jack.

He wears that red shirt every day and refuses to leave his wife.

The first step involves business theory among the executives. They not only lock themselves away in their inviolable* conference room but also from the day-to-day operations of the very business they are restructuring. These intense meetings are filled with trays from catering service and mind-numbing PowerPoint presentations. The brainstorming is electrified by ideas that are conceived from the intellectual seeds of grown men who weren't laid until their early 30's. From this process, the reorganization begins to take shape.

The second signature step of a reorganization is creating a rumor that is thrust into the ether by Senior Management. This rumor of a reorganization grows exponentially until it is squashed with feigned disgust several weeks later by the same individuals who perpetrated it. This allows Senior Management to read the initial reaction of the masses and buy time on how they'll drop the real bomb.

The long conference room hours pay off. A reorganization idea is officially born, cradled by Senior Management, and passed around the room to all the proud parents. All the tension from grinding out the work dissolves once birth is given. It is the very moment that Senior Management recognizes their own power by designing a plan that guarantees them job security. They know that Weebles wobble but they don't fall down.

Cigars are lit and Martinis flow at an unofficial happy hour. Nirvana is felt by all and also happens to be playing on the dilapidated jukebox. As "Lithium" blares from the foam covered speakers they all reminisce to a time when they weren't getting laid. Reassuring nods are given and nervous joy is felt prior to the release of the news. Senior Management is so proud of their newborn. This baby is really going to change things.

He's an angel when he sleeps.

The workforce receives the news regarding the birth of the monster. Chaos will reign due to its entry into their corporation. The intellectual fetus is grotesque and will devour salaries and bonuses with its insatiable appetite for overhead.

I'm up. Tommy want wingy!

Senior Management is disturbed and upset by the initial reception. How can this be? We love this idea. We'll be stronger in our core skillset. We'll have more flexibility to react to the marketplace. We'll have increased salaries while yours will decrease. What is wrong with you people?

Senior Management is disgusted with how the reorganization is being implemented. Their initial vision has become a harsh reality of disgruntled workers. The workers push, "What about our jobs?" Senior Management pushes back, "It's not an option, it's a mandate."

The newborn has entered into a hostile world that is not ready to accept the reality it represents. A counterattack ensues by the workforce that involves jobsearch engines, longer lunches, and offline conversations. This Weeble is wobbling and it might fall down.

All the qualified workers that were unimpressed with the newborn make a mass exodus for similar industries that involve higher pay and less responsibility. The dust settles on the reorganization and all that remains are employees who were either a) too lazy to find a new job or b) unqualified to find a new job. Senior Management is left with the weakest links in every facet of their company.

New personnel is hired from competitors. These employees are in their own personal exodus from their company that is in the midst of a reorganization not favorable to their careers. Senior Management has now found individuals who are onboard with their message, their goal, their vision.

The new team is in place, but just like that, it's 14 months later and the marketplace has changed. Priorities have been re-prioritized, the portfolio of the business requires different skillsets, and different workers. This Weeble has wobbled and it has fallen down.

Senior Management rebuilds the foundation of their dollhouse. With selective amnesia they remember all the promise of their last reorganization. Bloated with blind hope, they lock themselves away in their conference room and line up all the Weebles for another round.

*Merriam-Webster's Online 10-point SAT "Word of the Day", bee-otch.

Preoccupied with Reservations

My company's process for conference room scheduling is an organized riot. I recently called the "Hoteling Department" to book a conference room. This department is manned with an elite force of operators specifically trained to keep track of reservations. I gave my name, employee id, first born, and reservation time. Once the laughter subsided on the other end of the line, the operator ensured me that my reservation would never see the light of day.

You want a conference room? You're hilarious!

Through deductive reasoning, I concluded that the operater did one of two things with my reservation 1) nothing or 2) double booked a room for the ga-gillionth time, whatever they were inspired by at the moment.

Inevitably, it's time for the meeting and I hold my breath while approaching the conference room. Shocker, other people have squatted on the reserved property. Shocker again, the squatters are smug gentleman from a higher pay grade. I have to pop my head in the room and probably resemble a puppet to those inside. I politely tell the gentleman that the space is reserved.

