The Case For PEDs In The Office

The Case For PEDs In The Office

Business – like a high powered offense – isn’t about being crafty, or gimmicky, it’s about production. Offense, offense, offense. Your CEO is the power hitting first baseman with light tower power. Made his way to the top by hitting yokers to the moon. Your manager is the corner outfielder with power to all fields, her ability to shoot the ball into the gap and leg out doubles is why she’s a table setter. And on and on it goes, all the way down to you, the crafty second baseman who slaps the ball the other way, tries to draw walks, and generally make honest attempts to not look like an idiot at the dish.

It’s a necessary niche of the business, but are you going to all-star games? Are you signing a long-term extension? Are you in tasteful nude centerfolds in ESPN’s “The Body” Issue? No. And you know why? It’s because chicks dig the long ball.

You find yourself sitting there in your cube, calloused fingers smashing your keyboard, as Janice has her sixth coughing fit of the day and you wonder if jumping off the parking garage or hanging yourself with your company-issued laptop charger would be less painful. A few hours later, bingo bango bongo, you pump out a few spreadsheets worth of bullshit and congrats! You’ve just got a bunt single. Meanwhile, your boss has been in his office, crushing deals, jerking off, and going boneyard three times. He just went home to fuck your wife, and you know why? Again, it’s because chicks dig the long ball.

You need that edge. You need a little help getting your name out there. You need to get noticed. The work you’ve been putting in – whether it’s the half-assed crap you pump out half the time or the high-quality deliverable you actually tried hard on the other half of the time – is being mildly appreciated. But there’s no flair. The crowd isn’t chanting your name. Your boss is the one padding his stat sheet when he drives in that runner that you sacrifice bunted over to second base. Do chicks want to bang the guy leading the league in sac bunts? For sure not. How about the guy who drives in all the runs? Yup. Thought so.

How are you going to get that edge? You’re immune to the coffee you guzzle like a Peruvian fisherman lost at sea chugging water when he’s rescued weeks later. One more cup and your heart will literally explode. Is having a 210 bpm resting heart rate healthy? Don’t answer that. The company computers don’t have any firewalls, so you’re just sitting there reading smut all day. No deals crushed. No chicks hitting you up because you’re not going wahoo against top-tier pitching.

But then you meet a guy through someone at work who’s got a massive contract. And a massive car. And a massive, errr, baseball bat. And he says this guy, his “trainer,” can give you a couple supps, and who knows, maybe you start hitting the ball to parts of the ballpark you’ve only visited during batting practice.

You give in. You begin popping your newly acquired PEDs, and all of a sudden, you’re a machine. The work you’re producing has never been better. Instead of staring off into space for hours on end all day wondering where it all went wrong, you’re just crushing it. Locked in the zone. The only distractions now are all the girls trying to get up on your dick because you’re hitting so many bombs. Client throwing Aroldis Chapman 103 mile-per-hour gas at you? Homer. Client dropping Clayton Kershaw breaking balls on you? You sit back and drive it the other way out of the ballpark, oppo taco Tuesday.

Pretty soon you’re negotiating a fat daddy contract. They’ve moved you up in the order. You’re getting so much media face time, your Twitter followers have exploded! There are some grumblings about how you’re crushing life so hard, but you ignore it. Besides, ain’t no asterisks in the business Hall of Fame. Only second homes and third wives.

All of a sudden, you’re the boss. It’s your team now. Face of a franchise. Your first order of business in your new position of power is controversial, to say the least. Day one, you march to the front desk, grab the candy dish full of M&Ms, and dump them out right in everyone’s face. You reach into your bag and pull out your PEDs that you’ve used to go from little scrub to big chub, and you fill the candy dish to the brim with them.

“From now on,” you declare, “performance enhancing drugs are mandatory. You will pop exactly one Adderall taken from this here candy dish every morning. You all will turn into power hitting machines and we’ll turn this place into a business juggernaut. So load up on the PEDs and watch the dollars come rolling in. Soon enough, you’ll be Scrooge McDucking your way through life.”

It makes no sense to me why every office doesn’t just give out Addy to their employees under the table. It’s a pretty brilliant business maneuver, and it might be the only way I’ll ever live up to my potential. But for now, I’ll toil away as a number nine hitter with no pop, no magazine covers, no chicks digging my singles, and like three solid hours of productivity a day.

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Boston Max

Spending my retirement fund at Trader Joe's and trying to remember to check my mailbox semi-regularly

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