Notice

Sir(e):

Allow me to introduce myself, which invokes a great irony: that someone you hired yourself and then continuously employed for eight years should need no introduction. One would think. In fact, my name should go without saying. And to that, you remain self-honest in that you don't remember, let alone say, my name. So I put my thoughts herein, in writing.

I write this letter because any meetings with you have resulted in any generated meeting minutes, transcribed so dutifully, ending up being fodder for the shredder.

With this letter, therefore, I humbly enter the diminutive anteroom of your short attention span, hat in hand; but it is no longer a cry for help but a resignation. Thus, this letter will serve to give notice to a man who notices nothing beyond his myopic purview or his protoscopic worldview.

So bend over, please, if you would.

Your solipsism precludes any regard for me or any other of God's creatures, seen as equals in his eyes, but seen by you as linoleum. And the more I batten down accordingly, the more the wax build-up accrues.

Thanks for making my difficult life all the harder, every chance you get and at every turn, many of which are U. Your profit is my expense, and your one-steps, forward, are my three-steps, backwards. What I thought could be a win-win relationship at one time has devolved into a you-over-me one, where I am nothing and you are thus divided by zero. Do the math.

I submit—and I speak for the rest—nay, I speak for the Ages—that you are merely an automaton functionary in a skin bag, standing semi-erect in your whole flaccidity, and whose decisions are arbitrary, capricious, and devoid of any humanism as they trickle down the empty gravity chute where there should be a spine. As such, your invertebrate soul merely winds the mainspring of your chameleon's tongue tighter, peaking to a readiness to reach ballistic proportions in striking those who feed your narcissism.

We all must taste good to you. And you ultimately shit us out.

I'm no neurologist but, via due reflection on each of your self-serving decisions, I have come to recognize how these choices you make might have been engendered by one of three possible cognitive shortcuts:

• All of your three working neurons synapsed—one brain cell being inflammatory, another refractory, and the third inhibitory.
• Alternatively, only two neurons synapsed—the only working two you have being held together by a partying tertiary spirochete.
• Or at the very least, your one remaining, working neuron reached its passive-aggressive action potential in pre-programmed cell death.

You perch yourself in your cubicle and pontificate into the aether without the slightest conscience or ethical sensibility. You are double-dog dogmatic dare who is frenetically haphazard at best, and an ill wind of a fart-in-a-bag at worst (or, ten punds of shit in a five-pound bag).

And the bodies fall where they attempt to stand, felled by the acrid malodorous ambiance that precedes you upwind.

Perhaps you remember our meeting, prompted by my urgent pleas to your Human Resources department, which should have served as a warning of non-compliance with any corporate—or human—ethos, whatsoever. Thereafter, after a full humiliating confession of my circumstances, in my heartfelt pouring out of my implausible survival chances under your predatory auspices, you still decided to punch out the most convenient disposition, then just go off on your little day with no insight into the chain of untoward repercussions you had initiated.

Therefrom, my problems continue, thanks to you, while you just check off another box in anticipation of the next hapless victim in your bureaucratic timeline that, by the way, only pursues an ultimate pension as its reason to be. Your management is merely sleight-of-hand card-shuffling. Meanwhile, your ruinous rulings are snap judgments, and then you play territorial bulldog against any appeals of reason; then you play nine holes of golf.

And cheat.

Would it kill you to just say "yes" for once? No, it wouldn't. You fail to consider that any help so rendered would go nowhere except to the family it would help, which remains invisible to your corporate-issued designer polarized blinders.

You're an angry, little pip of a person, in a position of power, doing your job carelessly and immorally in the boxes you check. I have to wonder—just who trained you to be someone like that? Maybe I should be contacting them? Or my attorney should?

I could call you many names, but I'm sure you've heard them all before. Just listen to your last hundred voicemails or so, if you've forgotten. Then go off to lunch with your other willy-nilly automatons and then on to your little grayscale life riding the black-and-white authority you wield so casually in an otherwise technicolor world.

Oh, and fuck you. Much stronger letter to follow.

Sincerely,

Your brother, Tom