If you're not inside, you're outside.
Corporate Joe, get outside of my conference room.

One of the silver-haired gentleman responds in a polite but firm tone that I must be mistaken. According to their records, they have successfully booked the room. Oh, I see, prison rules, that's cool by me. The only way to solve this is to call Hoteling and see what they have in their records. Unfortunately for me, no one picks up. Hoteling notices the conference room extension (which is never good news) so they don't answer the phone.

It's a conference room number! Quick, everyone under their desks!

As we collectively listen to the ring through the speakerphone I feel the weight of their stares getting exponentially heavier with each passing second. I finally hang up. Either the Hoteling Department double-booked the room or the edgy corporate clones never booked a room, squatted, and are lying to me with impressive poker faces.

We officially have a Mexican standoff.

My options are rapidly diminishing. All I have left is my quick wit which I deftly use in the response, "There must have been a mistake, sorry for the disturbance". I briskly walk out the room. Yeah, take that sucka's. I don't hold back when it's prison rules.

Defeated but not demoralized, I scan the adjacent conference rooms to see which ones are empty. Jackpot! This isn't the adequate size but it will do. So me and my fellow employees huddle inside. Once everyone is settled, we look like a Seattle ticketbooth for a circa '92 Pearl Jam concert.

Who has the agenda?

The meeting begins and I respectfully address my peers in corporate speak that would put most humans to sleep while standing up. In the middle of one of my oh-so ordinary sentences the meeting is interrupted by an intern. Her head pokes in the side of the door like a puppet.

Apparently this intern booked the room in advance. That's strange? I respond in a polite but firm tone that she must be mistaken. According to my records, I have successfully booked the room. She is more than welcome to call Hoteling if she likes. I even pick the phone up and dial. The weight of her venomous stare is like a feather in a helium balloon compared to my previous experience.

She shuts the door. I begin to speak again and realize that I have become one of "them" and a smile reluctantly curls up on the side of my face.

About Corporate Joe

Corporate Joe is one of the five original people who was born, raised, and still lives in the Northern Virginia area. After completing college at the only school that would accept him, he decided to venture over 15 miles from where he grew up to start a career. Armed with a Bachelors Degree in something "ology", he used his well connected network called "The Five" to land a job as a secretary. Through rigorous hands-on training and knowledge gained from his B.S. degree, he learned to copy, collate, staple, and fax.

By using more advanced tools such as the mouse and printer, Corporate Joe ascended the ranks of Corporate America. To further rocket his career, he embellished his resume and endlessly harrased superiors who eventually promoted him to avoid further contact. With a great wardrobe and a natural ability to bullshit about topics in which he lacked any credibility, Corporate Joe knew it was time to make the career move to consulting. Plus he was broke from liquidating his 401K and investing it in Kozmo.com.

Corporate Joe's tipping point for becoming a consultant whore.

He hit full stride in the world of consulting. Through constant use of the word "robust" combined with perfectly executed head-nodding, he was handed the indispensable position of Project Manager.

Systems Integration, Business Process Improvement, Customer Relationship Management; you name it, Corporate Joe doesn't know about it. But that never stopped him or the endless army of consultants with similar outfits to be self-proclaimed subject matter experts in the area they happen to be working in.

View from Corporate Joe's cubicle....into another cubicle.

Despite all his successes, there was an unfulfilled need for Corporate Joe to express his slice of life experiences from Corporate America. He needed to have a creative artistic release that didn't involve porn so he did the next best thing...he joined an elite group known as "bloggers".

Thanks! Now take your shirt off.

Corporate Joe's stories do not involve watercooler talk in the office. They are geared more towards the watercooler itself. He writes of his personal experience in cubicle land; fax machines, office etiquette, underground parking lots, bonus structures, etc. Everything that millions of corporate clones despise but only a few hundred thousand have dared to write about.

So make Corporate Joe a part of your weekly routine. Take a few minutes from work, read a story, and spend some time on the company dime. Comments are both welcomed and encouraged.

