Dear HR,
I suppose it was to be anticipated, expected even, that the festering petri dish that is the Dublin office would eventually spawn off a mutation of the ‘Goodman Virus’. Really it was only a matter of time given the debauchery that was witnessed at the previously reported ‘Summer Coven Meeting’ also known as the Summer Barbecue. Someone was bound to be infected, and now here we are.
I am of course speaking of the ‘Great Dublin Bike Ride’ a 60k or 100k ‘cycle’ that took place last weekend.
You may be wondering at the connection, well here it is:
Ms. Omisha Khan having seen the behaviour of her tyrannical leader at the summer party no doubt concluded she was the heir apparent to the throne but with her own particular sadistic twist. She casually recruited a number of the more unsuspecting members of the Dublin staff for participation in the above mentioned event. I was quickly ensnared with the promise of some friendly ‘team spirited’ activities but which were in fact a Machiavellian trap designed towards pain and torture for her own nefarious pleasure. Oh it was all so good natured and charming; how we joked and laughed as humorous cycling jerseys were bought in anticipation of a refreshing early autumn jaunt through North County Dublin. All part of her set up no doubt to destroy whatever vestiges of joy might have remained in the Dublin office.
My suspicions should of course have been raised when just a week before the event Ms. Khan started complaining of a damaged foot. She insisted she’d still make the cycle, but played martyr to the injury. Then the weather took a turn for the worse; rain and wind quickly shrouding Dublin in a dark and foreboding autumnal veil. Now I’m not saying that the ‘Daughters of Hecate’ can actually control the weather, but the coincidence was striking – I definitely suspect Ms. Goodman’s hand in this somewhere.
Then of course, just a few short hours before the start, Ms. Khan cried off the event, claiming her foot too swollen to remove a cycling shoe. I didn’t think you could get cycling shoes that fitted cloven hoofs but we live and learn.
Undeterred, and to be honest somewhat naively, I headed to the event on the appointed Sunday morning. How can I describe the panorama into which I was thrown? Dante’s inferno would have been less horrifying. Seven thousand people gathered in a Diversity, Equity and Inclusion nightmare. Everyone was outfitted in exactly the same manner. You might be thinking this to be a positive step towards gender equality, but sadly not so. Picture if you will what the intersection of Star Wars helmets, Ronald McDonald clown jackets and a hybrid of Lululemon Yoga Pants and Always sanitary pads would look like – and not the ones you see advertised on TV – I’m talking about the ones that you see in the geriatric wards of lunatic asylums that are large enough to absorb a small swimming pool and generally hang around the saggy skinned thighs and knees of patients dragging down already soiled cotton underwear.
It was too much, I had to make a break for it. Unfortunately in doing so I caused widespread confusion leading to more riders commencing their cycle. I was just trying to get away, but now I was being chased down by these devilish hellions. Don’t be tempted to romanticise how this looked; this wasn’t the start of the Tour De France with lithe young riders elegantly accelerating their streamlined bicycles in a well-coordinated manner into a fresh French summer’s morning. No this was like a herd of elephants astride spiky rails, wearing luminescent outfits barrelling headlong on the wet streets of Dublin.
I was terrified!
That terror pushed me to complete the circuit where at the end, as I shakily dismounted, a message from the demonic Khan arrived declaring that she was coming to meet us. As with most torturers, it real payoff is in seeing the broken remains of the victims rather than the actual process of torturing and she was no different. Having endured the suffering of having a saddle slowly attempt to slice me in two through metronomic grinding in areas where no metronome should be, I had lost all feeling from my chest down and was now trapped.
I can only imagine how she would have been, all chirpy and covering herself in the mantle of a caring, considerate, friendly HR person. But now we know! She has revealed her true self! Madness overtook me and I careered for the road home before she had time to arrive and gloat at her victory.
As we head into mental health week, I fear further ‘team participation’ events. She has carefully crafted her disguise of competence and credibility, you might even go so far as to say she is ‘liked’. But having completed the trial of her influence over a small number of people, I can only imagine her, now emboldened, having free rein to execute on whatever new amusements the dark recesses of her black heart can conjure.
Please send help soon.
Alexander
Dear HR 