It is in the nature of those whose education has brought them to a position devoid of creativity, to immerse themselves in the propagation of corporate bullshit.
Jean Girard
The meeting is concluded without tangible results but with a plethora of ‘going forwards’ and arse-covering; drilling down and parking; expediting tasks allocated; tracking actions agreed and catered cardboard lunch triangles consumed.
JK sails off to the next meeting on his calendar, consoling himself with the fact that while projected objectives have not been met, directives from on high have been placated.
Hobre wanders off to check that employees are complying to the Handrail Directive being pushed out by his department in an attempt to minimise the stairway trip and fall epidemic that has been plaguing the medical insurance world for the last few years.
Swann gathers up his notebook (newly annotated with many of the allocated tasks mentioned above) and rushes back to his office where he has left an unfinished session of online mah-jong hidden behind his tracker spreadsheet. Once seated in his ergonomically correct office chair, mouse under palm, he feels the emptiness fill him up like cold water down a curry throat.
Pinky Derailleur remains in meeting room G12 and gazes at the notes scrawled across the whiteboard in blotchy, almost rub-out-able green ink – part calculation, part flow, mostly indecipherable to a man whose skills lie outside of the strictly technical aspect of engineering. His mind wanders, as is his way, into the contemplation of the product on which this whole industry, indeed this whole civilisation, is built: the gazillion year old black ooze forged by tectonic forces from the remains of extinct dinosaurs. The culture of death which runs like a seam through the weave of the industry responsible more than any for the products we do not see but that make up just about all of what passes as civilisation in the westernised world.
Death-based economics: obscene profit in exploitation that offers no recognition of the fact that the extinction-based fuel upon which it exists is a major factor driving this 21st century dinosaur itself to extinction.
JK sails off to the next meeting on his calendar, consoling himself with the fact that while projected objectives have not been met, directives from on high have been placated.
Hobre wanders off to check that employees are complying to the Handrail Directive being pushed out by his department in an attempt to minimise the stairway trip and fall epidemic that has been plaguing the medical insurance world for the last few years.
Swann gathers up his notebook (newly annotated with many of the allocated tasks mentioned above) and rushes back to his office where he has left an unfinished session of online mah-jong hidden behind his tracker spreadsheet. Once seated in his ergonomically correct office chair, mouse under palm, he feels the emptiness fill him up like cold water down a curry throat.
Pinky Derailleur remains in meeting room G12 and gazes at the notes scrawled across the whiteboard in blotchy, almost rub-out-able green ink – part calculation, part flow, mostly indecipherable to a man whose skills lie outside of the strictly technical aspect of engineering. His mind wanders, as is his way, into the contemplation of the product on which this whole industry, indeed this whole civilisation, is built: the gazillion year old black ooze forged by tectonic forces from the remains of extinct dinosaurs. The culture of death which runs like a seam through the weave of the industry responsible more than any for the products we do not see but that make up just about all of what passes as civilisation in the westernised world.
Death-based economics: obscene profit in exploitation that offers no recognition of the fact that the extinction-based fuel upon which it exists is a major factor driving this 21st century dinosaur itself to extinction.
All-you-can-eat Capitalism
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