CUBICLE HELL

You know what’s crazy? I’ll tell you what’s crazy!™

CUBICLES.

The Cubicle is the modern day slaughter house. We sit in these carpeted pig pens while the farmer checks the going rate for bacon.

The cubicle is a square of diminutive proportions, barely large enough for a desk top and a sack lunch. It is usually made of a flimsy barrier covered with a burlap sack tacky enough to hold push pins. The wall is roughly 6 feet high allowing anyone of normal height to peer over your space to inspect your work station.

Nothing is more infuriating than to have a private conversation and see flared nostrils and raised eye brows poking over the top of your wall.

“Hello Bill,” the probing eyes appear to say peering over your privacy border.

“Hello Frank,” your facial twitch responds with the meniacal glare of a serial killer.

The cubicle is a charade. It’s three walls and an open aired ceiling, allowing the sounds of the office to rain down upon you.

Every flush. Every phone ring. Every fantasy football discussion Monday morning. You hear it all in amplified detail. Every call home on company time. Every love lost, every angst, every body cavity expulsion can be heard as it falls into your cubicle like a UPS truck rolling off an interstate ramp.

According to the International Facility Management Association, 50 percent of workers say their bathroom is larger than their cubicle at work.

23 percent say their closet and kitchen pantry are bigger.

1% of crazy viewers say their cubicle is a cat box without sand to bury their waste product.

18% of crazy viewers say a cubicle is a prison cell in Gitmo without the orange jump suits and dog collar photos.

48% of crazy viewers say a cubicle is a place we go to watch our dreams fizzle into the ether while bill collectors figure out how to reach us about that SEARS payment due 6 months ago.

Don’t think Cubicles are the new pergatory of existence? Check these bastards out.

Office worker in cavern of paperwork. Notice the perplexed and otherwise hopeless look on his face. This is the man who prompted the expression “going postal”

All you need here is some cheese and a stop watch. These office workers are a lab experiment. How much can you take? How long can you take it? This is the cubicle labyrynth of doom.

Now where did I put that report? Hey there it is, under that half eaten platter of ziti.

Would the woman with the red smock, and white collared shirt and cluttered desk please report to her supervisor.

This woman might as well be homeless sleeping in a dumpster. Instead she is typing a report, with all the job satisfaction of a ham sandwich.

These cubicles have all the warmth of a petri dish testing for E Coli.

“Hey Bill can you get me the Jenkins Report on your desk? Oh and do you have an open can of Campbell’s Noodle soup you could pour in a pink mug for me as well?

We always thought Bill was fascinated by current events.

We never imagined he was a serial killer.

Nothing says diminished self expression

like multiple cubicle wharehousing

Betty Klondike was a hard worker. Sadly she was killed by an

avalanche of paper caused by the man in the next cubicle

who was arguing with his wife. God rest Betty’s soul.

Another example of cubicle oriented depression. Feeling closed in by the anxiety’s of the work place grind, Bill’s only escape was to lie on the floor like an electric strip and pray that the janitor didn’t sweep up him up with the trash.