Today you’re going to finish it. The last piece of paperwork you’ll ever have
to do in your life. At the last moment,
when you finish filling out that last, obvious number, streamers will descend
from the ceiling, covering you and your co-workers in paper product. They’ll look up blankly from their own
paperwork and murmur at no one in particular:
“Congratulations.”
You’ll rise from your seat smiling and walk across the room,
through the frowning, hairless rows of humanity arrayed beneath foundering,
airless lights. You’ll step delicately
over power cords and fallen comrades, overwhelmed by the strain of filling out
paperwork day after day after day. Then
you’ll step into the retirement chute.
It’ll be a thick walled steel cylinder, brilliantly simple
in its design. Once inside you’ll press
your hands against the walls and announce:
“All done.”
The cylinder will groan in acknowledgement. A gout of flame will suddenly erupt within
it, cascading towards you and smothering you in tremendous heat. In an instant you’ll be incinerated,
mercifully liberated at long last from a lifetime of paperwork.
Congratulations on Filling Out All That Paperwork!
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