Sort of a fusion of Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy and Office Space.

There comes a time in every man's life when he wakes up drunk on the toilet and begins to doubt the choices he has made. And when that time comes at least twice a day, every day, something needs to be done.

It's basically a collection of rants stitched to the skeleton of a plot.

The boss's name was Andrew, but he didn't like the term boss. He referred to himself as the team faciliator. He was blond and slight and soft-voiced, with that managerial style where you speak quietly and ask your employees to do things, prefacing every request with "Could you do me a favor?" or "If you have time..." or "Whenever you have a moment..." and ending with "At your earliest convenience, of course." It's the kind of schtick where if you're a parent who tries it on their kids they grow up to be crack whores and gang-related murder statistics with no respect for anything. But it works on defeated adults because they don't have the backbone to say "Fuck you Dad" and make the obviously wrong decision.

Everyone drank too much coffee too, at the wrong times and for the wrong reasons. They drank it when they came in every morning to get going, and then again in the afternoon to keep going. They ran on caffeine fumes all day and never fucking got anywhere. Then they went home spent and empty and crashed in front of the TV every night and slept away the few hours they had for themselves. All these motherfuckers are always talking about the best ways to manage your time. The fact is any time spent at work not sleeping in the bathroom is wasted time.

A decent punchline is the key to a good rant.

Even something so seemingly right as Bring Your Daughter to Work Day in that environment was horribly, horribly wrong. Marching a sweet, innocent nine year old who likes ponies and dreaming into an 8' x 8' cubicle and telling her that if she's strong and independent she'll get to spend forty years in there slowly wasting away is an exercise in feminist mysogyny. It was like a fucking Scared Straight program, a right-wing Christian conspiracy to create more stay-at-home moms. You grab a little girl by the pigtails and say "Suzy, this is what hell looks like!" and obviously she's going to kick off her shoes and get pregnant at fifteen. And she'll keep on going for as long as the clock runs, anything to stay out of that cubicle.

If I could ovulate, that's where I would've been. But I could not. I could not.