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Apr. 16th, 2005 05:26 amThe dimming afternoon light matched the senior staff’s mood. The latest figures lay scattered on the table before them, unloved.
“It’s hopeless,” declared the deputy chairman. “Whatever we try, it’s hopeless.”
“We can’t think like that,” snapped the director of marketing. “We just haven’t found the right technique, that’s all.”
“You’re dreaming,” cried the deputy chairman. “I’m telling you, we’re doomed.”
“Enough, gentlemen,” said the chairman, quietly. “First of all we need to examine what’s gone wrong. For generations this firm traded successfully. Why, now, has email proved our undoing?”
Livelihoods P. Swizzlestick had been at the company for forty-one years, fifteen of them at the helm. The recent financial turbulence had sent his hair grey and his blood pressure off the scale, and no-one seemed to have any kind of solution—least of all his deputy, Nefertiti L. Formula.
“No-one’s interested,” said the director of marketing, Exegesis K. Menstrual, despairingly. “No matter how many mails we send out, the only responses we get are firewall rejections and the odd letter of abuse.”
“It was your goddamn idea to bring in the sex stuff, Menstrual,” growled Carbonated J. Elfin, the treasurer. “‘No-one’s interested in the cheap software and the pharmaceuticals, we need to diversify,’ you said. The entire firm’s name dragged through the mud, and for what? Not a single unit shifted. Our warehouse is overflowing with filth.”
Exegesis K. Menstrual shook his head, sadly. “It’s as if no-one even wants to enlarge his penis,” he said.
Fronds S. Cryogenic stopped chewing his pen. “Maybe,” he said, “we need to stop being so informal. I know what we said,” he continued hurriedly, seeing Menstrual draw breath, “but we have to face that it just hasn’t worked. ‘Hi just thought you should see this’, ‘Hey this is great catch you later’, ‘Check this out OK bye’—it’s just falling flat. Sorry, Exegesis.”
“While we’re at it,” added Gnu A. Palpitation, “Jesus, can the admin guy please learn to spell?”
The chairman gazed at the portrait of his predecessor and uncle, Unguent N. Swizzlestick. He would have been just as adrift as his nephew in this hostile, baffling new digital world.
“I reckon,” said Concatenating Z. Pilfered, gazing at his whisky as he swirled it in its glass,“we send out a billion pictures of women getting it on with horses.” He looked up at the weary faces ranged around the table. “That’s got to get at least some responses. Even some click-throughs. Then we can begin to justify our budget… raise our profile… maybe even one day start shifting some Xanax…”
The chairman frowned as he regarded his head of new projects, who raised his eyebrows and shrugged in return. “I don’t like it,” said Livelihoods P. Swizzlestick finally. “But it looks like it’s all we’ve got. Sexy horses it is. Until next month, gentlemen.”
“It’s hopeless,” declared the deputy chairman. “Whatever we try, it’s hopeless.”
“We can’t think like that,” snapped the director of marketing. “We just haven’t found the right technique, that’s all.”
“You’re dreaming,” cried the deputy chairman. “I’m telling you, we’re doomed.”
“Enough, gentlemen,” said the chairman, quietly. “First of all we need to examine what’s gone wrong. For generations this firm traded successfully. Why, now, has email proved our undoing?”
Livelihoods P. Swizzlestick had been at the company for forty-one years, fifteen of them at the helm. The recent financial turbulence had sent his hair grey and his blood pressure off the scale, and no-one seemed to have any kind of solution—least of all his deputy, Nefertiti L. Formula.
“No-one’s interested,” said the director of marketing, Exegesis K. Menstrual, despairingly. “No matter how many mails we send out, the only responses we get are firewall rejections and the odd letter of abuse.”
“It was your goddamn idea to bring in the sex stuff, Menstrual,” growled Carbonated J. Elfin, the treasurer. “‘No-one’s interested in the cheap software and the pharmaceuticals, we need to diversify,’ you said. The entire firm’s name dragged through the mud, and for what? Not a single unit shifted. Our warehouse is overflowing with filth.”
Exegesis K. Menstrual shook his head, sadly. “It’s as if no-one even wants to enlarge his penis,” he said.
Fronds S. Cryogenic stopped chewing his pen. “Maybe,” he said, “we need to stop being so informal. I know what we said,” he continued hurriedly, seeing Menstrual draw breath, “but we have to face that it just hasn’t worked. ‘Hi just thought you should see this’, ‘Hey this is great catch you later’, ‘Check this out OK bye’—it’s just falling flat. Sorry, Exegesis.”
“While we’re at it,” added Gnu A. Palpitation, “Jesus, can the admin guy please learn to spell?”
The chairman gazed at the portrait of his predecessor and uncle, Unguent N. Swizzlestick. He would have been just as adrift as his nephew in this hostile, baffling new digital world.
“I reckon,” said Concatenating Z. Pilfered, gazing at his whisky as he swirled it in its glass,“we send out a billion pictures of women getting it on with horses.” He looked up at the weary faces ranged around the table. “That’s got to get at least some responses. Even some click-throughs. Then we can begin to justify our budget… raise our profile… maybe even one day start shifting some Xanax…”
The chairman frowned as he regarded his head of new projects, who raised his eyebrows and shrugged in return. “I don’t like it,” said Livelihoods P. Swizzlestick finally. “But it looks like it’s all we’ve got. Sexy horses it is. Until next month, gentlemen.”
