Contractors Don’t Eat Nachos

While working at the data slaughterhouse I kept a semi-regular notebook where I drew, wrote inane drivel and otherwise zoned out of meetings that could have been emails. Below is an excerpt from one such meeting with a particular consultant I held deep contempt for. Enjoy. 

Old man on teleconference. His voice echoes, cell phone breaks up. Is he taking a shit right now? His voice strains now as his aged bowels push to evacuate the Metamucil he choked down this morning. When was the last time he digested a solid meal? A steak, potatoes and some broccoli? French toast, scrambled eggs and bacon? A cheeseburger, french fries and a chocolate milkshake? Could his ancient, rumbling GI tract withstand a hard punch? I long to feel the pleasure of my knuckles connecting with his old, weakened solar plexus; his diseased stomach full of prune juice and bile rupturing into his bloodstream. I long to destroy his ability to digest even the feeblest of meals. The phone muffles and I imagine he arises from his porcelain savior. Did he just wipe ass? I’m happy I can eat nachos whenever I want.

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Burrito Man

While working at the data slaughterhouse I kept a semi-regular notebook where I drew, wrote inane drivel and otherwise zoned out of meetings that could have been emails. Below is an excerpt from one such meeting with a particular consultant I held deep contempt for. Enjoy. 

The Burrito Man is here. Like cattle we move quicker than we do all day long to inhale his horrible treats. To us chubby, chain-smoking, alcoholic welfare whores; his burritos are our cocaine. Pull that salsa out of your Ziploc bag, Burrito Man. Your burritos are garbage and I won’t even eat them hungover. Which I am.

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Corporate Angst

While working at the data slaughterhouse I kept a semi-regular notebook where I drew, wrote inane drivel and otherwise zoned out of meetings that could have been emails. Below is an excerpt from one such meeting with a particular consultant I held deep contempt for. Enjoy. 

His body surges with adrenaline as he leaps across the table and connects his fist to the old man’s lower jaw. A mouthful of blood and teeth spray on the meeting room window. Another blow quickly collapses the old man’s nose and a hard cracking noise echoes in the room as his sinus cavity explodes behind the velocity of his knuckles. His laughs maniacally as a flurry of fists reign down upon the old man’s now limp body. Blood streams in long, splattering waves over movements of wildly flailing arms and fists that result in sickening thuds. He stops when he realizes the beating hurts his swollen hands more than it hurts the old man. He arises, covered in blood, hair and tooth enamel to finally notice the horrified looks frozen on the faces of the employees in the room. The old man lay prostate on the floor gurgling incomprehensible phrases through fluid and broken teeth. He closes his eyes and feels satisfaction. He doesn’t hear the doors open. He doesn’t feel it when the police officers tackle him to the floor. In this moment, he realizes he is too pretty for prison.

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