In the latest and most heart-rending episode of the rising unemployment saga, a man who wished to be referred to only as Random Dude, has quit his lucrative and high-paying job after he "overheard two fellow employees talk about random dudes being bangalore-d". When pressed further on the issue, Dude tied his lips up with string, and when we looked at him incredulously, he wrote with pink chalk on a nearby black stone - " I am tightlipped!". (At this point we had to impose a restraining order on 20 people to prevent them from beating themselves to death with the same black stone.) Our in-house economist, Dr. Swa. Ha had this to say about the issue: "Give and take... that's the soundest economic policy." Random Dude flies out to Bangalore, India tomorrow evening to apply for employment at whatever company will get the contract from his former employers. The local president of Internationally Diversified Individuals Overreacting Tragically (IDIOTs) has planned a send-off party for Random Dude. They will give him a black-market copy of Fyodor Dostoevsky's The Idiot which is Holy Writ for the self-help group. "I woke up on a plane one day to find this in my lap" was the explanation for the gift.
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Obituary - A Favorite Stuffed Correspondentist passes on
The entire staff, support and sundry at "A Necessary Dash of Satire", the Universe's primary source of outdated humor informs its readers (in jovial undertones) of the passing on..and on..ad nauseam of everyone's favorite Stuffed Correspondentist, whose name has never been known to anyone. The above person was known to be a lover of non-humanity (in every unprintable sense imaginable). It is hoped (and definitely not intended) that there will a gathering of those who wish to hurl a few final choice insults at this unseemly passing on - which happened even as the above person had struck the publish key on the summary of the forever Penultimate, never forgotten New Year bash.
Another stuffed correspondentist shall be chained to the newly vacated desk, once the superexistent version of the previous correspondentist decomposes sufficiently to allow us to remove the chains.
An Insider's Perspective of the Penultimate New Year Bash
by our Stuffed Correspondentist
I know many of us never came back from this one. But since the same thing happened last year the Boss has forbidden me from calling it the Ultimate New Year Bash. It is ultimate since every one who comes to the Bash get Bash-ed and some ultimately attain superexistence due to the injuries suffered. Calling it Penultimate is insincere and rude in the extreme. How extreme, you ask? Extremely left out. Oh, by the way, guess who was the surprise star at our Bash this year? Yep, you guessed it! The Gym-boring maintenance dude! Yea, yea.. usual story.. we got drunk.. we forgot to steal a robotic fingerprint strip.. we got locked in.. then Aleth Mars got so drunk he started sounding very Bot-ish and we used that imitation to convince the maintenance dude to come open the locker for us! (For those who read this column last year, when the surprise star was the Gym-boring Maintenance DOOD, should not confuse the Gym-boring Maintenance DOOD with the Gym-boring maintenance dude)
As always the boss let the locker flow away in the East Wind which left us shivering very controllably for a few moments. Then we all got drunk again, dressed again and dragged the maintenance dude out the window. All but the superexistents of course who possibly passed on and on giving everyone vague memories of obsolete nightmares. Unrelatedly, the Gym-boring maintenance dude was finally revealed to be a long-lost third cousin removed, thrashed, removed, rehoused, rehashed, trapped and removed yet again no less than 16 times! Given the impressive amount of DNA technology at our fingertips (literally, look at my implant (see pic below)
it is astounding that it took the Boss 2496 milliseconds to figure out that he was related to the maintenance dude. Once the necessary recognition protocol was completed (which, according the Math-a-ron took another 645819327 microseconds) "the locker was let flow" as aforementioned.
Finally, I am glad I still have enough senses to write this piece before passing on...and on...and on...and on... and on... and on... and on...
An apology from the House
The entire staff, support and sundry at "A Necessary Dash of Satire" the Universe's primary source of outdated humor hereby tenders a very very brief apology for having suffered from an incredibly long hangover from the New Year's Day Staff Celebration which was held in the 3rd locker from the right in the Unisex Changing Rooms of the Gym-boring (the ONLY Health Spa for Robots in our corner of the Universe). Naturally, in our collective state of inebriation we forgot that the locker autolocks from the outside unless you endorse it with a robotic fingerprint which none of us possessed (hic.. err.. i mean sic).
O.K. boys, the apology is done.. now let the locker flow!
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