New Bossman

New bosses interviewed with Satan and are incentivized based on the volume of smooth homogeneous paste derived from crushed employees' souls. A paste so silky and delicious it could only be the hot fruit of the wicked. For us, this new hellspawn is Kyle.

MMMMMMmmm...you can almost taste the work ethic

Upon introduction Kyle attempts to personify himself by telling us a little about his hobbies, only he fails to mention the budding collections of schoolyard manhole covers and marble busts of Benito Mussolini. He directs his babybutcher narrative into our eyesockets for fifteen minutes but all we can hear is an audioloop chainsaw montage from Evil Dead II at accelerated pitch. This despot clamps his monstrous claw onto our superfluously moisturized hand and we look up pondering whether to begin gnawing at our own wrist in deathrow-jailbreak fashion.

In 1965, Kyle was conceived when an arrant school bus plummeted deep into a west Pennsylvania coal mine. His glare sees your ideas before you have them and thinks they're shit. Kyle preaches corporate motivation strategies from a glossary of pain and does so with a mustache who's ecosystem’s inhabitants have just discovered feudalism. He can't be killed because how do you murder a stone.

Alarming just standing still, Kyle tends to suddenly excite over the paperclippiest of events. His testosterone level fires from newborn to werewolf when he meets a contracted draftsman and we envision their furious handshake leading to a cartilage-popping, arm-from-shoulder amputation, ending with Kyle forcibly sodomizing his poor insurance-less employee with the bloody stump.

Groomed at a jungle school for office politics, Kyle takes the position that if you’re not the alpha gorilla you’re relegated to heaving fistfuls of ejaculate on passing zoo visitors. We watch, paralysed in awe, as he surgically picks off tenured members of staff with the accuracy of a seasoned Green Barrette on a twelve day Bolivian forest-coke binge. Making a 52 year old father of four cry himself incoherent mongoloid on a conference call breaks our reason into dust.

He has arranged an off-site meeting with us and 3 gargoyles in our organization, calling it a white paper session. We assume its some type of occulty-Reich initiation where we dip our hands in hot wax then broken glass and endfight Susan from HR. Our expected pain threshold for this ritual lies somewhere between a Muppets on Ice interpretative tribute to the band Nickelback and being forced to ensconce a lit stove with a leaky bucket of muriatic acid in our lap.

However poorly it goes next week, it could never be as bad as what fates young Billy Joel.

We do miss the talent, but most of all we miss the hair.