On Fucking One's Boss as Oneself
The new boss is the same as the old boss, but only on the technicality that he has recently outsourced the chore of surveillance to workers
Acting recently, boldly and on behalf of my richly diverse community—N.B. we, the dawn-averse, bed-oriented and wakefulness-impaired— I had a nice long lie in. Down with you, Tuesday, I said, not just for myself, but for those future generations who might enjoy ten fucking minutes alone on the toot of a morning without fucking Grant’s fucking team fucking calendar making with the jolly ding-a-ling and lighting up the phone like drunk Christmas.
Fuck Grant. Fuck his illusory joy. Work is no more a joyous holiday than it is the David Jones gift register and personally, I preferred the boss who once imposed his ruling weekday will with the cold force of authority to the dick of a colleague who has come to believe that wage labour is a precious gift to us all.
Work is not a gift and Grant is not Work Santa but a corporate surveillance pervert whose lap I would personally avoid. He is a worker elf turned quite ordinarily to mania by the labour hostilities particular to our era.
Once, it was sufficient to keep your mouth shut and your nose clean. Or, so I’m reliably informed. By the first of my miserable years of waged life, those team spirit santa motherfuckers were quite audibly kissing up to their betters and quite visibly selling out their worker comrades.
By 1990, the bright red garment of good cheer for the boss and work, work, work was on full display in Australia. Fucking Australia. Straya, arguably the true birthplace of Labourism in the West and fucking notwithstanding the current work of Santa Albanese to put the finishing touch to its crypt. Fucking Straya, which has nothing much good or even sayable to say about its history, is the home of the eight hour day. And that’s fucking something.
As distasteful as you the modern young posh finds the few true trade unionists not yet dead or cancelled to death for their failure to meet exacting diversity standards and plural pronoun usage KPIs, I urge you to consider this miracle. Failing that, you could, as Ross, both my tallest friend and cohost, advises, take comfort in LinkedIn. The internet’s home, as Ross puts it, “for people who want to fuck their jobs.”
He is quite funny. Especially for a cis heterosexist white man cunt with a job. And a Saab.
Thank you for attending my TITS Talk which I had not expected to be so wildly popular and reignite the spirit of Bolshevism like it did as I am a very humble empowered lady role model who simply popped in to say give us a dollar if you can or can be arsed ‘cos’ our producer Bitsy von Muffling is on the dole.
But I’m here now so I will say: work is not a fucking gift to you. Wage labour is the brutal theft of your free human time and your creature’s capacity to create.
Work is not the register of your moral condition but a daily act of mandatory despair upon which the continued fact of your actual biological self depends.
Work is not a choice but an obligation and a yoke that you carry at knockoff time and can even take legally with you into the pub. But, you can’t drink it away because it never quits and has always and already begun to fuck with you by the time Grant is giving you the gift of constipation on your phone.
I would say that wage labour is quite demonstrably the source of all value in your kissy kissy capitalism bin-fire of a boyfriend you won’t stop bragging about, but you will likelu be bored and I will certainly be assaulted by the “post-Marxist” views of my dear and cancelled friend, Guy Rundle. Who may need your money more than even me since he did that You Know What to fucko the newly intersetional arsehole over there at the ladies ABC, but not more than Bitsy, who is a millennial.
Good evening.
Every time I read your work I want to take a few days off and buy you lots of beer. This is the highest praise I can give. Thanks Helen, never change.
Concealing your shapely gams is very brave x