This morning on the train a woman was absolutely out of her mind. Likely under the influence of some mild expanding substances she was shouting nonsensical things to the train car in general. Since the local train police are essentially nonexistent, this is not an uncommon occurrence. Everyone ignored her. However, what was uncommon was as she got off the train she got into another lady’s face and started yelling at a complete stranger, essentially threatening her life for no reason.
This other lady then proceeded to let the crazy lady have it, and basically shouted her down asking her in very kind, appropriate language fit for a kindergarten what her problem was and to get away from her. Much to my surprise, this entire interaction greatly pleased the entire train car’s passengers. It seemed to make them happy to see this altercation, made their commute more exciting. Other complete strangers were talking about it with each other.
Why? Well, morning commutes are boring as shit. Plus, this crazy lady had been shouting for 20 minutes and so folks were probably pleased to see somebody hand her her ass. But, I have a twisted mind and so my other thoughts were that folks were just happy to see some kind of non-violent altercation as pure entertainment. It brought people together, complete strangers.
This is straight caveman shit. This is the ape part of our brains that loves to see a good scrum. Think evolution has solved us of this? Wrong. At times it seems the entire purpose of social media is to give people an outlet to express their rage at [insert anything here]. Instead of brawling with their neighbors in the market square over [insert anything here], they just output their rage on Twitter.
Not only is this unhealthy, it’s also weak. It’s really, really easy to threaten somebody’s life over a political issue when you’re not in the same room with them. It’s rather a different concept if you’re face to face. Let’s take an example of this.
1) Political Cult Acolyte 1 says to Political Cult Acolyte 2 over Twitter, “Fuck you, you’re wrong, my opinion is right. You deserve to die. I’ll kill you and all those like you, fucker.” A similar threat is returned. Nothing actually happens.
2) Political Cult Acolyte 1 says the same thing to Political Cult Acolyte 2, only face to face. Either the police are called, a fight ensues, or somebody is actually murdered.
If you ask me, (2) is more productive than (1). (1) allows the rage to continue, let’s people live in their own narcissistic bubble, permits people to endlessly be total assholes without consequence, and in the end solves nothing. Whereas with (2), the issue is resolved, one way or the other, immediately.
It’s time for a return to bloodsports. The Coliseum is still standing, just slightly upgrade that venue and let’s get back to our roots. The mandate is anytime somebody threatens somebody on the train, or on Twitter, it’s like a glove slap challenge. If the other human doesn’t accept, they can be branded as a coward or not serious in their beliefs regarding [insert anything here]. If they accept the challenge: Coliseum.
This can be live broadcasting like the Olympics or like any number of post-apocalyptic B movie from 1987. They don’t necessarily have to kill each other, just get the other opponent to submit. So I’m not necessarily advocating tridents and nets. Let them hit each other with plastic bats for all I care. Eventually somebody will get tired of getting hit in the head and give up. Or, we just let folks go wild and somebody can get viciously stabbed with a short sword. Either way.
But, I guess the problem is this would instantly make these folks famous. So folks would be picking fights on Twitter just so they could get into the Coliseum and then become #1 on Instagram. Fuck, my idea sucks. It solves nothing.
Hmm, how about instead of bloodsports, we adopt the ancient Mayan or Aztec custom of human sacrifice? If two people threaten each other on the train or Twitter, they get tossed into a cenote, or have their heart ripped out on the steps of the Supreme Court?
Near my place is a light commuter rail train bridge overpass under construction. Construction’s been on hold for over a year because (shocker) the project is over budget and the government is fighting with various private companies over who pays the bill. My bet is it takes five more years to finish this thing. It’ll be a decade behind schedule and probably a few billion over budget. Which seems to be how America builds things nowadays.
Anyways, since this very new and expensive bridge is essentially abandoned, people get to have a field day except for the nearby construction storage site. That site is safe is because it’s surrounded by cameras and barbed wire. But the bridge itself is essentially open, if you’re daring or dumb enough to climb out on the steel edges of the supporting beams. The beams are about a person’s width wide, without a railing, and a drop of at least a 100 feet or so. In other words, you can walk out there, but if you fall you’re done.
And wouldn’t you know it several crazy folks have done so, to spray paint graffiti on the side of the bridge. The first guy did this months and months ago. It was a crude word that was incomprehensible, I guess it was his art name? I have no idea, I’m not exactly up on the graffiti scene / lingo. This morning another artist / goon (depends on your viewpoint) put his or her tag on the bridge side next to the old word. The new stuff was super elaborate. It must have taken hours to spray that on there.
