Corporate Mortification

Years ago, before our store opened, part of the reprogramming we peons received was the Mandatory Morning Meeting.

Mostly, it was for the then-management team (a group of chauvinistic narcissists with 25+ years of management experience in this collective cluster fuck) to listen to themselves yap about how great and glorious the Company is. We did it, and we weren't quite so embarrassed, probably because most of us knew most of us weren't going to be around in a few short weeks. Probably, we figured, none of us were going to survive this Brave New World.

The indoctrination meetings included the dreaded (and here-to-fore only talked about as urban legend) Company Cheer. It's origins begin in Hell, as a way to break down the strongest of souls. It's journey to us involved numerous blood sacrifices and souls sold into slavery. It's current incarnation is showcased at 7:30am (that means there are CUSTOMERS in our store at the time it's going on) and it is beatifically loud throughout the store.

The ritualistic slaughter of dignity and self-respect begins with a large group of people donning garish clothing--in this case, vests or aprons with their master's name emblazoned on front and back.

Not unlike the druids gathering at Stonehenge, they gather in a circle under the early morning lighting displays. A hush falls over the crowd.

Soon, a man emerges and steps into the center of the group. He smiles an evil smile, searching for today's sacrifice.

He calls a name, and the victim timidly steps forward. His peers gape, in hope, in fear, in disgust.

He begins the rite. Clap. Clap. Clap. Soon, rhythmic clapping fills the aisles. "Gimme an L" he shouts. The overlord priest nods. He is satisfactory.

Continuing to spell out the name of the Company, the others "gimme" whatever he asks.

The meeting breaks up--each man, woman, and child walking away embarrassed, oddly exhilarated, and mortified--each has made a complete jackass of him- or herself, and all for a few shekels a week.

The ritualistic murder of our souls ended as the store opened--mostly because with the coming of the customer, we were too shy to let it be known that we had sold our souls to corporate America Satan.

Recently, though, the sacrifice of dignity and self respect has been resurrected--in part, I presume, because our store manager (not quite the cluster fuck we began with, but, still...) has recently returned from his Persophone-like Hades induced sojourn in the underworld, and he is determined, yet again, to bend those of us still showing some signs of life to his will.

Luckily, I have avoided said bloodlettings because, well, that strapping me to the register certainly restricts my movements, the free flowing blood, and my ability to clap in rhythm with 15 other peon cum victims.

I have been spared, but for what purpose?