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8. Sal Oberon and the Pillocks of Non-Person Orientated Procedure

Published March 30, 2017 by saloberon

Sal Oberon sat in contemplative meditation, riffing on Universal complexity but, more specifically, on the density of moronic ‘non-person orientated’ people out there, as a gaggle of waiting children sat around him, dribbling and waiting for the master’s effervescent insight.

‘Children. Listen. It transpires that the incidence that comes under the category of being nice to someone no longer figures as, well, just that. What we seem to be obliged to suck up, my little ones, is that being nice actually equates to a gross occurrence of not following procedure. Procedure, dear ones, is all, apparently.’

Sal Oberon leaned in towards the huddled mass, as quiet and as utterly flummoxed as they were.

‘Come closer, my poor future-indoctrinated no-hopers. This is the way things ought to be: procedure can tickle my fat, hairy arse. You know? Yes, you do. Procedure is to people as a slap round the head with a wet lettuce is to instructive learning.’

One child picked his nose and wiped the stringy bogey down his friend’s sleeve. Sal Oberon pretended not to see, and also he couldn’t muster the energy to even care.

‘Look,’ he sighed. ‘Maybe if I tell it as a story instead of trying to slide up sideways with a sneaky gallon of wise words . . .’

The children brightened instantly.

‘Ooh, a story. Please a story, Sal Oberon, huh?’

Sal Oberon groaned. This was the future he was speaking to, nay, blessing with the wonder of his learned experience.

‘Fine. Fine. Right, a story it is.’

He lit a cigarette and blew smoke into the face of the nearest child, who spluttered, but who came up smiling.

‘Once there was a poor shat-upon fairy geezer called . . . oh let’s call him, say, Sal Oberon . . .’

‘Really, Sal Oberon? He sounds like you.’

‘Ye-esssss,’ Sal Oberon uttered. ‘So, this poor shat-upon just happened, one day, to actually feel like giving a shit about someone he interacted with on a daily basis. This someone was poorly. Sal Oberon phoned him up and asked him how he was. A conversation ensued. Sal Oberon then said goodbye.’

‘Huh?’ said several children, if not directly then by mouthing it.

‘Exactly: huh? Well, it transpires, my little future fucked-ups, that being nice is anti-procedure for The Powers That Be, a.k.a. The Forest Council of Complying With Everything and Anything. Oh yes, it’s anti-procedure on account of the possibility of the damned Unions declaring it a degree on the wrong side of hassling. Yes, I can see you’re as non-plussed as I am about this.’

‘Huh?’

‘Indeed.’

Sal Oberon stubbed out the cigarette on his boot, standing up to shake the filth of ‘procedure’ from his coat.

‘When you reach the age of futile resistance to wage slavery, little ones, don’t forget the wise words of old Sal Oberon. Don’t accept the bullshit that having a give-a-shit conversation with someone, even and especially a worse off than yourself lowly editing-elf, amounts to hassling that someone to get their arses back to work, will you?’

The children all obediently shook their heads, not at all conversant with their master’s teachings. Sal Oberon headed out of the hollowed-out tree stump that served as a teaching space.

‘Farewell, fuckers. Till next time. Don’t let your usual teacher know how I taught you real things, if and when they turn up.’

Sal Oberon shuffled off, contemplating whether or not to let the said usual teacher free from his temporary incarceration, strapped up by the nether regions in a nether region of the campus. Sal Oberon gave no more consideration to the matter of ‘being nice to working colleagues’, unionised or otherwise, hoping with all the ill-will he could muster that the overlords of said colleagues and himself might readily choke on their own procedural alphabetti-spaghetti.
 
 

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7. Sal Oberon Gets Right Royally Shafted in a Middle Management Kind of Way

Published October 25, 2016 by saloberon

Sal Oberon sat and surveyed the scene: the two drones were perched on the edges of their tight arses in front of him, practically falling off the precarious instruction manuals underneath them, and one intoned, ‘But really, Mr Obiwank, we have to follow The Rules.’

Sal Oberon sighed at length. ‘The Rules’ were ingrained in the air. One of the drones, as tight-lipped as she was tight-arsed, put on her best serious face. Sal Oberon resisted the urge to tell her to shove her rules as far up her tight-arsed crack as she could possibly muster. The other drone could only mindread as poorly as the first, fortunately or unfortunately. The invisible Rulebook floated around in the tight little room like a squeaky bad dog fart . . .

No-one at The Gathering at the fag end of the forest showed that they understood a single thing in the story that wasn’t The Rules. Sal Oberon looked around hopefully, but the array of frowns and officially concerned faces around him suggested he might as well go and slam his own bollocks between a couple of masonry blocks for all the good he was doing here. Nevertheless, stupidity or bloody-mindedness contrived to drive him to give it one more push.