I draw the following conclusions:
1) Whoever did this had the mental fortitude / courage / guts of a person who in caveman times would have killed all his rivals and made ten surrounding villages his bitch. It takes balls to stand out there with inches between life and death for hours, and to somehow spray a well composed coherent concept.
2) Like a lot of places in America, the crime rate in my local area has soared lately. We had a carjacking the other day which is extremely rare. This weekend the cops were back, just down the block from me. Yesterday I had to shoo my dog along during the walk because she wanted to play with a man who made no attempt whatsoever to conceal he was dealing hard drugs. Spray paint a bridge illegally? No worries, the cops are nowhere to be found (for many, many reasons which we won’t get into today).
3) Despite his nighttime tactics, I’m sure the artist / goon (depends on your viewpoint) would have been visible to at least a few pedestrians and those driving in cars. So either these folks just let him do it and didn’t care, or they called the cops and the cops didn’t show (see above). But I guess if folks saw this and didn’t care, I’m okay with that. Somebody spray painted a bridge, so what? If government can’t be bothered to not completely & totally waste taxpayer money for a decade on a failed transit project why not let some dude have at it?
4) Will the most incompetent of governments take the time to paint over or remove the graffiti? Well, like I said the one guy has had his stuff up there for months, so my guess is no. At least not until construction resumes on the project, if it ever does. So these dudes have their stuff just hanging out there on this steel bridge forever.
5) If I had spray painting skills, and the guts to do this, I’d spray paint the most random shit up there. Something that would cause people near constant question marks in their heads for years. I’d have like a woolly mammoth playing cards with a penguin, a Cossack, an elderly Incan lady, and a half full glass of water, all of them sitting on a table made of ice, next to a campfire fueled by discarded Chinese newspapers, whilst on the Moon. It’d be great! Losers would be searching for the deeper meaning of it for years, when there would none whatsoever.
A new person at work has decided that they’re going to manage everybody’s training records. I suspect because they just got hired, nobody is telling them what to do, and they feel that have to do, like, something, anything? Normally this wouldn’t matter to me, but now they’re after me on my training records like I work for them. Normally this wouldn’t matter to me, but all our work training sucks and is a check in the block.
Plus, all this extra work, spreadsheets, training records, etc, is all paper printed off, signed, scanned whatever. We go through a legendary amount of paper in this office. It’s like it’s still 1947. We buy paper by the pallet full. All trees must pay, for the alter of work. Bow down to it, or they get mad at you and put your name in red text on an excel spreadsheet.
There’s this theory going around, I think somebody wrote a book, on the era of white collar “bullshit” jobs. Where folks think they (or actually) accomplish nothing of actual value. They just keep the hamster wheel of their place of business moving along. I’ve read a few articles lately about how all that’s a lie, and that much of this work actually matters, it’s just most people hate their jobs.
I would tend to agree with that, that most people don’t like their jobs. But the idea that our super modern white collar world is not about 73% bullshit, is, well, not exactly, precisely correct. On a given day I’d say about only 1/3 of what I do actually matters. The rest is the hamster wheel that my boss, or his new training assistant, makes me do that has no value.
I should quit this bullshit gig and go take care of homeless puppies. But then I’d have a bill pay problem, my dog’s kibble is expensive, beer doesn’t pay for itself. I should quit and take a risk at value, I won’t, that’s the trap I guess. We all got bills to pay and white collar work combined with dead trees means you don’t work in a cadmium mine 12 hours a day.
For about ten seconds as I walked to the train this morning I got treated to the joy of watching a sparrow duel some kind of bug. They danced around the concrete as this bug (I couldn’t tell what kind) tried to get away from the sparrow. The bug lost.
Then the sparrow flew away in a burst, likely to go hang out somewhere and eat in glory. This will likely be the most enthralling thing I watch all month.
I had thought it’d have been great to get a video of this. But it happened so fast. And, as previously written about on this blog, sometimes the best memories are the ones where you don’t take a single photo or video.
All the vaccine holdouts in the Western world should go ahead and let their governments know they won’t be participating. Then those countries can ship all the vaccines they’re holding to the rest of the planet who would kill for them. Rather than have to do without vaccines entirely, or get jabbed by a Chinese or Russian vaccine that’s mostly made of cadmium, green tea, and old newspaper shreddings of Pravda.
