Popping the balls

Given that a particular coworker is leaving my workplace today, I feel I can speak freely about a particular disturbing trend sweeping through America's "cube culture." The idea of worker drones discarding their high-priced executive swivel chair, its ergonomics and hydraulics, in favor of a big fat yoga ball to sit on all day is perhaps the greatest threat to workplace sanity (well, mine) since the rise of successories.

Perhaps the greatest example of managerial ineptitude since a coworker was allowed to enact a vendetta against people who didn't wash out their dirty dishes in the break room immediately (by throwing them away), not only were a couple coworkers allowed to sit on yoga balls all day but the company paid for them. I think they ordered the balls out of a catalog for forward-thinking corporate cogs because now we're bombarded by a cubic tonnage of advertisements a week inviting us all to take up the ball. In one particular catalog I see the balls now come with an apparatus--a little cage for your ball. Like a black widow guarding her egg sack, the people in my office who sat on balls became unapproachable to me--I couldn't bear the sight of them.

It got so bad for me that I began to stalk these balls, dreaming of their delicious deflation. I sprinkled tacks in the well-traveled areas of the office, hoping a ball might roll through the minefield. I dreamed of blowing the balls out from under the asses with a rusty blunderbuss. It got so bad that one night I actually stabbed a ball with a pair of scissors, driving the ball's owner to quit and move back to Switzerland. Though I pleaded out, I still treasure the photos from the CCTV footage released as evidence pre-trial. Despite the low dpi, my glee is plainly visible.

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