‘You do know The Rules aren’t real life, don’t you, right?’

The assembled of The Gathering mumbled and grimaced at one another. Sal Oberon picked something out of his ear in a manner that he hoped might be nonchalant but was really just a way of stopping himself from punching everyone hard enough in the face to knock a modicum of sense into them.

‘Look, The Rules are just a control thing. They let the controller feel important. What’s the point of this controller if they don’t have anyone to control? Right? Someone controls the controller, and so on and so on. Freedom, fellow Little People, is freedom from other people. That’s all.’

Sal Oberon looked around hopefully again. Some of The Gathering were uncomfortably squeaking on their indoctrination-padded undergarments. Sal Oberon blasted on with an increasingly resigned attitude of ‘well, just fuck ’em then’.

‘So, when your common or garden Shyster Magnet (that’ll be me) gets told in no uncertain terms that he can’t let some pixie piss in his garden by the Forest Overlords, and the pixie promises to shit daily on the doorstep of yours truly because he’s pissed off he can’t piss in the forest without prior permission, Sal Oberon reflects that The Rules can go take a running jump . . .’

Sal Oberon surveyed the scene and no-one got his rampant analogies, it was clear. He waved his hand dismissively.

‘Fuck off, the lot of you. There should be Rules about people like you not understanding about not complying with The Rules and so forth.’

The Gathering of the Little People duly fucked off, not at all getting the intended irony, and Sal Oberon scraped out his Tale Weaving equipment to hammer out a therapeutic stream of largely offensive swear words and bile.
 
 

2. Sal Oberon Seeks Gainful Employment

Published September 2, 2013 by saloberon

Sal Oberon sat and surveyed the Forest before him, chewing on a lump of toxic by-product of indeterminable origin, found recently floating in the stream. The Forest of the Knobbly Goblin; the Forest of the Crippled Fairy; the Forest of the Sexually Depraved Sprite: all of these names. The proprietors of Yore (three and a half generations after the Ancients had moved up the property ladder, upping sticks to an, as yet, unpolluted Woody Glade), had failed to fill in the required application forms for ‘permanent name status’ (at least, not on the pink, maroon, turquoise or ever-so-slightly beige copies) and had therefore foregone their rights to such. Sal Oberon sat and contemplated the shithole simply known as a Forest (downgraded from Enchanted Wood, and a long way short of being a Woody Glade), pondering its position as the official dumping ground for all sorts of toxic magic by-products with no bureaucratic course of redress.

Suffice is to say that with all that magic shit clogging up the sanitary system, it’s no wonder the fairies’ wings started dropping off from acidic erosion, the elves started getting high just by sitting on the mushrooms and the pixies all went bad. It was only natural then that the place kept changing name, all by itself, without the aid of bureaucratic intervention, mauve balloting papers, planning meetings, steering groups, or formal written constitutions. Strange shit can happen when you live in a toxic magic dump.

Sal Oberon sat and surveyed the Forest of the Neurotic Nymph, desperately trying to avoid seeking gainful employment. He sighed. It was all very well telling stories but no landlord would take a nice little yarn in lieu of a month’s rent, and particularly not his landlord (who owned several hundred properties in and around the Forest, ranging from fairly respectable ex-tree stumps to the average little puddle of mould with its one room and en suite outside door). The evening edition of Jobs for the Hopeless Cretins Who Don’t Work in Local Government laid open nearby:

Undergrowth De-Viscosity Technician: Must have own gloves. No brain required (certificate of authenticity essential). 5 Groats per year. Apply on mauve, watermarked paper, cut into a perfect equilateral triangle and carefully folded into exactly 27 smaller and equally perfectly equal triangles.

Snail Speed Research Assistant: Must have qualifications. Any qualifications appropriate (though not yours).

Tree Officer: Required immediately. Must be able to count. Apply in lemon or aubergine ink, in some vague language format of forgotten antiquity. PhD essential. No idiots need apply. You are an idiot. Sod off.

Toxic Magic Forest Denial Officer: Qualification in Basic Lying essential (preferably educated to Advanced Deceit). Salary: 2.6 Million Groats. (Maybe).

Trout Licker: You won’t be qualified. Go away now.
 
Sal Oberon sighed the heavy-hearted sigh of the pitifully hard-done-by. A gang of marauding pixies staggered past with cans of beer in hand, aerosol-spraying the toads and spitting at little old fairies with arthritic wings who wore overcoats, despite it being the height of summer.

‘Oi,’ shouted one of the yobs, ‘get a job, you waster.’ They all laughed together in that demented cackle of cretins-in-arms. Sal Oberon couldn’t even muster the energy to make it to abject apathy.

‘Fucking hippies,’ the pixie with the brain today shouted out.