Tuesday, 8 February 2011
The fairytale moobs
Once upon a time in a land not very far away there lived a terribly important man. This man was so very, terribly important he became a CEO of a big, big organisation where lots and lots of people worked. And because he was in charge of such a big organisation he got to sit on top of a very, tall pyramid called an organisational hierarchy. Rather than stone or even hay, this was made up of all the levels and lattices and lines you see in pretty organogram pictures. And because the terribly important man sat on top of the pyramid all the little people beavering away like ants beneath him could look up and see that the sun did indeed shine from his arse (the terribly ambitious people who liked climbing pyramids were especially grateful for this because it meant they could see what they were trying to kiss).
Now, because the terribly important man was so terribly important he developed a special management style all of his own that made sure all the things he thought were terribly important got done yesterday, or else. So besides his reputation for having a tremendous eye for detail, the terribly important man was known to frequently harangue people who lived near the top of the pyramid in funny one-to-one sessions. On other occasions, when he was sitting round a table with lots of people drinking tea and coffee and looking at pretty pictures called PowerPoint presentations all about economic profit forecasts, he would ask one special person lots and lots and lots and lots of questions to the point where everyone else in the room would think silly things like “phew, I’m glad I’m not the special person today” and “will the special person still be sitting here next week eating biccies and earning golden pennies?”.
Soon the terribly important man’s reputation spread far and wide, so wide in fact that lots of oopy little people called journalists and media types came from far away lands to say hello and drink tea with him. Often, on these occasions, the oopy people brought magic picture boxes that they used to take pictures of the terribly important man. And so it was that one day some people who also lived in the pyramid looked at these pictures and saw that because of the pretty shirts the terribly important man chose to wear, when a magic picture box flash went “FLASH” you could sometimes see the terribly important man’s nipples in the magic pictures it made.
Now because this is very obviously a fairy tale and not in the least bit true, I’ve no idea what the terribly important man’s nipples looked like. Perhaps they were hairy or perhaps they were bald. Maybe they were pert, erect, proud and perky, I simply don’t know. What I do know, for the purposes of this completely fictional story, is that whenever pictures were taken of the terribly important man, there was always a good chance that anyone looking at the picture would see his man-teets or what some naughty people call moobs. What a to do!
Now though our story becomes very, terribly sad. Because of the terribly important man’s special, magical management style, the people living in the pyramid who’d noticed what magic picture box flashes did were uncertain about saying anything to anyone in case they found themselves carried away by the HR fairies to a place called the Broo where there were no golden pennies or coffee or tea or even biccies for that matter (although I understand they do now have lots and lots of pretty PowerPoint presentations with a growing emphasis on 3rd sector re-employment training courses and human capital initiatives). So instead they chose to keept quiet and all the oopy journalists were left to take more and more magic picture box pictures and all the people who looked at them could still see the terribly important man’s tits. The end.
P.S. I do hope this pretty little story makes it into an edition of Bloomberg, the FT, Fortune etc., and finds a nice, cosy little snuggle bed besides the usual PR riddled fairy tale wank fests fawning over some individual member of the super-rich uber class who helped fuck the UK economy into a cocked hat.
P.P.S. A fabulous person has just pointed out given the terribly important man's fantastic attention to detail (and it really was legendary), mebbe he knew his tits were on show anyway and kinda liked it. Eeeowwwwww.