Growing slowly diabetic by the doughnut.  Every tap on the key another click closer to carpal tunnel.  Gazing longingly, desperately at the clock watching minutes of their life grow mouldy and rot.  Masturbating in the bathroom, marking time until the dead-sprint jailbreak for the door.  Evacuation to the Barco lounger and a whole box of Low-Fat Something, waiting for re-runs of Sex and the City on regular cable.  Check your E-Bay for the lame fucking knick-nack shit you buy.

Shopping online for the limp-dick vacation that’ll wipe out the Savings Account.  Shopping online for bathing suits that fit less well with every Cheese Wiz Triscuit.  Score a $99 flight on SouthWest to spend four hours in utter misery with a screaming infant in the next row and your spouse half a plane away, reading a hobby magazine and not trying to ignore the tits on the bouncy college girl with the hickupy laugh and ten pounds of freshman beer pong on her waist.

Corporate Bosses are more fun.  With their little Yes-Men in tow.  Half of them are jackasses, bloated to the man-tits with their own arrogance.  The other half, bound for the highest success, have dripped dry of any fraction of personality.  With their IBM smile, carefully metering every PSI in the grip of their handshake for just the right impression.  Oh, he’s a real down-to-Earth guy until you start acting like a real person and let slip with a gripe about the company.  He’ll give you that patient look like you’re only a child and calmly explain the whole business model down to your very position and make you realize that every mistake that passes your cubicle is actually your fault.  Your fault for doing it.  Your fault for being indifferent to it.  Your fault for not chastizing your neighbor.  Your fault for not showing up early and putting in the Extra Effort.  If you want to succeed, you have to show that what you REALLY want is for the Company to succeed.

. . . And in the end they’re right.  You’re there by choice.  Maybe you’re at the coercion of your bills and your belly, but it’s all just hopes and dreams.  You’re there to feed the monkey.  Little Debbie and Lane Bryant.  Wal*Mart.  Every day you hate your job, farting smugly into your office chair, the constant press of your widening ass is making you less a person and more a miserable signpost on the road to Hell, a victim of nothing but gravity . . .