Cerebrum of Cyril Gideon on Brink of Violent Conflict
The psychological situation for Cyril Gideon, aged 34, a government employee since 2002, took a turn for the worse today, after a tense stand off between his id and his superego. In the morning, his superego enjoyed a tactical advantage, but increasingly lost ground as the day wore on.
“I am afraid I may be losing the battle to maintain the delicate peace I have engineered in my mind,” Cyril reported to the M.o.M. at 5:30 p.m. during his short bus ride home. “My id is threatening to overwhelm me and lead me on a year-long terror campaign of assault, murder, and demonic laughter.”
At 8:20 a.m., Cyril’s secretary, Susan, a new mother of 37 years of age, arrived late, apologizing on account of difficulties with the “little one” overnight.
“He’s such a little angel, though,” she beamed. “How can I ignore his bleats for help?”
Cyril wondered what Susan would say to a joke about how her baby would taste with mint sauce. Meanwhile, the pert and chipper blonde proceeded to tell him about some products she was ordering from the Amway catalogue.
“I love the candles that smell like rosewood,” she explained.
Cyril observed how, fifty percent of the time, Susan used the word love to describe processed food or retail products. He wondered if her heart would fit into his small frying pan at home or whether he would have to cut it into pieces before cooking it.
By 9:15 a.m. Cyril became aware that the temperature was becoming uncomfortable and decided to consult the thermostat. Despite the outside temperature being minus 11, it was 25.9 degrees in the building. Immediately after this, Cyril received an email from Facilities Management informing him that a power cut at 11 p.m. the previous night had temporarily disrupted the air conditioning, but that maintenance workers were working “around the clock” to fix the problem.
“Hmm,” Cyril said to no one. “I wonder if they’re working around the clock just as hard as they did last summer, when the air conditioning only worked for June and then was broken for July and August. Or if they’re working as hard as the summer before that, when they removed the air conditioning system entirely, promising to replace it with a new one within a week, but kept us all waiting until September.”
To introduce some fresh air, he was sorely tempted to throw furniture through the windows, which otherwise could not be opened. However, he was aware that this would contravene health and safety rules.
At 11:17 a.m., Cyril visited the washroom and crouched on the toilet, hoping to relieve himself of an unusually large build up of excrement that had congested his lower bowels. The laborious procedure was exacerbated by the fact that he had a hemorrhoid, which had not yet succumbed to seven straight days of treatment.
“I wonder if I could simply burn the damn thing off with my Zippo,” he said.
Cyril only owned a Zippo because of a vain hope that one day, he would see a beautiful woman in need of a light for her cigarette, and that after providing the required flame, he would be able to execute a cunning and stealthy courtship, then mate with her.
“I wish I didn’t have to pay for sex,” he said to no one, wiping his bottom. “If I weren’t ugly and acne-scarred, by now I’d have found a woman with whom to settle down, have two children, and accumulate unmanageable debt.”
At lunchtime, Cyril sat in the lunchroom, surrounded by Susan and her friends. He forced himself to ignore jokes that alluded to male stupidity and general uselessness.
From 1 p.m. until 3 p.m., during a pointless meeting about something, Cyril plotted to kill the head of the Information Technology (IT) department, Dirk Vanderboot, who had failed to respond to his request to provide three government IDs for recent staff hires.
“For four weeks now, Dirk has not bothered to stir himself to perform a task that would take merely two minutes, despite two reminder emails, two phone calls, and one verbal notification from my manager,” Cyril reflected. “If I had two horses, I would tie Dirk’s head to one horse, tie his legs to the other horse, and then instruct the horses to run in opposite directions, and rip him in half.”
At 4:15 p.m., with the end of the work day in sight, Cyril received a visit from a consultant named Sharon Blugbusster, who, despite the marketing liability of her family name, possessed physical attributes that would best be described by the ever-articulate and urbane Larry Flint, founder of Hustler Inc.
“If I were the star of a rap video, she would be my bitch,” said Cyril. “But because I am not famous, rich, or good-looking, I will have to respect her and not objectify her. Maybe, however, I will covertly admire her bosom.”
Ms. Blugbusster gave Cyril a forty-five minute presentation about a software program designed to store data in a friendly and helpful manner.
“Accessibility has been maximized,” she explained.
Cyril refrained from smirking pervertedly, and informed Ms. Blugbusster at the meeting’s end that he would reflect on the benefits of her product and decide upon a purchase order by week’s end.
“I think you’ll find the programme meets all your needs,” she said.
“Oh, I doubt it,” Cyril retorted, then suddenly realized that he had failed to use his inside-head voice. He was forced to beat a hasty retreat. “I mean, I’m sure it will,” he stammered.
