Everyone say Hello to our new Marketing Department

Hwaet and lo, you gibbering genetic typos, stop murdering and buggering each other for a few moments and concentrate on your cerebral cortex, you’ll need some language skills for this. Against my better understanding of her and her potential, Amber has gotten the site up and functioning again. The selection of you who at least managed to pause your buggering will probably have gathered this already but it’s important to write so that even the worst of you vile warning signs can eventually figure it out. “Inclusion” and all that business. The good news is, this means I have something to do again and your shitful existences are now blessed with some bootstraps to yank yourself up by. The bad news is I owe the 3D printer two litres of my own semen.

 

It seemed like a good bet at the time. I mean, a jar of probability sensitive gel I keep in my office was glowing mauve and I was certain that was in regards to Amber’s chances of accomplishing something. Couple that with a track record of marvellous failure and I’d have been a fool not to have a bit of a wager. Had Amber simply stayed within her comfortable rut of incompetence, I’d have won a year’s worth of free labour from the damnable machine but oh leave it to the whims of evolution to give someone a nudge up the ladder when you least expect it. Now I have to come up with two litres of bloody ejaculate for the creepy bio-loom which will mean I’ve only got 34 litres left in storage which is 20 litres below what I need for an entirely different problem. Well, it’s like mother always said, “Sooner or later, somebody will steal an inconvenient quantity of your stored cum.” Wise woman.

But that’s not really your business as there are so many scratches on your genetic record you can’t provide me with a suitable substitute and I can’t masturbate to grotesques.

The important part here, for you, is that I’ll be able to give you weekly updates on the business you fund with your Patreon pittances.

For instance, I have hired a hive mind to run our returning Marketing Department, or at least I thought I had. The area that should have been abuzz with a collective consciousness designing shirts and slogans and whatnot is currently abuzz with one itchy looking baboon. One wins a lot when you hire a gestalt, HR harps on about optics and inclusion but I’m far more interested in the fact that I can have a dozen or so employees for the price of one. Sounds brilliant! If I get any better at this business stuff I’ll be able to flush out the tank of autistics in Accounting. It occurs to me now that I should probably move to absorb most of the duties performed here in the offices as when I trusted HR to hire me 12 morons worth of one moron, I thought I’d get just that and not a baboon who has so far done nothing but bite the mail boy.

Now don’t get me wrong, biting the mail boy was exceptionally funny, but when I want to hire something to bite the mail boy, I’ll hire something to bite the mail boy. That said, the baboon’s interview for this particular job was so good that the role will definitely be given to three baboons I’ve sewn together. There’s an art to mayhem that many don’t appreciate and a large part of it involves it stopping on its own before you are forced to exert any effort. Fun’s fun but if I have to go over there and separate the two of them then I may as well get back to fucking work. The baboon seems to have an instinctive grasp of this, and hung on only long enough for the mail boy to comically flail the vicious fluffy bastard about a couple of times before letting go and marching back to his own cubicle. I’d been laughing about it for 45 minutes before I remembered that the fanged jerk was supposed to be exploring lucrative marketing opportunities.

HR swore it hired a gestalt. I asked it what kind of gestalt as I had gotten the sense I was being dicked about and you don’t grow up in a community of mischief gnomes without getting to know your way around evasive reasoning.

It turns out it’s a hive mind of baboons, a troop I think is the technical term, that some telepathic supervillain wove up into one furious bite-nugget before they got bored if it and hocked it to a Cash Converters. Apparently the budget is a bit tight, the end result of my sitting here for several months doing nothing but torment the staff, and actually employing a gestalt is beyond us but buying a gently-used, berserk monkey one wasn’t. Not wishing to fail me, HR went with the screaming well of monkey souls armed with 5 inch fangs over nothing and I can’t fault them for that line of reasoning.

So you won’t have any shirts to buy or anything but there’s about 20 confused, angry monkeys stuffed into a baboon costume that’s been staring at Janice’s head for the past 4 minutes so I think all of my problems are about to be lost to a most delightful distraction.

A sack with eye holes counts as a hat.

Gabriel.