robotica

New York is a city that is constantly bustling. It is bustling with creativity, with information, with opportunity and individuality. It is a place where pretty much anyone from anywhere can come and with some drive, get what they want out of their lives and the city.

This would presuppose that this place is rife with free thinkers and original people, but I'm here to tell you about a sick little subculture that is present in the monde du cube. There are robots among us, people.

The robot's day and mood are usually determined by the start time. Start time 10am = jovial, affable robot, complete with catch phrases and motivational bullshit, usually spewed out over the cubes, as the minions duck and cover to avoid the putrescence. Conversely, start time at 8am = robot mood, foul and disagreeable, with a possible perky window around 11am, after 2 cups of coffee and a mid-morning zone out session behind the closed, frosted glass doors of the office. After that, however, there are no guarantees and the robot in question will most likely go home at around 3:30 due to extreme fatigue and irritation.

See, robot's don't collect information, analyze and interpret it and then output something new. Robots are programmed; robot's just do. And when in the business of wandering the halls of a seemingly well-established, successful company, the robot must regurgitate the proper responses and utter the appropriate motivational bullshit, in order to keep up appearances and keep the wheels turning, so that he may secure his annual $500k cog greasing. Because we all know that the best robots live in Westchester county and count C list celebrities among their neighbors. Were they not to properly posture in the workplace, said robots may be out on their mechanical asses, wandering the streets with the tourists, or worse.....their underlings. O my.

But there comes a time in every cube-worker's life, where the office environment seems to be polluted with working with robots who seem not only to be completely programmed, but to be almost brazen about their contribution to the workforce and the company you have in common. It becomes infuriating when, in the interest of stock options and year end bonuses, the robots begin to cut off their very own arms, in order to save their rotting cores. And that is where I come in.

I and those like me, seethe resent and disdain on a daily basis. Strangely, this does not negatively effect our work, though we secretly dream about showing up on the robot's doorstep with a bottle of bleach and deer feed to adequately convey our message of resentment. Were it even mildly appropriate, we would trample down the hallways of our establishment and say the three words which would have virtually no effect on the world, but which would make us all sleep better, if only for that day: fuck right off.

But if they, the robots of the corporate world, are already hard-wired to be full of shit, does this mean that we can't change the operating system to run programs like, good manager and respectable boss? Sadly, there are those people who exist and even work among the ranks of the robot class. They are overridden and squashed by the metallic clutches of their counterparts, thus rendering their thoughts, ideas and efforts useless. Best to just get the fuck out of dodge and find a safe haven where the robots are curbed by the real people, and where their destructive and bullshit laden agendas are incapacitated by actual human ideas and progress.

Can they multiply if we stifle them?