Sigma 7 Corporate Cluster F**k
“GOD DAMN IT GEOFF!!”
- How did a blue whale get there?
“…”
“JESUS…YOU SAID HE WAS SIGMA 7…YOU….SAID!!”
“I know… I f***king know already, I’m sure he mentioned it – we…we were talking about stuff when Allan, uhm… started going on about MS projects and Prince 2…and…Alan’s always”
“F*CK… ALLAN!!”
On the 43rd floor of Epicentre Towers, something had happened. Something terrible had happened. The temperature was now fluctuating rapidly as wave after wave of real breeze™ gushed in, frothing and flowing with the 75° air con. Three out of 8 Windows on the East side were completely missing. Those that remained were spattered with jagged fracture lines & suppressed violence. In here geometry had fought for survival. It was a hollow and pyrrhic victory.
In the centre of the open plan office a huge human being lay crumpled and motionless at his desk. This bloated wretch resembled a jelly tightly packed into a bulging sweat water-bed – it was once a crisp white shirt. The monitor, which he had been using with only moderate success, was flickering on and off at a frequency immune to algorithms. Only nature understood this. Even though the screen was only visible for micro seconds, the Windows™ trained human eye could still detect the dead-end alley zombie attack that is the MS blue screen.
“FATAL EXCEPTION ERROR”
A sweaty cheek was pressed in tight communion with the Aero QWERTY keyboard. From a gently twitching lip, a dribble trail reached the letter ‘k’.
Soon to be mutilated by a cubist
Sprawling out to his right, his pork pink fingers desperately clasped a Microsoft optical mouse. You have just been introduced to Tim Pacalis. Tim was Vice President of Global Project Management - SE Asia & Europe. Until 11.27am today, he had an unblemished track record. It was also of note that it was only within the last few hours that Tim had become acquainted with the slang: “Cluster F**k”. This expression was being helpfully projectile vomited into existence by Ken. Ken was an angry and frustrated man. He hated himself. Luckily the world of corporate project management allowed him to transmogrify the acrid and bitter smack of his personal vacuum into “GETTING THINGS DONE®”. He was only capable of speaking in UPPERCASE, Font size 72, IMPACT.
Through the shattered windows the air continued to ebb and flow. The photocopier spun and clunked its inkless grinding loop – it was focused and intent on only one outcome – self-immolation. Soon it would no longer be a Cannon 156a Colour-Copy™. Soon it would be a machine martyr. In amongst the never read meeting minutes, millions & millions of photocopiers around the world would sneak in copy after copy after copy of 156a in its plastic flame melt glory.
The gentle bubbling blue of the water cooler had been mutilated by a cubist. The bulbous blue was now a jigsaw of bent plastic angles. The coolers contents, (on average 5 Gallons), had been absorbed by the revolting brown carpet tiles. Beneath the UPPER CASE shout down you could hear the snap, crackle and hum of live electric current. A mesh of tangled wires had broken through the ceiling and they dangled like the roots a of huge electric tree. The roots quivered and swayed in the gentle breeze only inches above Tim’s head. Nonchalantly they waited for their sweet connect. From 25 handset hang ups a chorus of engaged tones played with no conductor. The kettle was a Dali remodel melt, and steam from its entrails had transformed the kitchen. Its weeping pot plants luxuriated in the tropical mist, and a column of red ants carrying post-it notes scurried out towards the great open plan. They march across the brown tiles, and onto the blue blubber. They marched around a huge melancholy eye, across the head, and around the spout they marched and they marched, and now onto the huge blue open expanse – they marched, heading East towards the tail and the 43 floor drop. The post-it notes flicker and flutter in the wind. Visible from the pavement below, its tail flipped from side to side as it slowly drowned. Its only hope – (the worlds largest crane) – was unhelpfully stationed in Dubai.
Tim Capalis slipped into a dreamy stupor and Pamela Anderson presented him with a cheque. He was project manager of the year again.