But what’s with all these vaccine incentives? Some States are giving out free beer, chances at a vacation, an alien tome that explains the meaning of life, lottery winnings, $43 equivalent in Roman Imperial gold, and so on. How come I didn’t get any of this fancy shit? I just showed up twice and they jabbed me like it was nothing. Where’s my Golden Idol?
Incentives are for losers. Fear is for winners. Here are some ideas that’ll be sure to get people into the vaccine door. We’ll call it: The Arcturus Project Vaccination Without Reward Program (TAPVWRP).
Get vaccinated OR:
1) Home is entered into a lottery where the fire department chooses a house to burn down for training purposes
2) Beloved dog and/or cat is offered up as a new permanent pet to a child with cancer, if child expires, pet does not come home and instead goes to another cancer child
3) Fired from job and not allowed to apply for a new one until a cooling period expires, financial difficulties are irrelevant
4) Hooligans are hired to throw bricks through windows and at cars at random intervals
5) Are entered into an all-purpose death battle royale inside a dome while reality television watches like some kind of D grade novel
6) Whatever the greatest fear, it must be endured it; for example, if one hates spiders they gotta open up the front door via a hole in the wall filled with bugs ala Temple of Doom
7) The State deliberately infects them with the Fall 2021 strain of influenza
8) Are forced to sit down and listen as Christopher Walken reads the first five books of the Old Testament (no bathroom or food breaks)
9) Friends are informed via a written forged letter (with handwritten signature) that forged author is a closet cannibal and wants to eat their tasty, tangy flesh
10) Why did I do this list? there is something wrong with me
I watched four of my employees this morning struggle mightily with the photocopier like it was cavemen learning about fire. They fought the machine for a half hour before they got it to work again. This copier is brand new, and it already is failing. It’s a Xerox, who has been making copiers since 1959 and things still don’t work.
You’d think if they’d been making the same kind of machine for over six decades they’d have figured this sort of thing out. Nope! Everybody around the planet is still struggling with the same flaws, failure, frustrations, and fury. It’s almost like they build these machines poorly on purpose. So you can pay them for maintenance or have to buy a new one all the time.
Everybody wants to Office Space their photocopier. It will always be so. Aliens don’t even need to blow up the planet to take over. They just need to give every family on Earth their own copier. After one month of dealing with failure, we’ll be begging the aliens to become our overlords. Just as long as they destroy all copiers.
not complying with electronic equipment environmental disposal / destruction laws is the dream of every white collar employee
So we’ve started to see a brand new kind of water receptacle in the office lately. It’s the BuildLife Motivational Water Bottle. Here a picture of this insanity:
So you see, the purpose of this bottle is to display the time of day. Then you get to drink as much water to get to that time. Do you get it? Then, if you fall behind you can read all these motivational slogans to keep you going throughout your day. So you can stay hydrated. DO YOU GET IT?! Wow, who would have thought hydrating your body throughout the day could feel like a mandatory work training event where they take a roster.
You know, once upon a time humans were drinking not water, but ultra-low alcohol beer to stay hydrated. Water was poisoned or tainted for the most part. They drank this swill out of simple stone or pottery or animal skins. Now we apparently need something that will set you back a minimum of $13 to look like an idiot. At first I only saw flaky coworkers sporting this. Now a ton of people are.
My personal water source is a nondescript stainless steel bottle in dark blue. I have no idea what brand it is, I don’t care. I think it cost me $5. I think it’s about 24 ounces. Maybe. I drink from it five times a day. I do so without any motivational crap whatsoever. I just do it, it’s a task I set my mind to and I do it. End of story.
I have some questions about the methodology of this bottle though:
1) What do you do if you get up before or after 7 AM? Or go to bed before or after 9 PM?
2) If you’re drinking water at 9 PM for hydration purposes, wouldn’t you get a terrible night’s sleep by going to the bathroom all night?
3) If I fill the bottle with vodka instead of water does the same motivational spirit still count?
4) What happens if I get to 9 PM and I’ve only reached the 5 PM mark? The bottle says NO EXCUSES. What’s the bottle going to do to me when I fail, kidnap my niece? Do I have to beat myself with a wire brush?
5) Is any human being on the planet actually motivated by statements such as “Keep going” or “Tons of ENERGY”? If so, they should severely contemplate their life choices and report to a reeducation camp.
6) Is purchase and display of this bottle more of a personal flair statement first, and a water source second? Kind of like how you wear a tie of your favorite sports team or stupid superhero character?