Corporate Joe lives in Oakton, VA with his Bengal Tiger, Bitey. He can be contacted at cubicle.land@gmail.com. If you prefer to know more about Corporate Joe before stalking him, please use this link.

Building, My Confidence

At the same time George Clooney was announcing the award for Best Supporting Actress at the Golden Globes I was fully entrenched in my consulting cubicle to meet a deadline. I could not help but laugh at the uncanny similarities between me and Clooney. Both of us had blood being pumped to our vital organs along with sharing some of the same letters in our name. The list goes on, but let's just focus on my story.

Good job Corporate Joe. We'll catch up never.

Checking back into work at 8:00PM after leaving only 3 hours earlier was a Deja-F*ck You moment. The hours this week have been relentless in pursuit of a deliverable that will inevitably be shipped to a graveyard called Iron Mountain Storage. Because of this bizarro world schedule I have been exposed to the alter ego of our building that I never knew existed. And I wished I had never found out.

During the day, our office is alive with the humming of lights, the buzz of printers, and the firing of employees. However, the environment changes in an instant based on the sinister plan of our building engineers. I was the firsthand witness to this account and reacted the way most humans would. I pissed my pants, cried, and fell asleep in the fetal position.

The 12-story structure of brick and steel takes its final breath of the evening when the digital clock strikes 11:00PM. The ceiling lights shut down in perfect synchronicity with the auxiliary lights that struggle to stay alive. No humming, no buzz, no traffic. The lighting transmogrifies into an eery blanket of charcoal darkness occupying every space that was booming with electric life a moment ago.

After waking up feeling refreshed from my involuntary coward nap, I sat back down and was immediately distracted by the oppressing silence. Occasionally I'd look over my shoulder to see if someone was there. In particular, the twin girls from The Shining. The poor lighting and deep hallways seemed to be a perfect invitation for them. After misaligning my vertebrae from looking behind my back so many times, I returned to work.

Come play with us forever and ever and ever.
And by the way, what the f*ck are you still doing at work?

The clock now read 12:30AM and I did not put a significant dent in my deliverable. Why am I still here? Why am I hearing the elevator? Who wet my pants again? Oh goodness, the elevator stopped at my floor. I take a breath and hope the killer will murder someone else dumb enough to be working at this hour.

The elevator doors open and the "click clack" of dress shoes reverberate in the lobby. Then silence...which speaks volumes since this means the psychopathic killer is on the carpet that is one step closer to me. Then comes a "beep" indicating a security badge, the psychopathic killer molester now has access to the inside of the floor.

That call is coming from inside your cubicle!

After sucking my thumb and trying to wet my pants for the third time I realize that neither of these techniques have been very helpful. I decide to grab my kahunas (which are saturated at this point) and summon the courage to hunt down the last face I'm going to see before I die. There was a need for me to find the psychopathic killer molester pedophile with a fetish for nylon and look him right in the eye.

I rounded the corner and was immediately met by an intimidating physique. His clothes were dark and his shoes were black mirrored pools. He took a step into the straining light and I saw the true face of....Security. The dread replaced joy faster than the lighting had changed in our building. Naturally, I embraced him and cried.

In his best English he managed to reassure me with the words, "Your pants are wet." God bless you, Babukar something or other. It's hard to read your name tag with all this salt in my eyes and the shitty lighting, but either way, you know I've been through. After this encounter, I left the building tired from the ordeal but refreshed by the outcome. I had put my fears and deliverable to rest.

Upon entering the same building only six hours later the sounds of office life were frighteningly reassuring. The humming, buzzing, and firing had returned. Together they harmonically whistled a tune that let me know I share the burden of a paycheck with endless others.

I had made it through the night with my manhood intact. As long as Babukar keeps his mouth shut based on that C-note I gave him. If he doesn't, I swear to God I'll murder him while he's working the night shift.

I'm Mr. Blue

The majority of people who take the Princeton Review Career Quiz are recent college graduates whose entrance into the workforce is imminent. I have always been a late adopter so I decided to wait until the quiz was tweaked. Fourteen years after graduation, I felt that all the kinks had been worked out. Upon completion, the results already confirmed what I was feeling. I'm blue.

