THE WAHLBERG WAY
"Who wants more rice? Anyone? Anyone? Ha-ha."
The reasonably clear question wasn't misinterpreted by the five hundred workers inside the cafeteria though a non-union member would not have been the wiser from the silence and unimpressed leers. The workers prodded and smeared the contents of their bowls all the while thinking of ways to dump a body.
The question itself was saturated in rhetoric that only one person found amusing and the snide laughter had ensured the pencilling of his name on many a death list. It was the fourth day in-a-row that the same man with the same foolhardy grin had asked that very same question over the very same PA. And it was the same span of time that the question was concluded with an ignominious laugh.
Most of the workers didn't know the man who made the unfunny question seem less funny and they pondered whether the man's inept handling of the microphone would lead to his electrocution. Some envisioned him slipping so the microphone landed in the god awful broth they were consuming while the unfunny man still clutched it tightly. The workers hadn't seen veins explode since Beverly the receptionist backed her ass onto a syringe of liquid Draino.
The head chef was still in hospital awaiting diagnosis from her fall in the kitchen the previous day. Her complaints to the Supervisor of Culinary Cuisine and Other Things had fallen on deaf ears without as much as a sympathetic smile or a lucid quip that rose over the cooking staff's heads. The Supervisor of Culinary Cuisine and Other Things instead chose to walk in the other direction, deliberately knocking over a vase in his haste to be elsewhere. To top things off, fifty-nine workers had to go without lunch as the required amount of food had been brilliantly underestimated. Management made a succinct albeit reasonably persuasive announcement that it was gutted about a "small portion" of its beloved workers having to go without and that it "deeply regretted the unforseen consequences." The announcement added that it was "unavoidable" and that it "would not be repeated" as the anomaly had been eradicated.
The new financial year had brought with it changes in company ownership and a new approach to lunch. The changes were financially motivated on both counts. On the surface the situation seemed dire. Officially, it was a shambles: if you asked the workers. Officially, it was a raging success with every reason to maintain the present course: if you asked the bean counters. The old way, which didn't have an official name and which focused primarily on quality, taste and volume, was replaced by the Wahlberg Way, a method named after the new CEO's aging and resoundingly emaciated cat. The Wahlberg Way was unimaginably inferior to the old unnamed way, being broken down into four essential components: cost saving, efficiency, minimal portions and blandness. The Wahlberg Way was adapted from a Bolivian model that had fed local guides at high altitudes and it was in the process of saving the company hundreds of thousands of dollars annually.
New supplies: plastic trays, plastic cutlery, plastic finger bowls, thin unknown metal serving pots and trolleys with faulty wheels. They were cleaned with lukewarm water after every meal and reused daily. Personnel: twenty-one workers were retrenched from the kitchen staff to usher in the Wahlberg Way, leaving five existing personnel to cook, deliver and serve food to five-hundred and thirty nine disgruntled employees. The cooking staff wasn't afforded the grace of a free day until they each had successfully negated twenty-one days back-to-back. Each of them had been anticipating a deserved day off within the next week until the head chef collapsed.
"How do you like the new menu?" Zsoltar asked.
"I'm sick of fucking rice every fucking day, if that's what you mean, eh," Mike replied tersely. "What the fuck is wrong with fucking bread just once a week? Once a fuckin' week, man. Is that too much to ask?"
"No! Where are you from?"
"Fuckin' Canada, man, eh. And we ain't big on rice, if you know what I'm sayin', eh."
"Yes, I know. In Hungary, which is where I was born, we never ate rice. My parents tell me every so often how good the bread there was because I was too young to remember the good times we had eating bread. Even during times of war and poverty, my parents said the bread was always the finest in the whole world. I bet my parents never ate anything like this," Zsoltar said, raising the mysterious broth from his bowl.
"Yo, Chich, I don't give a flying cahoot about your parents or their bread, eh. I'm trying to deal with my own digestive issues here."