7) The water bottle is clear, so if you’re outside or it’s hot, you have to suffer all day drinking hot water. Or, constantly have to put it back in the fridge or cooler thus killing the perpetual hydration process the bottle requires.
8) If two people have this bottle, and it’s 3 PM, and one person has met the bottle’s demanded goal, and the other person hasn’t, does the person who’s fallen behind have to cut off their pinky like Yakuza? Is the shame too great?
9) How long will this company / fad last before they go bankrupt and the founder moves onto Etsy to design Hello Kitty water bottles so poorly even the Japanese don’t buy them?
10) Why did I do this post?
We, here, at TAP are here to help. Motivation is for losers. Demotivation is for those who take life seriously and are winners. Here are our bottle recommendations:
7 AM – Congratulations, you woke up, you lived. Nothing else you accomplish today will be just as successful.
9 AM – Drink this water, or you’ll die.
11 AM – Just kidding, you’re going to die one day anyways. Resistance is futile.
1 PM – You have accomplished nothing of actual value today.
3 PM – Whatever you have done today will be meaningless to you in three years.
5 PM – In 147 years, nobody will remember your bleached skeleton ever existed.
7 PM – Are you with family or alone? Either way, you’re alone.
9PM – There is a monster under your bed. It’s the monster inside your head. Fear everything. Sleep tight.
So my dog, sigh, finally broke through the knowledge tomb door and discovered should could, in fact, and did, in fact, like to eat cicadas. She napped two of them off my brother’s deck during a happy post-covid Memorial Day barbeque. She grabbed them before any of us could intervene. Her pro level digestion took care of those two poor bastards just fine. It’s just gross, and probably unhealthy if consumed in volume.
Now she walks around the apartment courtyard with her tracking radar on as she attempts to locate further cicadas to eat. I have to watch her like a hawk. But, per prior post, most of the cicadas in my apartment courtyard didn’t survive the first few weeks.
And now apparently the government is saying that folks with seafood allergies shouldn’t eat cicadas. I’m not even going to try and wrap that one around my brain, how a cicada can make the body react as if it was a crab?
Also, I somehow (only somewhat) get the whole eating insects thing. Lots of cultures do it. Likely, in order for all humanity to eat meat / fish long term at least some insects will need to be a part of planetary diet, etc. But, sorry, I can’t do it. I don’t get it. Maybe you have to be raised with it? I sure wasn’t.
Written by a correspondent in Delhi from The Economist:
India’s second wave of covid-19 feels nothing like its first
Holed up in Delhi, where friends are falling ill too fast to count
Apr 30th 2021
WE ARE AMID an ocean of human suffering but cannot see it. Having returned abruptly to the kind of isolation we hoped we had put behind us months ago, my wife, our two little boys and I are staying put in our nice flat, in a leafy “colony” near the centre of Delhi. Our new rule is strict: we do not go outside for any reason. The past 12 months have trained us well enough for that; these routines are well-worn, for parents and children. We grown-ups however cannot stay away from our phones, and so peace of mind is a distant memory. My wife just called from downstairs. Her friend’s brother-in-law needs an oxygen concentrator or he is likely to die at home. If we find one for him (and she is already working her connections), can we scrounge enough cash to buy another, for ourselves?
The mind’s eye is filled with pictures of desperate families scrambling after oxygen cylinders, failing more often than not. All day the early-summer heat has me picturing bodies, bagged and stacked on the pavement, waiting their turn for the pyres that burn everywhere across the city. Sometimes I switch off the screen in my home office on the second floor and step onto the roof terrace to water potted plants and scan the neighbourhood below. All is quiet and green. Smoke from the crematorium down the street has disappeared into the usual haze of the season. Our small park is more leaf-blown than usual, but someone has been watering there too. A security guard at the corner is wearing his mask, but he’s been doing that for a year now, as if the past month were nothing new. In contrast to the first lockdown, the milkman is still coming and newspapers are being delivered.
Yet everything has changed, with a speed that we still cannot comprehend. My family had hunkered down much harder than most. We kept our social life in forfeit and wore masks outdoors, if not always at the playground. We had come to seem like laggards within India. Most of this country began to relax after September if not earlier, as the caseload started to drop. Just last month I started travelling again—I was road-tripping through weekly markets, sampling country liquor offered by strangers for a cute feature story, then watching a jubilant political rally fill a small town’s bazaar. Days later I was dandling my two-year-old on my lap at an airport, sharing his first iced lolly. Those were the before times. A fortnight later, back in Delhi, I find that more than half of my friends have covid-19, in their families if not in their own bodies. Acquaintances are dying faster than they can be counted. I read in the papers that the forestry department is clear-cutting parkland to feed more wood to those pyres.
