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I got a glossy insert in the mail that claimed I'd won a prize. It was a scratch-off thing: a series of three boxes. Two read "25,000 dollars." The middle one was what the victim potential customer had to scratch off. Predictably, it read "25,000 dollars" once the penny was applied.
Underneath all of that was a guarantee that everyone would win one of four prizes: 25,000K, 750 dollar gift card to a local outlet of a big chain department store, some dollar gold coins ranging from 3 on up to 100, and one dollar gold coin. The prize depended upon which set of numbers I had on the insert. Having a bit of time before dinner, I went down to the mall where these used car salesmen [there were no saleswomen there] were. I'd never seen that particular rip-off technique in action and I was curious.
A young man met me at the door. He immediately brought me over to a table and handed me a form to fill you. "You have to register," he said. I asked why and he replied some hogwash about knowing who came. "So where is the poster with the number that shows my prize?" I asked. The young man frantically tried to get me to sit in the chair and fill out the form first. I looked around. "Oh, there the poster is!" and I walked over to it. I had "won" three dollars in gold coins.
I stalked back to the table and I surveyed the "registration form." The form wanted my name, address, phone numbers, employer, if I owned a house-- a bit too nosy for a "registration form," I thought. I spied something after my required signature on the bottom. By signing, I was giving the company permission to pull up my credit report [to see if I was "eligible" for a "special program" in addition to getting a loan to buy one of the very polished used cars outside]. "Uh, no," I said, confiscating the pen and the form. Then I walked out.
On her way in was a woman clutching an identical glossy insert. "Oh, you got one of them too?" I greeted her. "You got the same number I did. Your prize is three one-dollar gold coins. And they are going to ask your permission to get your credit report. It's a rip-off," I said. The woman smiled feebly at me, "Well, yeah," and she backed away from me toward the door. Hey, it's [currently] a free country. Maybe she wanted to buy a car from these people. These people were not even from the neighborhood. The mailing was from another state. There was a total of four used cars outside. And the pen that I stole had the name of yet another mall on it about four hours away.
Spam-- full of "multitudinal" variations.
sapphoq and friends
Teamwork has become the mantra in all kinds of business settings and organizational models. No matter how lowly the job or how slovenly the jefes treat the workers, by golly we must have teamwork. Everything is teamwork. We must be good team members, we must. It is a directive and a qualification.
We are taught in seminars and trainings to be part of a team. We are told that a football player or a basketball player out for himself injures the team. The team is priority. The team is the way to fulfill destiny. Go, team, go! But lobby for a union? Hell no.
We are robots. We are automations. Unfeeling. Unthinking. Dead. Lifeless. No passion. No joy. No individuality. No sex. Toe the line. Here is the employee handbook. Read it. Devour it. Absorb it. It is nourishment. It is the stuff of life.
If we qualify for food stamps, we are told that is part of our benefit package. If we have sick children, we are told that is our problem. The team must come first. We are required to work overtime. We are not expected to have a life. No identity. No existence outside of the most sacred team.
We are a team. We are a family. The Conglomerate Company professes to care. The Corporation is human. That was on the news. We are social. We are polite. We express satisfaction with the process. We are uber loyals. We want to be together at the staff parties. We enjoy the staff meetings. The mission of the business integrates itself into the very stuff of our being. We have one mission. We have one thought. We serve. The subservient team shall be first and the maverick shall be last.
There is no room for the mavericks. No room for the hermits, geeks, nerds. No room for the hackers. No room to examine the process. No room to take things apart, twist something here, eliminate something there. No room for those who sense beyond.
None. All for one and one for all. Go team go! Share and share alike. Death to the freaks.
The team will dominate. This is the mandate. The individuals will be culled and left to make their own way in the cruel, forbidding wilderness. The team will prevail. The jefes demand that this is so. Screw thinking. Screw the piteous papers folded up into thirds and put into the suggestion box. The suggestion box is void of function. The jefes will say that was tried and it didn't work so we aren't doing that again. Those who dare to drop papers into the suggestion box will have their arms severed at the elbow. We are a team. No room for dissidents. Disgruntled employees are dangerous.
We live with the fiction. We forget the past. We have no future. We are a team. We are never alone. We are swallowed up into the oiled machinery. And it is just. It is right. It is good. Go team go!
Then the revolution comes. The team implodes. Hope rises.
sapphoq and friends
They are just words. Use as you wish. I made them, but as I said, they are just words. No intellectual property monopoly on these. Enjoy.
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