"I'm just making polite conversation. There’s no need to blow chunks from my bum."
"Pfft! If I knew what you meant by that, we'd both be dipping toes in the pond of meaning. And if that's polite conversation, Chich, then I am Milli Vanilli. Blame it on the rain that was fallin' fallin'. Blame it on the stars that did shine at night. Whatever you do don't put the blame on you. Blame it on the rain yeah, yeah. You can blame it on the rain, eh."
"Hey, you'd better get off the table. If the supervisor sees you he will fire you."
"Oh, really? What is he gonna do, Chich, tell me to finish my fuckin' insanely delicious fuckin' rice and then pack my bags, eh? These lunatics running the asylum couldn't recognise flavour if they licked it off an armpit, eh. Who the fuck serves rice and cabbage? I'm shitting brown liquid allsorts every time I crap. I'm telling you, Chich, there's an evil wind blowing smoke up our asses and it ain't me. Meanwhile, we're all bending over and saying, 'Oh, yes, that feels so fine. May I have more, please?' Do you like having an evil wind blow smoke up your ass, Chich?"
"My name is Zsoltar, not Chich."
"Zolta what now?"
"Zsoltar."
"Zsoltar?"
"That's right. It's a traditional Hungarian name that has been popular for centuries."
"I gathered it would be, what with the way it rolls off the tongue and everything, eh."
Zsoltar had been in the country long enough to know a stinging sarcastic remark when he heard one. He was reaching into his shirt pocket for his mini Swiss Army knife with which to stab Mike in the chest or groin with when a commotion erupted several tables away.
"You call this a god-damned man-sized portion of food?" a heavy set worker yelled as he threw his tray frisbee style across the room; the contents scattered to all areas along its flight path.
"It's the new standardised amount," a member of the company with a white collar and blue shirt explained. "I have no direct say in how much gets served and we're all treated as equals here."
"Treated as fucking equals, you say. Well, where's my Porsche? And where's my Italian suit? And where's my lunchtime prostitute? We are equals after all, aren't we?"
The employee with the white collar and blue shirt raised his hands as though the heavy set worker was holding him at gunpoint. He shook his head vigorously and said while frowning: "I don't know, man. I just work here."
"Well, if you just work here then may I suggest you pass on a message from me to whoever the fuck has a say in the slop that we eat around here."
"Sure dude."
"Tell the fuckwit that none of us likes rice every fucking day of the week, especially when it's served with cabbage and a blend of onion water and spinach juice. What kind of sick bastards are running this god-damned show?"
"I like rice every day," thought Takeshi though he wouldn't voice his opinion unless someone asked.
"And tell the cunt that the portions we get cannot sustain adults. By the time I get back to work my gut is gurgling and grumbling for more food: any fucking food apart from what's served here. If we were five years old and had psychological issues with eating there may be a case for the petty amount we get, but we're not and we don't, so let's up the volume pronto. What do you say, chief?"
The employee with the white collar and blue shirt recognised it was the right time to leave.
The lunch hall was bursting at the seams with clapping and cheering as the collective working staff rose to its feet. Trays were thrown to the floor with unadulterated meaning and stomped or kicked forcefully wherever fancy dictated. Never had cheap plastic projectiles felt so wonderful as when they had made forceful contact with a part of the face. Never had the sound of rice being squashed under rubber soled boots sounded so titillating. Never had the sight of a short balding man with a foolhardy grin being electrocuted in onion water looked and sounded so satisfying. The photos at the Christmas party would remind everyone of a triumphant day.
"I'm beginning to like this place, eh," Mike said as he bit a chunk of plastic from his bowl and spat it at a lady with a large mole on the side of her face.
Zsoltar slipped the mini Swiss Army knife back into his shirt pocket.
