Don't Let Me Stop You Making A Spectacle of Yourself.

The workplace drama continues to barrel on at a furious pace. I hardly have the chance to look up from my Angry Birds or my memes and some such somebody has lost their shit over something usually the refrigerator or the microwave or more recently the sexual harassment training which is mandatory, but will nonetheless be compensated at, wait for it, minimum wage.

The very moment I read that email with all the inappropriate bits in bold on my sad little cracked iPhone screen I immediately had sugarplum-fairy-like visions dance in my head of the indignant shit show of college-educated-debt-saddled-entitlement rage that was about to wash over my workplace business, and lets just say my imagination always tantalizes, but it rarely disappoints.

There were no fewer than three emails explaining the necessity of all this, every single email highlighting all the inappropriate bits in bold and each explanation predicated upon New York City and our company being headquartered there.

Like an Agent Provocateur I wailed 'New York City!' like I was some ranch hand in a Pace Picante sauce commercial just loud enough to be overheard and to fan the flames of imaginary insult and boy did it work. Before long there will be calls to secede from the union and demands that all things NewYorkian be sent henceforth to Russia.

As I was leaving work I noticed they had strapped the poor receptionist, who remains in all of this an innocent, to some headphones and a computer screen which was obviously transmitting the npow universally reviled and resented sexual harassment training capsule. As if somehow this sad spectacle of forced comradeship would encourage the rest of us to acquiesce to this dystopian Human Resources tyranny. Please. 

Shit hasn't even started to look real.