The official news outlets also bring the daily statistics: 386,000 new infections today, 208,000 dead counted since the pandemic began. Between the lines, it is possible to read the disclaimers too. If only 1.7m tests are being conducted per day, what can that 386,000 really mean? Is it that 0.0004% of the country has come down with the virus since yesterday, or that nearly 23% did? That would be 314m people, nearly the whole population of America. Obviously, the true number lies between those absurd extremes, but who knows where? The statistics about death tolls are more nakedly false. It is plain that thousands are dying every day, but who, where and exactly how many we cannot know, thanks to some petty deceptions but mostly sheer confusion. I get a better sense from the piecemeal reporting in Indian websites covering, say, the smaller towns and cities of Uttar Pradesh, where none of the official line can be trusted, than from my fellow observers forced to stay in the capital.
But the saddest and also the most terrifying accounts all come via the phone, in texts or panicked voices. Everyone is ill and no one can find medical help. Stating the obvious, the American embassy mass-messages, “Access to all types of medical care is becoming severely limited in India due to the surge in Covid-19 cases” and concludes that my fellow Americans should make plans to leave the country “as soon as it is safe to do so”. Social-media feeds are an endless list of pleas on behalf of the dying. A friend from Lucknow, living in New York, writes elegant, almost daily obituaries for friends from his hometown—three of them, I can’t help noting, are my age, and at least one was, also like me, fully vaccinated.
I have a nightly ritual of phone calls to check on friends within a two-mile radius. An elderly woman has recovered, but feels distraught that her neighbours across the street both died. Another friend’s aunt is still ailing but in the meantime her husband died—I hadn’t heard he was infected. Newborn twins, their parents and their nanny are all running a fever in tandem. A WhatsApp group set up by foreign journalists to discuss visa issues has become another place to plead for help finding medical supplies. It informs me that the clinic where I found my own second dose of AstraZeneca a week ago has run out of vaccines. Only 1.8% of the country has been fully vaccinated and it is anybody’s guess how long it will take to manufacture or import the roughly 2bn doses we are left wanting.
Watching the other international correspondents fall ill and scramble to leave tends to make me want to stay behind these locked doors, with my potted plants and boisterous little kids. Appliances may be breaking down, but our groceries keep coming and the WiFi works. An NGO in Delhi counts more than 100 Indian journalists who have died of covid-19, 52 of them this month. For their bravery, I am able to read about those pyres, without having to risk seeing them for myself.
This horror is noticed abroad. Messages from faraway friends I haven’t seen in years convince me of that. They are worried for us and I am happy to reassure them that we four are fine, relieved to be talking about the situation from the bird’s-eye view of my terrace. Much easier on the nerves than ringing up the next-door neighbour to find out whether our mutual friend is still alive.
But my long-distance conversations convince me that something has been lost in the transmission. These well-read friends in Europe, America and East Asia never understood how different the past year of covid was, here in India—and so they cannot understand what it feels like now to hit the vertical wall of this so-called second wave. I struggle to convey that we have not been on a wavy ride, like Britain’s or some American states’. Look at the shape of our graphs. Our first surge was scary, but tapered away like the tail of a paper tiger. The virus had spread everywhere during 2020, no doubt, despite a brutal lockdown and other efforts at containment. Sero-positivity surveys conducted in some cities showed that majorities of large populations had been exposed to the coronavirus and developed antibodies to it. But Indian bodies resisted it, perhaps, they say, because of “cross immunity” gained unnoticed over lifetimes lived amid the barrage of everyday germs. The rickety hospitals stayed afloat too, and eventually their covid wards emptied. By the beginning of 2021 we were saying that 150,000 Indians had died. For perspective: three times as many die from tuberculosis every year. “At the beginning of this pandemic, the whole world was worried about India’s situation,” the prime minister, Narendra Modi, recalled in a triumphal mood only in February. “But today India’s fight against corona is inspiring the entire world.”
India fought a phony war and—by dumb luck—it won. Then suddenly, less than three weeks ago, our world turned upside down. Having taken credit for his country’s divine good fortune of last year, Mr Modi will want to shrug off blame for the second wave, as if it were an act of God which no preparation could have averted or even lessened. There is a lot to say about what could have been done instead. Yet without any of the government’s self-serving intentions, many of the rest of us feel convinced that a different disease has emerged since our year-long dry run began. Covid-21 I find myself calling it.
