As of Nov. 25th, I have it on good authority that you have definitively ceased all productive activity and are no longer a useful member of this body.
Yes, yes, I know... for 31 years, you served me well, providing a level of natural insight that few eyeballs do. Certainly, your test scores from only a year ago are impressive -- 20/15, better than "perfect" -- and you did an excellent job as the leader of your two-man team. So good, in fact, that I held a rifle awkwardly just to let you handle the sighting personally.
But that's history, isn't it? First it was just an unpleasant twinge here and there, then full-on complaining every time you were asked to perform a task. You still did as you were asked, though under duress.
Your performance, however, has become shockingly poor. In a matter of days, you went from stellar productivity to marginal to disruptive. To prevent you from interfering with your teammate's performance, I've had to barricade you in a small dark office, allowing you only brief daily contact with the outside world as I once again check to see if you've decided to do your job again.
Considering how small your salary is -- a quick wipe of tissue, a few seconds in the shower -- it wouldn't be a hardship to keep you on, regardless of how poor your performance might be. But you see, the endless nagging, whining and pestering is downright painful and I'm sick and tired of it.
It doesn't help matters that you've just started the inevitable process of phthisis bulbi, and in a matter of months or years, you'll be not only useless and annoying but ugly as well.
So, Mr. Eyeball, I'm afraid I'm going to have to let you go.
How will I find a replacement? I don't think I will. Much to my surprise, it seems that Mr. Other Eyeball is perfectly competent to do your job and his, alone. Sure, there are cosmetic considerations, and I could hire a pretty face to meet others' expectations of a two-man team but eh... so much less expensive and less hassle to simply close off your office and let Mr. Other Eyeball take on both the responsibilities and the limelight you once shared.
As to the effective date, well... with the economy being what it is, I'm afraid that's a wee bit up in the air. After all, I can't send you home without your severance package, and as you know, that's coming directly out of pocket. With luck, it'll be a few months. Meanwhile, it's back to the small, dark office we're keeping you in. Surely we'll both be happier when you've moved on to greener pastures.
I'd wish you luck in your future endeavors, but I think we both know you'll wind up in the biohazard bin.
--K
...because everyone deserves a bit of public self-indulgence once and awhile.
Yes, yes, I know... for 31 years, you served me well, providing a level of natural insight that few eyeballs do. Certainly, your test scores from only a year ago are impressive -- 20/15, better than "perfect" -- and you did an excellent job as the leader of your two-man team. So good, in fact, that I held a rifle awkwardly just to let you handle the sighting personally.
But that's history, isn't it? First it was just an unpleasant twinge here and there, then full-on complaining every time you were asked to perform a task. You still did as you were asked, though under duress.
Your performance, however, has become shockingly poor. In a matter of days, you went from stellar productivity to marginal to disruptive. To prevent you from interfering with your teammate's performance, I've had to barricade you in a small dark office, allowing you only brief daily contact with the outside world as I once again check to see if you've decided to do your job again.
Considering how small your salary is -- a quick wipe of tissue, a few seconds in the shower -- it wouldn't be a hardship to keep you on, regardless of how poor your performance might be. But you see, the endless nagging, whining and pestering is downright painful and I'm sick and tired of it.
It doesn't help matters that you've just started the inevitable process of phthisis bulbi, and in a matter of months or years, you'll be not only useless and annoying but ugly as well.
So, Mr. Eyeball, I'm afraid I'm going to have to let you go.
How will I find a replacement? I don't think I will. Much to my surprise, it seems that Mr. Other Eyeball is perfectly competent to do your job and his, alone. Sure, there are cosmetic considerations, and I could hire a pretty face to meet others' expectations of a two-man team but eh... so much less expensive and less hassle to simply close off your office and let Mr. Other Eyeball take on both the responsibilities and the limelight you once shared.
As to the effective date, well... with the economy being what it is, I'm afraid that's a wee bit up in the air. After all, I can't send you home without your severance package, and as you know, that's coming directly out of pocket. With luck, it'll be a few months. Meanwhile, it's back to the small, dark office we're keeping you in. Surely we'll both be happier when you've moved on to greener pastures.
I'd wish you luck in your future endeavors, but I think we both know you'll wind up in the biohazard bin.
--K
...because everyone deserves a bit of public self-indulgence once and awhile.
I pretty much wear black exclusively because it doesn't show stains.
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