Corporate

Got an email from a coworker yesterday: This is the PDF of the conference advertisement for Marketing Bullshit Conference. Please approve.

My tactful response: The layout is nice, but the pink is a bit…seizure-inducing, no?

My boss got a complaint. Apparently that was offensive.

One of the speakers from Hellish Corporate Tax Bullshit Conference that took me 500 Years to Finish emailed me to tell me she was unhappy with some mailer I drafted up months ago and wanted to drop out.

Obnoxious Gay Marketing Head walked over to my desk with his exaggerated arm-swinging swagger. "You, like, sent the mailer without her approval?" *insert long, exaggerated sigh and eye roll* "You have to, like, fix this. You better, like, call her or, like, email her and apologize. Or you have to, like, find someone else, like, now.” *insert another eye-roll, dramatic about-face and arms a-swingin’ away.*

Outside, Gloria and I puff Camel Lights. “I can’t even speak to Obnoxious Gay Marketing Head for ten seconds before I’m overcome with the urge to rip his face off.”

“That seems to be the general consensus,” she says.

“I think I’m going to give this a few more months and then start looking elsewhere. The transfer abroad opportunity isn’t even worth it if I’m going to be doing this bullshit overseas.”

The simple fact of the matter is that I am not cut out for the corporate world. I don’t have any tact. I don’t deal with authority well. I don’t have a corporate-friendly sense of humor. I don’t have any professionalism. But most of all, I don’t give a fuck.

I look around at the flies swarming around the office in their creased slacks and pressed shirts, buzzing about how well such-and-such event went or so-and-so event is booking. Our monthly office meetings are flooded with enthusiastic applause when the Managing Director reads off the increases in revenue from last quarter, the sponsorship stats, the most profitable events. I zone out, my eyes wander around the room, wondering which ugly, desperate bitch Greasy Salesman has successfully boned.

At my monthly Volunteers of America meetings, reps from huge investment banks, brokerage firms, advertising companies gush about their jobs, their clients and thumb through Blackberries when the next meeting date is proposed.

What do you do, L?

I, uh, work at a conference production company.

What do you do there?

I, like, plan conferences.

Really? That sounds interesting.

Er, it’s really not. It sucks, actually. It’s a small, shitty company and I hate it there.

Well, it’s good to see you’re loyal to your organization!

Loyal? Seriously? Who’s loyal to their organization? Or, rather, whose organization is loyal to them? Hey Citigroup Analyst, is the CEO going to attend your funeral if you get hit by a bus? How about you Morgan Stanley IBanker, is your Managing Director going to come to your daughter’s birthday party? Deloitte Accountant, did the President give you a call when your mother died? Loyal my ass. We’re nothing but a list of names on a database, and twice a month, HR prints bulk copies of payslips with our names stamped on them. They don’t know who we are, they don’t give a fuck who we are.

The next time your chest swells with pride when you read an article about your company’s successful merger, trade, hostile takeover blah blah, ask yourself—Did my boss feel proud of me when I ran the marathon last year?

No, he didn’t give a fuck, and neither should you.

-L