The facts one would need to build that case stay stubbornly out of reach. The available genomic analysis shows that the distinctively Indian “double mutant” variant, B.1.617, is prevalent in some parts of the country but not in Delhi, where the Kentish B.1.1.7 is like wildfire. India is woefully behind in sequencing its strains, having only announced a genomic consortium in December 2020 and then funding it only in March.
What is clear to clinicians, as opposed to the boffins, is that covid-21 is more transmissible than the kind we saw last year. A doctor friend tells another friend in her podcast that this is “much much more contagious, much much more transmissible than the wild variety of covid-19.” It used to be that just one member of a household might catch it. Now everyone does. In our extended family, in Kolkata, 13 of 15 people under one roof became infected before any showed symptoms.
Its “immune-escape” mutations are formidable. Being vaccinated, I am sensitive to the stories of inoculated people falling ill—which could not be more common, in my social circles—and even dying. The vaccines are saving lives, no doubt. Deaths among the fully vaccinated are rare; I hear of them only among friends of friends of friends, like the poor 25-year-old lab technician in a hospital whose best friend teaches German to a pal of mine over Zoom. Which brings us to the fact that this time young people and even children are developing symptoms, including an erstwhile quarantine-playmate of our four-year-old. Younger adults are becoming severely ill, as they did not last year. Finally, those people who have had the disease twice, a plentiful category thanks to that “immune-escape” feature, say that the reinfection feels different. The fever comes quicker and they are more prone to developing pneumonia. Dumb, divine luck with covid-19, and now the bad luck of covid-21, as if it were retribution. That is the way it feels to those of us who find ourselves without access to reliable aggregations of information, but awash in personal anecdotes. I suspect that someday biomedical research may prove that the two kinds of luck were connected, but we will have to wait years for that.
For now there is much outrage. Maybe Mr Modi’s government will pay a price for its blunders and complacency. I suspect that this is mostly expressed as a wishful diversion, in tragic pursuit of a silver lining. That would be a way for my part of Delhi, those who have the privilege of sitting at home and contemplating escape, to take a break from our primary occupations: fear and sorrow.
I’m constantly amazed at how human organizations so easily decide to spike their own success. We do it to ourselves. It’s not like one of those science fiction episodes where the slug in the brain makes people do dumb things. In real life, the alien slugs would take a hard look at us, then set up shop in Bermuda and get wasted while we do their work for them.
My good boss has been in the job for three years. Now he’s leaving, and they’re replacing him within one week. Do you think one week is enough time for a solid turnover between bosses? Well, our executive leadership sure thinks so. Which is another mark against them for why I wouldn’t let them walk my dog for three seconds unsupervised.
The other thing is the new boss has zero experience doing this job. So we got that going for us too. It’ll be a long six months as we drag this poor bastard across the bureaucracy of our asinine cubicle hell work environment. We’re gonna have to hold this guy’s hand every step of the way.
Here are some examples:
1) Boss makes a statement, as fact, when in reality it is fiction because he hasn’t the background
2) Boss makes his escape and attends a meeting without the subject matter expert to keep him honest and unknowingly destroys project
3) Alien slug monster calls boss on phone to verify ineptness continues, when confirmed, slug hangs up phone and orders another martini
4) Boss gets angry and yells at and demeans fellow human being in frustration at inability to comprehend knowledge he does not possess
5) Boss attempts to make up for lack of experience by ingratiating himself with executive leadership, thus removing the blocking powers of prior good boss, and causing all the executive’s bad ideas to become our problem
6) Slug monster sends a false pretentious, patronizing thank you not to new boss with the name of an old friend, slug writes that new boss is the best, smartest person in the world, and needs essentially no advice to excel
7) New boss awkwardly attempts social contact at mandatory (and covid illegal) work greeting event by telling humorous (to him) stories from things he did 17 years ago
8) Boss asks question, we give answer, boss asks same question 11 days later
9) Old good boss asks us how we’re all doing when we run into him in the hallway, extremely awkward and inaccurate comments are uttered and old good boss feels bad
10) Alien slug monster wants to speed up the pace of disaster, tells us that we must give bad advice to the new boss and that if we don’t, slug monster will set off a fusion bomb underneath a city, when we discover that the bomb is in Brussels, we shrug and laugh at them