That’s right wood. chuck. chuckers, it’s. Groundhog Day!
In commemoriam, herewith somethan I wrote but ne’er posted which depicts the demise of last year. Followed by something I wrote in the Spring of my soliloquy step.
that was then …
I’m living in an Aaron Sorkin drama.
Except without the rapid-fire repartee and seasons of success. Just a slew of sanctimony and propaganda aplenty.
My boss is back. The supportive and affable father to us all, ’tis indeed lovely to bathe in his calm once more. (Sorry if that sounds creepy.) Such was my faith, I assumed we’d all return to normal under the umbrella of his awesomeness. Turns out, even he cannot stay the bolting horse that has become our collective psyche.
The severe growth spurt which occurred in his absence left an indelible stretch mark, the relationships we fostered now bumpy with scar tissue. The perennial loner, even I believed my team was team enough to survive what became of July (aka Julygate). But in the blink of a pigsty, everyone escaped their wherewithal wardrobes and began freaking the fuck out.
He-man hurdle was the first to fall. Or more accurately – to be felled. Today it became official and he ‘resigned’, leaving in a hail of stunfire. More would follow.
But to tall this tale properly, I must go back to when the boss of my boss quit. (Oh captain, my captain.) No-one gave a crap about Cap, yet. After years spent kissing the dullard’s derrière, it begged the question: what does the exiting of one ass mean for their own?
Following his exit was a flurry of fellow exits. And, in pondering the possible passing of my own delectable patoodi, I surmised the next domino would fall one of two ways: either my boss would step into the Captain’s caste (making me his Governor General), or he’d drown in the political riptide and resign, taking my bureaucratic ballast with him.
It didn’t take a funeral home to see which way this granny was leaning.
Today dawned, pregnant with doom. And, like the roladex clock of Phil Connor’s morn (aka mourn), then came the slow-mo BOOM. The last denial domino fell and my boss resigned.
In this game of skullduggery, I just got skullbuggered.
this is now …
Another day, another hierarchical wedgie (to be said like Prince Charles).
Yet I feel the slow return of my mojo, seeping into my consciousness like the well-written propaganda that is The Newsroom. Dancing into my outlook like a tattler ’n tap shoes ‘n’ top hat. Creepin’ up the back stairs like a furtive Fratelli. (I could go on.)
Today marks the end of a month-long holiday with my fam. It was grandiose, my friends. Equal measures angst, sanity and comedy. Like a Jewish soup, if you will.
Or a clown car.
The world is bigger among my kindred, where they hear each word I speak without need of amplification. I hear myself better too. Suddenly, dreams scribbled in crayon on the mosaic, prosaic surfaces of my psyche become riotous masterpieces, full of colour and promise. And upon return to routine, like a coma patient waking to discover themselves anew, my life is starkly apparent in all its wasted and waiting potential.
“Please don’t kill me! I’ve got so much to give!” – Howard Moon
Of course I knew all of this before I set out in my ruby slippers, toting my proverbial Toto. But nothing quiets the screams of flying monkeys so well as people who just. get you.
As a result, I return to work resolute and recalcitrant. Unknowing if they’ve found me out, yet uncaring. I hereby lift my metaphorical skirt to the public (not to be mistaken with pubic) once more, mid-plot in my escape from this malaise and its mercenaries. [Insert fist bump here.]