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Christmas on the Job
To all you Bob Cratchits out there, I feel your pain.
By Hannah Wallace
This Dickensian sentiment no longer rings true, as I heartily enjoy my current employment situation (especially with all the chocolate in the office this time of year). But the Ghost of Christmas Past might find me huddled under cruel fluorescence, writing bitter little poems on the job—a very different job—years ago. Let’s follow the spirit back to a warm December 2001, to the accounts receivable department of a cow-pasture-adjacent Bradenton company…
T'was the month before Christmas, and I sold my soul
To a mind-numbing stint in a cruel corporate role.
To a mind-numbing stint in a cruel corporate role.
The folders were nestled all snug in their drawers
While I entered data for all 90 stores.
Menorahs were hung in the break room with care,
In rebellion against all the Christmas stuff there.
And everyone wondered just who'd had the gall
To write things in Hebrew when decking the hall.
In my cubicle, nestled amid all the crap,
I had just settled in for my mid-morning nap,
And lulled by the sounds of those suckers still typing,
I dreamed better jobs in the sleep I was swiping.
And so in the pose of a prone corporate tool,
I awoke in my gathering puddle of drool
When what by my nearsighted eyes should be seen
But errors galore on my wee little screen!
Then up from saliva I sprang with a splash,
And tossing the 70s Mac to the trash,
I hopped o'er the cubicle, gave out a yell,
"I'm through with this temp-working boring-ass hell!
"I've had it with all of your sick regulation,
Your forms and your filing-work, dumb degradation!
Call me lazy or stupid or mean or a snob,
But I'm jingle fed up with this holiday job!"
Then floating about me, invoices in shreds
Came snowflaking down upon all of their heads.
In the wake of my tirade a calm so serene
In my redneck-filled Chanukah Wonderland scene.
Then I fled from the building in holiday cheer,
For I knew the true meaning of Christmas that year.
So now, with my heart set on festive enjoyment,
Merry Christmas to all, and to my unemployment!
While I entered data for all 90 stores.
Menorahs were hung in the break room with care,
In rebellion against all the Christmas stuff there.
And everyone wondered just who'd had the gall
To write things in Hebrew when decking the hall.
In my cubicle, nestled amid all the crap,
I had just settled in for my mid-morning nap,
And lulled by the sounds of those suckers still typing,
I dreamed better jobs in the sleep I was swiping.
And so in the pose of a prone corporate tool,
I awoke in my gathering puddle of drool
When what by my nearsighted eyes should be seen
But errors galore on my wee little screen!
Then up from saliva I sprang with a splash,
And tossing the 70s Mac to the trash,
I hopped o'er the cubicle, gave out a yell,
"I'm through with this temp-working boring-ass hell!
"I've had it with all of your sick regulation,
Your forms and your filing-work, dumb degradation!
Call me lazy or stupid or mean or a snob,
But I'm jingle fed up with this holiday job!"
Then floating about me, invoices in shreds
Came snowflaking down upon all of their heads.
In the wake of my tirade a calm so serene
In my redneck-filled Chanukah Wonderland scene.
Then I fled from the building in holiday cheer,
For I knew the true meaning of Christmas that year.
So now, with my heart set on festive enjoyment,
Merry Christmas to all, and to my unemployment!
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