The quiz has a total of 24 questions. Each question provides two possibilities but only one answer can be chosen. Upon answering all the questions, you are assigned two colors. One is based on Interest and the other is Style. Mine was blue for both.

I guess we have been down in the dumps lately.

Initially this upset me. I'm not racist, but I think we can all agree that blue people are lazy as shit. Based on this sweeping generalization, I decided to look further into the test.

Here are some sample questions:

Question 1
a) I would rather be an auditor.
b) I would rather be a musician.

Question 2
a) I would rather be a clerical worker.
b) I would rather be a carpenter.

Question 3
a) I would rather be in Corporate America.
b) I would rather suck on a 12-gauge.

My Interest was blue:

Blue people like job responsibilities and occupations that involve creative, humanistic, and quiet types of activities. This is often due to being witness to a traumatic act in their formative years thereby stunting emotional growth. Blue people repressed this horrific experience and escaped by disengaging with the outside world to create their own. Their personal world extensively involved video games, comic books, and torturing handicapped animals.

Neato mosquito! Get 'em Green Lantern!

Blue interests include theorizing, masturbating, knitting, writing, and murder, which often lead to work in teaching, masturbating, knitting, mediating, murdering, and other activities ending in "ing".

My Style was also blue:

People with blue styles prefer to perform their job responsibilities in a manner that is supportive and helpful to others with a minimum of confrontation. This is due to their fear of once again being socially isolated from the outside world and forced to play Dungeons & Dragons in their parents basement.

My half-orc has darkvision. Or is it dorkvision?

They prefer to work where they have time to think things through and desperately need others to validate them. People with blue style tend to be insightful, reflective, masturbating masturbaters, selectively sociable, thoughtful, and imaginative. Usually they thrive in a cutting edge, informally paced, future-oriented environment where mistakes are not easily spotted.

Go on, take the test. Unless you are Blue. Then I'm sure you'll make up an excuse not to take it. Lazy ass.

http://www.princetonreview.com/cte/quiz/career_quiz1.asp

Hold the Line, Add the Toner

My printer ran out of toner today. And everyone quizzically asks Corporate Joe, "Did someone call this in?" which translates to "Can you call this in?" And as always, I cave and reluctantly phone our help desk.

The HP LaserJet is approximately two feet away from my cubicle but if I want new toner I have to call across the world to Delhi, India and speak with a tech specialist named Balachandra Janakibhushan aka "BJ".

BJ is an extremely decent human being. All of our lives would be more peaceful if there were more BJ's in this world. His level of politeness is unmatched. Unfortunately, so is his understanding of the English language.

The routine usually transpires in the following manner...

My call is immediately put on hold. The ironic Muzak of Toto's "Hold the Line" echoes through the receiver. Except this version sounds as if Ghandi became the sound engineer for Zamfir's coverband of Toto's Greatest Hits.

"Take it from me, Ghandi's got mad skills as a producer."

Once BJ picks up the phone, he asks me a series of questions that are equivalent to applying for a passport. After the tenth question, I actually have the mappings for my latitude and longitude ready, just in case. Then, for good measure, I'm put back on hold.

Hold the line, love isn't always on time.

At this point, I imagine BJ is typing my words into a decoder to unlock the secret mystery behind the statement "My printer needs toner". Normally, this would upset me. But I actually get upset because I have the inability to become upset due to BJ's level of courtesy.

It's not in the way you look or the things that you say that you do!

He's just getting by, trying to make ends meet.

Hold the line, love isn't always on time.

If he lived near me, we'd definitely be drinking some Mango Lassi over Aloo Tikki.

Woah woah woah!

"I am one with nature. Your ticket number is H279Q-4."

Finally, we are on the same page and he orders the toner. So where does Mr. Janakibhushan call now?...thousands of miles across the world to the very building I work in. A few hours later an employee from Facilities replaces the toner. I notice this employee because he works on the same floor as me.

I have the audacity to ask, "Why can't I just..." and before I can finish the sentence Dr. Facilities gives me a look like he's answered the question a million times.

I imagine BJ politely laughing at the absurdity of it all thousands of miles away.