Quality of Life, CHFJ Style

Today we had yet another meeting at Corporate Happy Fun Job. I don't know why it still surprises me the sheer number of meetings that occur there and the subset of those to which my attendance is compulsory. It is abundantly clear that I have nothing to say that anyone wants to hear; a feeling which is, I must admit, mutual. Frankly, there isn't anything that they have to communicate which can't be done in writing, although admittedly the vast majority of e-mails are deleted unread.

I recommend a handout. If someone has gone to the trouble of collating, I'm going to at least give it a peek.

Anyway, this was to be a quick meeting about overtime and phone time, that is, the time we spend waiting for people to call from around the nation so that we can either tell them lies in a vain effort to appease them OR marvel at the mind-blowing stupidity of Americans. Since I'm actively cultivating indifference towards every aspect of my job that doesn't actually involve the part where I'm getting paid, I care little about the substance of the meeting--less because I had a pretty good idea what it was about.

So, we're all sitting around, and our supervisor comes in. Without excessive ado, she announces that because we work for a family-oriented company, and because her and the other middle-management goobers are worried about our "quality of life," they want us to cut back on overtime and don't want us to work any extra hours without their approval.

*blink*

I feel like I made real progress in my quest to behave appropriately in the corporate hive because I didn't actually snicker out loud. Puh-fucking-leez. These people would pimp my mother and sell my children into a sweatshop if they could make a buck doing so. It was a statement so utterly farcical on the face of it that I am astounded that she was able to suppress her laughter while she made it. Further undermining my already threadbare credulity is the not-uncommonly known fact that we've already blown through the overtime budget for the year.

Poor fucking planning, yo.

You know the weirdest part, though? Someone in the meeting actually kind of bought it.

*sigh*