Pucker Up

by Caleb Echterling


According to Wilbur, all his employees were ignorant jerk-offs with the touch of Midas, except everything turned to crap instead of gold. After the latest colossal screw-up, Walter felt the company needed a collective facepalm, in the form of an individual palm to each employee’s face.
 
Walter took it upon himself to distribute the facepalms, under the theory that if he wanted something done right, he had to do it himself.
 
“Hey boss, quit smacking us,” they wailed. “Pretty sure that violates our rights, even if this is at-will employment.”
 
“Don’t make me come over there and smack you into next week,” Wilbur said.
 
Back in his office, Wilbur cracked open a best-seller from the latest hotshot management guru, What To Do When Your Employees Are Ignorant Jerk-Offs With the Touch of Midas, Except Everything Turns to Crap Instead of Gold. It mostly didn’t apply to his situation, but one chapter punched him in the gut.
 
That’s it, he thought, I need to use direct communication to establish exactly what I expect of my employees.
 
Monday morning, Wilbur wore a strap-on foam nose painted brown. “A circus at work? Great idea, Browno the Clown.” Wanna-be acrobats dangled out the window from the world’s largest beer bong. The lions, tigers, and elephants from accounts receivable jumped through hoops and balanced balls on their noses.
 
Everyone except Wilbur called in sick on Tuesday.
 
On Wednesday, Wilbur arrived at work with a sprig of mistletoe mounted from his lower back. He gave his rear-end a jaunty swish to indicate where the festive kisses should be planted.
 
A grand huzzah arose from his minions. “A Christmas party in August! Great idea, boss.” Desk drawers flew open. Expired eggnog and Colonel Connecticut’s ‘Three C’s for the Price of Two’ Connecticut Bourbon Whisky flowed like a mighty stream. The reindeer from loading and shipping got so ripped, they all had red noses. The lampshades and knickers outlet store across the street was raided for holiday headgear.
 
Wilbur was the only one who did not call in sick on Thursday.
 
Wilbur got to work an hour early on Friday, a wheelbarrow full of two-by-fours in tow. When his employees arrived, there was a kissing booth installed in the break room with Wilbur’s tushie centered in the frame. In a deviation from the standard kissing booth business model, pecks on the cheek were free of charge, but tongue would set you back a buck.
 
“A carnival in the office? Great idea, boss.” Cotton candy machines were pulled from closets. Daredevils jumped into teacups and careened off the walls. Farm animals put aside the daily humdrum of working in the human resources department to form a petting zoo. A donkey ambled over to the kissing booth and licked at the cookie crumbs wedged into the crease of Wilbur’s slacks.
 
Wilbur’s shit went missing, as the saying goes. “You people are idiots! How can I make this any clearer? I want everyone to kiss my ass.”
 
“You mean Steve here?” An employee scratched the donkey behind his ears. “I kissed him at the Christmas party on Wednesday, and let me tell you … Bleegh, all teeth and no tongue. I won’t be making that mistake again.”
 
 

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