I'D LIKE TO BUY SOME STRESS PLEASE
DDC has a look at the brighter side of life:
I don't much like the brighter side of life. If I wanted to be happy I would probably start opening my fan-mail and stop shouting at people so much. I never would have enjoyed my trip to the supermarket the other day if I hadn't been such a cynical and mean person. Tomcats aint in it.
Madge: Oh look! They've got computers for sale at the supermarket.
Dave: Yes - we have absolutely no use for one of these at home. Let's go and have a look.
Dave: Second hand computers! We'll be perfectly safe buying one of these! Old electrical stuff always works right and lasts for a long time.
Madge: Here comes the salesman. Our buying-power will be safe in his hands. He must be trustworthy because he is dressed like a scientist with lots of pens in his pockets. And he has glasses - no conman every wore glasses.
Dave: No dear, don't forget about Nicholas Cage in Matchstick men. He wore glasses.
Madge: Sshhh! He's coming.
Salesman: Good afternoon. May I asume that our display blocking the exit has turned your mind towards computers.
Dave: Yes, you may.
Salesman: May I start by telling you a little about our company? Our company was established in the middle of last week, when we finally scraped together enough computers to make it worthwhile turning-up. All of our staff (me) are highly trained (in accounting).
Dave: Excellent! That sounds fine. What can a computer like this do?
Salesman: This is a very versatile machine. It can run excel to do your family accounts. It can run word to write letters to relatives. Of course, you would need to buy one of these second-hand printers, too. They're not even remotely shagged-out from years of use in a comprehensive school. And then there's the internet!
Marge: I've heard about that. What does it do?
Salesman: Well, for madam it has the function of buying handbags off Ebay without handling them first. It gives you almost unlimited power to max-out credit cards and then order new ones from different companies at the click of a button. It is like a computer game but with real consequences!
Marge: Uh-huh.
Salesman: And for sir, there is, of course, the opportunity of massive amounts of illicit porn. There will be tense situations where you just manage to get it off before your wife gets home. Then there will be the fevered subscription to a porn-site which you will be too embarrassed to phone up and cancel.
Dave: I see. This machine can do all of that?
Salesman: I've been saving the best til last. Included in this deal is the opportunity to lose the family farm at online poker!
Dave: Sold! Which one do you recommend. This one has lots of grime in the corners and crannies of the case. I'm not sure about that.
Salesman: You might be thinking that I couldn't be bothered to clean it, but it isn't true. It is a sign to show that I have nothing to hide. Some people would try to rip you off with this.
Dave: No!
Salesman: I'm afraid so. I saw one man trying to hoik one of these as new, with "retro styling".
Madge: Well, it's a good job we met you instead then!
Salesman: Yes, indeed it is. Might I recomend this snazzy little number with the five and a half inch diskdrive and the twelve inch monitor. Not only does it have a ten year old OS but it has no USBs - so it is doubly incapable of working with any modern devices.
Dave: Well, I don't understand any of that, so it all seems fine. One thing I did want to do is use a digital camera.
Salesman: We have a range of used cameras too. To make them work with this machine you would only have to replace most of the hardware up to and including the case. All told, it would cost a whole seventy pounds less than buying a new and better PC from PC World.
Madge and Dave: Seventy pounds! Thank God we saw you! We never would have scammed ourselves into buying one without you!
EDUCATE ME LATER
BT3 unleashes a few similes about an idea spawned from Reverend Timothy's post about tertiary McEducation:
Lester felt certain there was more than one way to skin a cat. In fact he was certain beyond reasonable doubt and he was willing to shed blood for the cause. The Master didn't agree with the hypothesis and let Lester know through a series of puzzling facial contortions and lower abdominal grunts that Lester's blood was outstanding. The internal turmoil that the Master's prime pupil had set loose was like a one-peckered owl freeing itself from the confines of a rusty cage.
