Have you ever heard some jackass say, “sure, Bob, and I’ll run-it-on-by your office Monday,” and felt nauseated? If you have, then you’re on my fuckin’ team. Where do they come from, these witty quips flown from corporate-fuck lips? Inquiring minds want to blow. Riddle me this. Below are some of my most hated corporate quotables. Feel free to suggest additions.
Where shall we start? Ah, yes–
“Touch base”: quite possibly the most widespread cancer of corporate verbage in the world, some asshole touched base with some other cocknose back in ’85, and sent a ripple effect through the twitching sphincter of North America still felt throughout most of the western hemisphere. God damn that person to hell. The next person wants to touch base with you, you haul right off and tell them your base is called “Alpha Supreme”, and you’re downloading the coordinates way up their GPS presently.
“Consolidate”: a close second to touch base. Once upon a time, people used to clean things up, arrange, re-arrange, organize, or even categorize. Now from the depths of Y2K’s rotten spunk comes the request from every telemarketing soccer mom, “Hi, Jenny; would you mind consolidating these pens into this drawer? Oh, and could you please help Ron with the claims? We’re trying to consolidate his department for Tuesday’s big day. Will you be there Tuesday? We were gonna do it over a couple of days, but we thought, oh, why not just consolidate it into one big consolidated day so we can all consolidate together in one big, sweaty, hairy consolidation clusterfuck.” Why, yes! I love consolidating! Fuck you, says Jenny. Fuck all of you.
“Run it up the flagpole”: usage, “I don’t know which logo will look more spiffy on our polo shirts. Run these up the flagpole and see which grabs more attention, Johnson.” Know what’ll grab some attention up that pole, boss? Your scrotum. Flying high, free, and proud. This piece of corporate beauty has somewhat come out of circulation, probably due to the unseemly pole image.
“Throw ____ against the wall and see what sticks”: holy mother of god. Do people actually do this somewhere? In Saigon, are patriarchs throwing young girls against walls to ferret out a bride for their strapping sons? Is it a common method of sex-toy evaluation? What the fuck have you thrown against the wall recently, and why did you throw it there? Walls can’t catch. They suck at it. As a matter of fact, that’s pretty much why people throw things at walls to begin with — to fuck stuff up.
“On the same page”: this is a crock of shit, obviously, as nobody in America actually reads, and especially around other people who are reading. That, would be insane! You feeling me here? Are we on the same page?
Now, don’t study the above photo too long or it’ll get you. “Come into our house,” they beckon. But don’t give in, Ulysses! ‘Tis the song of the Sirens. It goes, “We’re all in it for mon-ey, even though it ain’t that gre-at. We’re all in it for mon-ey, hap-py and calm and sed-ate.” These are not your friends, friend. Cleave to your dignity. Poverty never takes that away from you. Unless, of course, you bought a beige house in a gated corporate-fuck community.
“Bang it out”: as in, I’ll take this portfolio over to my desk, bang it out, and have it for you by three. Look, there are very few things you can bang. A dent can be banged out. An outward-facing gong can be banged out. Most women in the eighties were “banged out” at their hairdressers in order to get banged out by their leather-wearing boyfriends. Bang just doesn’t work as a verb unless you’re really banging. And you can’t bang out. It’s against the rules. So, Mrs. Porkingstein, if you’re going to bang it out and have it for me by three, take a fucking shower before I get it, okay?
“Have my people call your people”: yes, this classic fermented into a cliche long before it went out of corporate-fuck style. I’m not convinced cubicle creatures even know when they’re saying it, anymore. HMPCYP ejects from the same crotch that “we’ll do lunch” does, often in conjunction. Luckily for corporate-fucks, both of their peoples are readily identifiable by the pleats in their khakis, so neither group runs the hazard of calling, say, Cholo Loco’s people, and awarding themselves the ass-beating they truly need.
“I’ll get right on that”: . . .you do that, me bucko. Are you on it? Are you right on top of it? Are you all over it? Word. Sit on it awhile.
“Micromanagement”: euphemism for – your job just became a nightmare, your name just became 655321, your position just became ‘doggystyle’, and your best bet is to quit rather than learn to like it; because if there’s any word on this blog corporate-fucks just love, it’s micromanagement. Some linguistic genius was paid in gold bullion to coin the term micromanagement so western moguls wouldn’t have to use the old name, fascism, but most cubicle creatures continue to call it “get the fuck off my ass before I staple your eyelids to your chin! Pretty hard to micromanage with your eyelids stapled to your chin! Eh?”
“Meeting”: I know what you’re thinking. Meeting is a perfectly acceptable word to describe an arranged business discussion, right? Wrong. A meeting is when Jack runs into Jill. A meeting is two trains. A “meeting”, in the corporate-fuck sense, is what your boss calls when what he wants to say isn’t important enough to simply discuss, and needs an authoritative boost to get everyone as interested in it as he is. “What? Candy said ‘whatever’ to the Ladies’ Room Tampon proposition? I’ll call a meeting.” What about when corporate-fucks actually talk business, and deliberate like intelligensia? Well, that’s a conference. Ooooh.
“Expedite”: a recent addition to the burgeoning lexicon of corporate bullshit. Expedite means hurry up. Just like prevaricate means lie. And lugubrious means sad. And loquacious means you talk too-fucking-much, you pretentious prick who heard that word in the office somewhere and thinks it should be the verb in any sentence containing directives for your slaves – I mean, thralls – I mean, employees. Nobody who says “expedite” has any business using it. It’s faster and more efficient to say “hurry.” So knock that shit off! Expediently!
That’s enough for now, but you bet your ass there are more. And more, and more. Such is the blinding summer sun of my discontent.