The Only Way Your Boss Can Achieve Orgasm Is Via Your Suffering

Your boss wants a little more. He always wants more. A little extra every week. He’s not asking for a lot, just a tiny bit more. Like a witch doctor adding one more leech to your already leech covered body.

This should be zee cure. Your happiness and contentment with zee life is an unacceptable consequence of your comfort. Vwe must increase your stress to appease zee beast that lives in me that thrives on other’s pain,” he says, as he lathers his body in mayonnaise in preparation for being shot out of a canon.

He’s probing for your breaking point. You know it. You’ve overheard him yapping with his boss buddies in the bathroom as you push out an explosive runny dump. You’ve seen him laughing with his golf buddies, smoking obnoxious cigars, giggling and grabbing ass while bragging about all the equally obscene and worthless female units he’s drenched in his pre-baby fluid. He jacks off to your pain, and at times, slides a finger in his barn door to heighten the pleasure. The finger a physical manifestation of your misery.

You comply with his demands. You always comply. You like the money too much. You like the scraps they throw your way every two weeks. You like the upgraded lifestyle it affords you, separated from the starving, groveling on street corners for pennies. You’d let them peel off your skin and douse you in gasoline for a couple thousand more dollars.

That’s a down payment on a brand new hand computer addiction machine,” you think as an obedient consumer. Consumption is your life. Your final resting place.

You rationalize:

It’s good for the organization’s bottom line if you ship a few more units. It’s good for the economy if you squeeze out a couple more emails per day. Maybe you can stay a few extra minutes more to make sure no one thinks you’re slacking.

Because life is all about productivity. More more more. Now now now. Shove a caffeine enema up your ass and blow cocaine in your face because daddy billionaire needs a new fucking yacht. So he can be seen getting his asshole licked and dick sucked by plastic bunnies that incels fantasize about fucking and killing at the same time. So he can post lifestyle videos to whatever popular social platform that will be liked, shared, jerked off too by the slobbering throngs of wannabes fighting each other for an extra serving of attention.

The more blood and sweat you pour into the machine, the more the world will love you. The more people will want to fuck you. They’ll wanna lick your balls too if you’re doing it right. The more your dick will grow. Soon, you’re ego will be massive enough to consume a city. No, a country! NO! A fucking universe!

Yet you’re still broke chasing that big box store cookie cutter lifestyle. You’re a commercial at best, a hangover at worst. You’re a copy of a copy of a copy, put on earth to suck it dry. You’re a terraformer for whatever thing climbs out of the food chain next.

What else are you gonna do? Move to the woods and live off the land? Bath in a river and pluck the dingleberries off with your hand? Nope. Keep those emails flowing. You’re next pointless meeting is in 10 minutes. Better hustle. Keep those scraps hot and ready to serve. Keep your bosses drowning in wet pussy and expensive cigars. Pinch your nipples and hope gold shoots out. Pin your knees to your ears and tan your taint.