Bunkum of any kind was strictly prohibited while the Master was present. It said so in the curriculum and the point had been made clear from the time the students parted with their cheques. Since all, including members of the custodial arts, knew that dissent wasn't tolerated within the ranks the students anticipated grievous bodily harm if the situation could not be resolved. Preventative measures had failed. Containment of the situation was futile. It would have to be a prolonged night in wet undergarments if the class was to see another dawn.
The Master had proven himself to be the least tolerant staff member since he set foot on campus. To put it mildly, he was seen as an oddball on two legs: exponent of half a dozen martial arts; freelance photographer; cartographer; deep sea fisherman; genital masseuse; bass guitarist; ambidextrous golfer and manicurist to the rich. Memories of Troy's severed foot had haunted many students and no level of devotion to expunge their own roles in the messy affair could ease the mental anguish of that day. None of them wanted a repeat but all signs pointed to a bloodbath.
As Lester raised the notion that there was another way to skin a cat, citing various garden tools and fishing implements as handy aids, some of the students frowned while others gazed at their complimentary plastic slippers. The religious ones among them listened to their MD players with the volume on 1 hoping that Ezekiel's Eye would shed some spiritual guidance their way. They swayed forwards and backwards a lot but didn't seem brighter for the experience.
Being a man of infinite wisdom the Master concealed his repulsion at one of the pupils doubting his judgement like a true professional. Through breathing exercises of pure rhythmical genius that had been divulged only to the chosen few since the dawn of time, the Master retreated into a catatonic shell. His outward persona radiated reflexes of a tortoise playing dead though his inner senses were as keen as a bear swiping at upstream bound salmon. Presently he was one of thirteen men acquainted with the ancient breathing techniques and dubious about passing on to his students the secrets he'd acquired.
Prior to the present predicament, Lester had shown promise for quite some time and was the frontrunner to receiving the sacred information, ahead of Clarice, a single mother with seven children from seven fathers and a more than capable cellist in her own right. Clarice was deep in thought about an upcoming recital and hadn't even noticed the commotion.
The Master's own syncopated breathing technique seamed flawlessly with the established techniques that had been passed to those worthy of receiving them; a unique signature he had added without anyone's knowledge. He was more animated than tradition would define but surmised his students were unaware of the veins bulging from his neck.
The students assumed the live tuna wriggling inside the Master's mouth was part of the lesson for the day. They didn't question why it was there and they certainly refrained from questioning how long it would survive.
Breathing outwardly through his nose while maintaining a firm jaw where his mouth was slightly ajar, the veins in the Master's neck jutted outwardly like unhinged water pipes. He was about to speak inaudibly and unintelligibly, a trait the students had come to expect with this great and mysterious man. Lester and the others strained forwards, stretching over their crossed legs to where their noses touched the carpet. They were unimpressed by two things: the sudden departure of fresh odour and the racket coming from the classroom next door. They were impressed by one thing: their infinitely superior flexibility from since they first took this class.
'Your ways are for shit,' the Master mumbled. His eyelids remained closed; his shoulders and head were motionless. The sumo wrestler hairdo atop his shaved skull retained its perfect form.
The tuna's tail wriggled from within the Master's mouth. The Master muffled a sound similar to being pinned in the gonads by an apple thrown unexpectedly by a random member of the class. 'I'm sorry, Master, but we couldn't hear what you said over the noise from the Skeet Shooting Vegetarian Cooking class next door.' It was Lester again though his efforts to conceal impertinence could have fooled a crime investigation unit.
The Master stroked his long white goatee with his left hand. His eyelids remained closed. He hummed as he exhaled; a gargling sound of mucous and fish paving the way for another eerie silence.
The students assumed it was the end for someone, perhaps the first to speak out of turn, perhaps Lester for being the only to have spoken to that point. They were rooting for Lester's singular demise. The frowners motioned with their hands to the religious types to turn off their MD players. The religious types noticed and did so at once. The religious types prodded the slipper gazers to sit upright. The slipper gazers did so at once.
