There is, quite frankly, no other way to account for the dancing, singing James Brown doll that is determined to destroy me.

It would be such a neat explanation that I almost wish it were so, if only to give the absolutely meaningless work I do some greater cosmic significance. I can't even call my job "Dickensian," since at least 12-year-old textile workers were making something physical like petticoats or knickers or baby-skin hats or whatever the fuck they wore in the 1800s. All I do from 9 to 5 (and usually later) is take data from one set of Microsoft Word documents and cut-and-paste it into Filemaker Pro, so we can give it to our outside vendors to share and enjoy.

My life has been reduced to right click, left click, right click. I feel like fucking George Jetson on Thorazine. A trained monkey could do my job, except the money would go apeshit and start throwing its poop around the office, since I am required to right-and-left-click at the very maximum of human right-and-left-clicking ability for a staff of 12,000 people, all of whom regard their approaching deadlines with the awe, reverence, and fear that Jehovah's Witnesses regard the Day of Judgment or perhaps the way people from Arkansas regard monster truck pulls.

What makes the situation even more frustrating is that I find myself pathetically grateful to even be employed, since unemployment is running at 6% nationally (higher in the New York area), and the paltry $36,000 a year I make at least pays my rent while I try to finish writing the Greatest Book Ever, which is due to my publisher in April. But the fact remains that, until my work takes its proper place on the world's bookshelves—right next to the Bible—I'm working two full-time jobs, one of which is driving me insane, what with the James Brown doll and all.

Right. About that James Brown doll.

I guess the story about James Brown begins last Tuesday, when my inbox chimed with that chirpy Microsoft Outlook tone that I have so come to dread. It was a company-wide e-mail from our president. The last time this happened, we had just finished a big project that would net the company millions. La Presidente threw us a big party in the cheerfully fluorescent cafeteria, complete with company-logo cakes—baked by the minimum-wage minority cafeteria employees—that tasted like burnt toast covered with sugared Crisco frosting. One of the career women, the one with the pictures of the cute kitty cats in her cubicle, had even baked cookies. La Presidente thanked us for all the hard work we did, all the while smiling Stepford Executive Smile #37.

The layoffs began the next day.

There was no good reason for this: The company has a stable market that isn't going away since we basically sell to the government, and we're thus making oodles of money for our parent company. They're not cutting back staff to keep us afloat-they're sending people to the unemployment line to keep the annual growth in the double digits to appeal to shareholders and, no doubt, pay for lobbyists to get the government to repeal things like minimum-wage laws or health insurance. A modern corporation is like a shark: It has to move forward or it dies.

Thankfully, I was allowed the privilege of continuing to work, but only in the diminished capacity of data-entry monkey—that is, until Tuesday.

"It will be painful for us," the corporate spam said. "But this reorganization will be necessary for our continued growth and success as a Company."

So, what this means, translated from the corporate-ese, is that after the right-and-left clicking project is over, I'm out on my ass. I just wish they'd be honest and say, "We're sorry, but we think that it would be better to get someone else to do your job as well as their own, and just keep the money ourselves. You have an hour to get the fuck out." Our Fearless Leader is so fake, I believe she was a lawn ornament in a past life. I wonder what she's like in bed with her husband:

"Is this good, honey?" he asks her.

"Though penile growth had been adequate this evening, we need to be applying 33% more stimulation to the clitoris," she replies.

"Ah, yes, certainly. Um, you're a little dry. . ."

"To overcome our shortcomings in the vaginal lubrication department, we have partnered with Astroglide for a more pleasant lovemaking experience."

"Oh, is this better?"

"I'm sorry, but afraid that due to cost-cutting measures, you've been replaced by Raoul, the pool boy."

Of course, even though the ship is sinking, the band has to keep playing. For instance, this Christmas season, we're having a "departmental cheer" contest. The department who best decorates their cubicle-farm in the holiday spirit wins some undefined prize, like a dental plan.

That's where James Brown comes in.

Last week, I was interrupted from my frenetic right-and-left clicking by a commotion in the intersection of the cubicle highway by my desk. My department head, accompanied by three or four of my coworkers, had broken out the old box of holiday decorations in an all-out attempt to prove that we're the best damn section of cubicles on the whole floor. Up went the tinsel. Up went the plastic tree. Up went the Hannukah dreidel lights, never mind that the fucking holiday had been over for a week. But to win that contest, the display required that extra-special touch.

James Brown. Wearing a Santa hat.

You've probably seen these things in Spencer's Gifts at the mall or at K-Mart. I hear one was on The Osbournes. They're plastic likenesses of James Brown, about three feet tall. You hit the button, and they start to sing "I Feel Good" and dance like a spastic retard dancing the spastic retard dance. Unfortunately, they don't beat their wife, grab a bunch of guns and lead the police on an interstate car chase—that might actually be amusing. All the same, they're fucking hideously, frighteningly, and evil-looking. Dancing and singing dolls make the Baby Jesus cry—and, because I've seen all three Child's Play movies, they creep the fuck out of me.

"He still needs something," said my boss.

"I know," I said, stringing a cherubic ornament to his hand. "It's his angel dust."

"No, no, no!" he said, smacking the faux PCP out of the Godfather of Soul's hand. "Hey, I know." He draped a streamer of tinsel like a feather boa around his neck.

"He's James Brown, not freaking Liberace," I groused.

"No, he's PERFECT!" by boss said, slapping the button that launched James into the song that sent him to the top of the Billboard charts in 1965.

So, for the rest of the week, I had to put up with the Godfather of Soul on the filing cabinet next to my desk. Every time another one of my coworkers would pass by on their way to gorge on the holiday cookies, they would be compelled to touch the shiny, jolly, red button that sent James into his singing, dancing spastic fit. Meanwhile, there I am, sitting in the Aerelon office chair that cost more than my annual salary, with people calling me on the phone every five minutes, demanding why I wasn't done right-clicking, left-clicking their files, while an animatronic James Brown was singing in my ear.

Saturday morning, I came in, as usual, to catch up on the work I hadn't been able to finish during the week. I made sure to wear my long coat and kept my hat pulled down. On the security logbook, I signed my name "C. Mofo." I went up to my office as usual, and was there for about three hours.

The guards never noticed the bulge under my coat as I left. I still had some M-80s at my mom's house left over from the Fourth of July. Three of them duct-taped to James at midnight in the parking lot of a Target in Queens did wonders for my disposition.

Ladies and Gentlemen, James Brown is dead.