Velociworld

My Copious Bounty

I walked into my office the Thursday before Christmas to find the above pinkish thing on my desk. Eh, what? says I to myself, nonplussed. Someone has misplaced Fido's cock warmer. How shall I ever find the rightful owner?

The suspicious bulges inside piqued my curiosity, however. Surely this is a canine cock warmer, thinks I. Why, that gold chain be the ballstrap. But what of those tiny appendages?

Aye, these thoughts coursed through my mind as I massaged the tiny lumps out of the top of the pinkish thing, and beheld the penny candy you see above, along with the business card of my CEO. This was no johnny charger, you see; this was my Christmas present from my intrepid leader.

My first thought, of course, was that this was his way of saying I've beheld your bustling activity, Velociman, but I have also detected your condescending attitude toward your inferiors. You run a bullshit con game, son, and I've smoked you out.

I was wrong, however. My bullshit con game remains intact, for as I visited my colleagues' offices I saw that they, too, had been gifted with tiny little Christmas tree sweater ornaments with rancid confectionery products lodged in their bellies. This was, in fact, the true measure of the man, beautifully encapsulated in small, hideously cheap gimcracks.

An $8 billion corporation, and my CEO head of a billion dollar subsidiary, and he showed his appreciation to the 75 people at corporate with this mawkish crap.

This wasn't my bonus, of course. My compensation package was not impacted. This was, rather, the personal evidence of gratitude to the troops for a Job Well Done. Well done, indeed. As my present indicates.

I knew this corporate work would eventually sour me on capitalism. One (I struggle with the delicate turn of phrase to describe this man, but believe I will settle upon craven little cocksucker) craven little cocksucker can spoil the rhubarbs for all the other capitalist pigs, you know, and when the peasants begin slitting throats some eggs do invariably get broked.

I believe I shall go to war against laissez-faire shitheelism, and emblazon my battleflag with a pinkish sweater ornament. I envision it feared and worshipped as I lay scourge to the Gewgaw Tribe, the bestowers of insipid, insulting, humiliating trinkets no doubt expensed, for the million dollar man obviously wouldn't willingly peel $80 or so from his personal coffers to so richly reward us.

I envision Al Qaeda in the Sunshine State, or Sendero Luminoso (Sunshining Path), striking terror in executive washrooms. Perhaps by posting pictures of the bastards' enshrivelled penii. Uniform? Maybe the Che Guevara tees, with the Mutant wearing that beret.

I have a game plan, now. I feel much better. Saboteur. Velocagent provocateur. An aggrieved little man with his feelings hurt, slitting jugulars. Yes.

And I think I'll use that sweater ornament as an itsy-bitsy prayer rug, now that I think about it.