The Master's eyelids remained shut although the astute among the students noticed his eyeballs in fervent motion. His veins hadn't decreased in size. Was he possessed or was he deeply in thought? The students wondered. Was he planning his precise moment of attack or was he choking from the fish? The students wondered, hoping he would choke before he had the chance to strike. Uncertainty bounced off walls like midgets at a bachelor party.
The Master tightened his jaw and exhaled like a whale looking for a suitable sexual partner. He was ticked off and he knew his options were limited. Someone would have to die or the entire class would have to die, he thought, in which case he'd need help from other instructors to hide the corpses. Fucking docile pricks, he thought. The Master stomached insubordination about as much as repeats of jousting on ESPN but he hated covering his tracks even more.
The students pondered the wellbeing of the tuna under such duress though none of them dared speak. It was a decent sized fish with plenty of lust for life or so it seemed.
'You demonstrate a gift for absorbing matters of inconsequence,' the Master muffled. His methods of directing conversations to his chosen route were based on ancient philosophies involving yaks and low-flying mammals, as taught in Lessons #32 through to #36 inclusively.
The students took turns eyeing one another; their heads pivoted like brand new windscreen wipers though none could see the crustaceans for the sea. They were under no illusion that they hadn't the faintest idea about what the old cunt was wind-bagging about. Did the fish contain toxins that had infected the cognitive part of the Master's brain or had his head been pierced by a javelin at a tender age? The students wondered and thought the worst.
The Master's breath made one of the religious types feel woozy. She caught herself from collapsing by thinking of scented hand towels and vaginal pleasure in the ladies' room. Lester opened his mouth and was stopped dead in his tracks by Leonardo, who had demonstrated an affinity for sign language since the word go. Leonardo's message, if interpreted by someone with equally capable knowledge of sign language, said: 'Don't be a fool. Shut your mouth and don't move a muscle. Our hides are dinner if you don't, dipshit.' What Lester thought Leonardo signed was: 'You are a fucking dipshit. I can't get over the size of that mono-brow. Cunt.'
Guided by his sixth sense, as if intervening in a potential bloodbath between the class of seemingly learned students he was intending to kill with his own hands, the Master reached into his duffel bag. The swift and unexpected movement brought everyone's steely gaze upon him.
The Master's fingers skipped over several tabs of non-prescription medication and past several small glass bottles and syringes until he felt the weighty plastic bag of the hospital grade cannabis he was looking for. His sense of touch in the throngs of a crisis hadn't eluded him. He extricated the weed from the duffel bag and tossed it into the air where the ceiling fan blades shredded the contents scattering them across the room like perfectly harmless shrapnel. The frowners ducked while the slipper gazers parried. The religious ones looked on in awe amazed at the sight of the forbidden stash of happiness that had fallen to within their reach.
The Master returned to his catatonic state. The fish did not move.
The Master's breathing was beginning to subside to a restricted movement of the chest; noises from within had ceased and the students gathered that the great one with the mysterious ways was regaining his relationship with normality. They sighed silently and could feel their own heartbeat returning to normal. Should they survive their present predicament they vowed to hold a vigil for the dearly departed fish.
The Master spoke with a faint tone: 'Rise Lester of Norwood and allow your legs to carry you to the cleaner's closet.' The Master swallowed the phlegm that had been keeping the fish moderately pleased. He took a mouthful from the soggy fish carcase and chewed fervently with the left side of his mouth. His taste buds agreed that it was a succulent specimen and the feeling of regret for not eating it before class made way for a feeling of pure satisfaction.
Two birds with one mouthful, the Master thought.
Lester was at the cleaner's closet awaiting the next instruction.
'Seek the flame that shall guide your ignoble souls to the path of knowledge,' the Master said, taking another voracious piece out of the lacklustre fish.
Lester looked high and low and soon found a pink lighter. He thought it had to be what the Master had sent him to find. It was the only item that didn't smell like bleach and the most likely interpretation of what the Master meant by a flame.
