You wouldn't believe what this barmy old git makes us read to become one of the writers in his "illustrious staff."
Granted, the benefits are all right, as long as you pass the spelling test and all, and I couldn't live without this strawberry jam thing we all get done to us, but the oath, lemme tell yeh, it's awful.
First off, it's a bit awkward to be standing in the street outside the offices in Merrion Square holding one hand up in the air, the other grasping your left foot, and the Head Editor hiding somewhere in the square, behind a bush. That and the crowd gathered almost perpetually around the office these days, it's not a comfortable experience, and I know a good many formerly hardy lads and lasses that just couldn't quite stand the pressure.
And once you get past that, if you do, you get to read an oath that sounds suspiciously like it's been lifted directly off the postman's creed of the United States, you know, the whole "through rain and sleet and snow and a whole lot of bugger all else weather, I'll make sure to keep my appointed round... err... issue-writing thing, promise, I really really will, no doubts about it, no matter the temptation of a tart (any kind), massage, or like pleasures. In fact, I'm more likely than not going to get more of the above if I just carry on and finish the bloody issue already, so there's no point dallying and I'll just get right back to writing that now."
While this might be well and good for goals and company policy, there may be question as to whether or not obvious plagiarism from a company which apparently has an difficult time keeping it's employees un-disgruntled is a good idea or not.
Luckily, someone had the foresight to remove the turrets and gun cabinet (ok, ok, so it was filled with those gummy candies, but still, just the prospect of a gun cabinet is enough to set some people thinking, you know? And they haven't had the best sense in hiring new interns, right loony lads and lasses, they are, kids today, bloody out of their skulls.) from the office building in Dublin, but who's to say we aren't on the verge of some renegade ne'erdowell going off and going crazy on some good bunch of us?
Poor poor planning, I say.
disclaimer:
Hmm.
Could have something there, Constable Fletcher.
Right, round up the troupes, then, double time, march on down, Merrion.
Right on, then.
We are all just globules floating about, until we all find ourselves in a foreign country, floating three metres above everyone else's head.
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