Cyril fears a further encroachment of his id into his working day tomorrow.
“I am afraid I may be losing the battle to maintain the delicate peace I have engineered in my mind,” Cyril reported to the M.o.M. at 5:30 p.m. during his short bus ride home. “My id is threatening to overwhelm me and lead me on a year-long terror campaign of assault, murder, and demonic laughter.”
At 8:20 a.m., Cyril’s secretary, Susan, a new mother of 37 years of age, arrived late, apologizing on account of difficulties with the “little one” overnight.
“He’s such a little angel, though,” she beamed. “How can I ignore his bleats for help?”
Cyril wondered what Susan would say to a joke about how her baby would taste with mint sauce. Meanwhile, the pert and chipper blonde proceeded to tell him about some products she was ordering from the Amway catalogue.
“I love the candles that smell like rosewood,” she explained.
Cyril observed how, fifty percent of the time, Susan used the word love to describe processed food or retail products. He wondered if her heart would fit into his small frying pan at home or whether he would have to cut it into pieces before cooking it.
By 9:15 a.m. Cyril became aware that the temperature was becoming uncomfortable and decided to consult the thermostat. Despite the outside temperature being minus 11, it was 25.9 degrees in the building. Immediately after this, Cyril received an email from Facilities Management informing him that a power cut at 11 p.m. the previous night had temporarily disrupted the air conditioning, but that maintenance workers were working “around the clock” to fix the problem.
“Hmm,” Cyril said to no one. “I wonder if they’re working around the clock just as hard as they did last summer, when the air conditioning only worked for June and then was broken for July and August. Or if they’re working as hard as the summer before that, when they removed the air conditioning system entirely, promising to replace it with a new one within a week, but kept us all waiting until September.”
To introduce some fresh air, he was sorely tempted to throw furniture through the windows, which otherwise could not be opened. However, he was aware that this would contravene health and safety rules.
At 11:17 a.m., Cyril visited the washroom and crouched on the toilet, hoping to relieve himself of an unusually large build up of excrement that had congested his lower bowels. The laborious procedure was exacerbated by the fact that he had a hemorrhoid, which had not yet succumbed to seven straight days of treatment.
“I wonder if I could simply burn the damn thing off with my Zippo,” he said.
Cyril only owned a Zippo because of a vain hope that one day, he would see a beautiful woman in need of a light for her cigarette, and that after providing the required flame, he would be able to execute a cunning and stealthy courtship, then mate with her.
“I wish I didn’t have to pay for sex,” he said to no one, wiping his bottom. “If I weren’t ugly and acne-scarred, by now I’d have found a woman with whom to settle down, have two children, and accumulate unmanageable debt.”
At lunchtime, Cyril sat in the lunchroom, surrounded by Susan and her friends. He forced himself to ignore jokes that alluded to male stupidity and general uselessness.
From 1 p.m. until 3 p.m., during a pointless meeting about something, Cyril plotted to kill the head of the Information Technology (IT) department, Dirk Vanderboot, who had failed to respond to his request to provide three government IDs for recent staff hires.
“For four weeks now, Dirk has not bothered to stir himself to perform a task that would take merely two minutes, despite two reminder emails, two phone calls, and one verbal notification from my manager,” Cyril reflected. “If I had two horses, I would tie Dirk’s head to one horse, tie his legs to the other horse, and then instruct the horses to run in opposite directions, and rip him in half.”
At 4:15 p.m., with the end of the work day in sight, Cyril received a visit from a consultant named Sharon Blugbusster, who, despite the marketing liability of her family name, possessed physical attributes that would best be described by the ever-articulate and urbane Larry Flint, founder of Hustler Inc.
“If I were the star of a rap video, she would be my bitch,” said Cyril. “But because I am not famous, rich, or good-looking, I will have to respect her and not objectify her. Maybe, however, I will covertly admire her bosom.”
Ms. Blugbusster gave Cyril a forty-five minute presentation about a software program designed to store data in a friendly and helpful manner.
“Accessibility has been maximized,” she explained.
Cyril refrained from smirking pervertedly, and informed Ms. Blugbusster at the meeting’s end that he would reflect on the benefits of her product and decide upon a purchase order by week’s end.
“I think you’ll find the programme meets all your needs,” she said.
“Oh, I doubt it,” Cyril retorted, then suddenly realized that he had failed to use his inside-head voice. He was forced to beat a hasty retreat. “I mean, I’m sure it will,” he stammered.
Cyril fears a further encroachment of his id into his working day tomorrow.
posted by Laurence Miall at 12:39 PM
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