'Take this,' the Master said, throwing a pack of cigarette papers in Lester's direction, 'and hand them out to the others. Keep a sheet for yourself.'
Lester did as the Master instructed. Everyone in the class held a small sheet of paper between their index finger and middle finger. The frowners looked so in control of the situation that it seemed like second nature. The slipper gazers held the paper too far away from their bodies though they soon corrected their mistake with a few well chosen prods to the ribs. The religious types looked like fish in the mouth of an oddball guru until they realised how ridiculous they looked with the cigarette papers on their heads.
'Now hand me the rest, Lester of Norwood,' the Master said, swallowing the remaining morsel of the fish's tail. He let out an almighty burp and opened his eyes. The world seemed bright beyond expectation.
'All right,' the Master exclaimed. 'Now look around the room and gather as much of God's own creation as your hands can muster and cast your minds back to Lesson #12 where we learned how to roll a dooby.'
Aside from Lester, Clarice and Leonardo, who were ready to lay some fire onto their magnificently arranged creations, the remainder of the students looked lost.
'Very good you three,' the Master said looking in the direction of the chosen three. The other students exclaimed via a falsified sigh of recognition, as if their established mastery of sponge-like existence wasn't sufficient evidence of them being a worthless cause.
Dumb fucks, the Master thought. 'Excellent everyone,' he said.
All students were ready for the next phase of the procedure when the Master said: 'I want you to sit in a circle in alphabetical order and begin smoking. I'm going to leave the room momentarily in order to freshen my breath. I'll be back before you can say circumferential hyperventilation.'
Aaron grabbed the lighter and lit up. He inhaled and began wheezing as though it was his chosen profession. Bernice grabbed the lighter and had great difficulty generating a flame until Clarice lend her a hand. She took to the sensation like a duck to water.
The Master was grabbing a few mouthfuls of water from the chilled water cooler when Mr Langley walked by.
'Hey Fred,' he said.
'Oh, hi Mike,' the Master said, wiping his mouth and standing to attention.
'How's your Passive Aggressive Asian Meditative Illicit Drugs bunch tonight?' Fred Langley enquired.
'They're their usual incompetent self. Thanks for asking. Actually, three look like passing; making a real go of it at the moment. I only wish there were more like them, although the kids have been getting progressively worse since that uneducated lemming sat in the throne of the White House.'
'Oh, I hear you loud and clear on that one, mate. No need to expand,' Fred Langley gestured by way of rabbit ears.
'How's your Skeet Shooting Vegetarian Cooking class going?' the Master asked.
'Pretty good, pretty good; no multi-year television contracts in this lot but a few of the chicks look bangable, which is a good start,' Fred Langley said straight-faced. 'Actually, had you asked me the same question a year ago I would've said it was a mistake to hold the class indoors. In all truth, disintegrated potatoes are so much easier to pick up indoors and the number of shattered windows has decreased to next to nothing.'
They laughed, slapped their thighs and thought about jerking off in the comforts of their own two-bedroomed apartments.
'By the way,' Fred Langley said. 'Have I told you how much I adore that sumo set-up you've got going there?'
'What, you mean this?' the Master said, raising the Japanese-style wrestler's toupee from his head. 'Got it in Thailand for the cost of a sandwich and a Coke. Does the trick, doesn't it? Besides, I've got to maintain the Asian portion of the syllabus somehow.'
Fred Langley nodded, grinned and threw a cheesy makeshift gun hand gesture in the Masters direction. 'I'll catch ya later, you crazy bastard,' he said.
'No worries. See you in the car park for a dooby after class,' the Master said.
The Master donned his toupee and shuffled back into the classroom. He was chuffed to see the entire class lying on their backs philosophising about the benefits of a gravity-free world. The Master stood in the doorway and marvelled at his creation. His job was assured for at least another year.
