The thing about work is, it sucks, at least for most of us. The upshot is that you get paid for doing it, although that traditionally reliable characteristic seems to have been put to the test in recent years by excessive competitiveness amidst an ongoing recession, the rise of internships, and other various forms of bullshit.
But assuming you do get compensated for the sweat and tears you expend while churning out ball bearings, burgers n’ fries, advertising space, excel spreadsheets (my personal least favorite), or whatever else, you probably appreciate the occasional reward for doing good, hard work, whatever it is. Things like raises, promotions, and bonuses when applied decently/properly help to create a little something called incentive. So it’s sad that incentive also seems to be gradually becoming a thing of the past. A personal and true case in point from my own illustrious history as a loser:
So there I am at work, employed in the position of Entry Level Bitch even though for the previous 6 months I’ve been doing the duties of One Level Above Entry Level Bitch But Still A Bitch Any Which Way You Cut It and have been told several times how the company just doesn’t have the money to give me a raise or promotion to reflect my efforts but once that changes I’ll receive one. Then lo and behold! It is made known that the company has just hired another Entry Level Bitch. Huh? Exactly. That’s when I get openly irate and talk to my supervisor who sympathizes and explains that business is tough and nothing changes and so I proceed to just take it like the bitch that my job title implies that I am because really it’s not like I have any other job prospects out there.
But I wouldn’t have put up with it if I were a Viking like Trond “Troll-Breath” Trondsen. No, a Viking of his caliber would have instead entered a trance on the spot and started foaming at the mouth while the battle-rage trickled down from its celestial plane above and thoroughly permeated his entire being. He would have just continued standing or sitting wherever he happened to be, oblivious to the soullessness of the work environment surrounding him, and it wouldn’t have mattered where he was because people would have tended to avoid him anyway—not because his appearance would have suggested that he’d somehow managed to simultaneously go both comatose and rabid (which would be quite a feat in its own right), but because they wouldn’t have needed anything from him at that particular point in time.
Now, I’m not sure how long this mouth-foaming, battle-rage inducing trance would have lasted because I’ve never truly experienced one for myself, but my guess is that it would have been somewhere on the order of 4 minutes and 44 seconds because that is how long Amon Amarth’s Valhall Awaits Me is. So, with the final notes ringing in his head, Troll-Breath would have snapped out of it and if he had been lucky enough to bring his sword to the office that day, well then he would have had a motherfucking field day with it! But if not, no need to worry: he’d have simply grabbed a couple of nearby objects instead. These would probably have turned out to be lame things like a stapler or 3-hole-puncher, or perhaps they would have been objects of a slightly more glorious stature—say, a laser pointer or a metal ruler. But whatever they might have turned out to be, he’d have had a weapon in each fist, and he would have raised them above his head, and he would have proceeded to harry the office in a furious rage!