My routine and 18 hour working schedule were rudely interrupted today by the visit from a management consultant (no raised capitals as they tend to be a bunch of tossers!).
Anyway he was here to complete
"a complementary assessment of the management effectiveness of the company", no less - in other words touting for business, and all this despite having been told weeks ago that Griff is away being repaired. Apparently that news had been a bonus, as it would give a chance for the remaining
'office workers' (don't you just love effing management speak… not!) to relax and
'interact' i.e. speak freely…
Listen chum! We ALL speak freely here...
As I lay there on the newly repaired UPS (Yeah what took so long) there was definite air of tension as this person waffled his way through his over-rehearsed intro patter. Oh gawd! Every now and then I raised an eyelid, and didn't even have to try to look bored. I tried to help the others by yawning and minutely checking my claws one by one, in time with each nauseatingly piece of marketing-speak. Gawd… this is effing painful I eyed to everyone, one by one.
We've all heard this tripe before, tosser! I unsuccessfully tried conducting his waffle to a premature close with the end of my tail (ala Zubin Mehta), but to no avail. He was determined to drag it out adnausseam.
Surely, even the dumbest of these
'suits' must realize that even a retarded ant can tell the difference between over-practised sales patter, and that of spontaneous conversation?? Maybe people such as this creep have been doing it SO long, too long, that they actually believe the substance of what they're saying…
who knows, who cares?
Every now and then, the phone rang, and you could sense the atmosphere ease a few notches, and even more coffee was dished out. Raising my head in a
"what about my effing prawns!" kind of look effected no response, and I knew why
… we all knew where this was heading.
Oh, shite. He's going to recommend a Team Building Day off-site at some crappy corporate retreat! Ohhhh gawd!!!
Yeah.. I know the road to hell is lined with good intentions, but who are these guys? Which planet do they come from, and have you ever met anyone who grew up wanting to be a management/marketing consultant? Sheesh!!
Effing Corporate Team Building… CRAP! Quote: Give any new team a hard enough project or goal, and they'll have to get on with it, and team building will be a natural consequence… that's what my boss say's, and even he's got one of those MBA things.
Got sidetracked… Effing Corporate Team Building… Yes, CRAP!
You know the kind of effing thing;
'team-building exercises' where podgy, flabby managers have to figure out how to heave their fat-arse boss over a wall, praying silently for the tell-tale 'thud' on the other side, followed by a whimper or, even better, an eerie but ominous silence.
Thank f***!
Then they all troop indoors, to be swathed in bandages and elastoplasts (medals of the day), to eat rubber chicken, and token salads… 'cos they're healthy… and make you feel good.'
Never mind the fact that most of these bloated arse-wipes will be stuffing chips and pints within a few hours! Then they're presented with solid plastic little cups and medals to show the uninitiated at work the next day!
Fu..Yuk!
Then onto the main event, dreaming up, and spouting forth a load of crap about the need for
"synergy" and then to dream up revolting mission statements that are as convoluted and opaque as selected bits of Thomas Aquinas.
Next day, they all slouch back into their respective offices suddenly talking in tongues like some ungodly hybrids of
Sun Tsu, Yoda, Clausewitz, and Attila the Hun, only with a
“vision” supposedly amalgamating metaphysics, logic and war tactics…unholy claptrap… bet they've never even heard the word epistemology!
Tossers all of 'em!
But the most irritating and mindless of all that team-building crap usually involves about six sad-looking past-it middle-aged desk jockeys, a milk crate, and an effing rope, who have to swing Tarzan-style (lard-arse on a rope) on the rope and onto the milk crate, where they have to figure out a way how to accommodate the whole filthy sweating half-dozen without tipping the crate or falling off it.
There’s usually only enough space on the average milk crate to accommodate one foot for each desk jockey. The counterbalance to the gravitational pull has to be established by clutching your colleagues in an revolting group hug, which, depending on what stage of the program this exercise takes place, elicits feelings of mild discomfort at the otherwise carefully avoided physical proximity to your colleagues, or full-blown explosive nausea triggered by rubbing against the sweat-soaked Kiss t-shirt that two decades ago used to be big enough to cover the clammy, white midriff of your supervisor.
Oooo…. Yuk!
Whatever the point of this exercise effing is, I really don't think anyone effing knows.
Speaking as a cat with a brain:
is the purpose of this disgusting display to suggest that people, by maintaining a tenuous, extremely uncomfortable, and slightly unappetizing balance aboard a milk crate, are actually furthering some common purpose?
What would be the purpose, then?
Delay inevitable collapse of balance by desperately clutching the shirts of your co-workers until all go down together? Oh that's a team!
I have yet to have heard of a teambuilding
“trainer” who does not wax poetic about the supposed value of teamwork in this situation. Would it surprise you that I think the desperate men and women on the milk crate should be severely reprimanded for not making the effort of finding a second or third crate to occupy?
Or at least using a dull pencil or sharpened stick as a weapon to shove up the original consultant and trainers backside? Now that's initiative!
But then, what do I know? I'm just your not so average cat. Cat's do not believe in team-building, team, workgroups...
we just effing get on with it!
Don't let these bastards through the door. Argh... now I feel a lot better.
Night, night suckers...
PS. The cost of this outrage would have kept me and my legion of descendants in fresh creamy Atlantic prawns well into the next century...
Oh, now I get it!
www.griffwason.com
