With A Little Help From My Friends (Dilbert, Shockwave)

Back once again to the bustling office. The camera crew wends their way through officious-looking gentlemen in suits, slovenly engineers puttering through the corridors with their caffeinated elixir of life, and, for some reason, a guy in an allosaurus costume, before finally making their way through to Dilbert's cubicle.

Camera Guy: What's with the guy in the allosaurus costume?

Dilbert rolls his eyes. Evidently, he's heard that one before.

Dilbert: Take my word for it, minion. The less you know about Ted, the better.

Camera Guy: Ah. Gotcha, boss. Ix-nay on the inosaur-day estions-quay.

Dilbert nods. This minion is wise beyond his status. Not going to get a promotion, but still.

Dilbert: Anyway, with the Ted issue out of the way...

He looks around to see if there are any incompetents in the area, who've failed to take his hint. Fortunately for him, there are none.

Dilbert: As I was going to say, I appear to be in a bit of a pickle. I have a golden opportunity before me, with only John Bradshaw Layfield standing between me and the match I've been waiting for all my life; the chance to reign supreme as World Champion!

The Prince of Insufficient Light stares off into the distance, clearly mesmerized by the vision of himself with the belt. His idiot co-workers would finally be required to recognize his greatness, and once and for all, he would be honored as he so richly deserves! Alas, his reverie was to be shattered, by a very unfortunate realization.

Dilbert: Dammit. I have two... two and a half small matters in my way. JBL is enough for any man to deal with, given that any time he enters the picture, he brings a protective ring of sycophants and lawyers with him, to cover his ass. That, by itself, I can deal with. The problems are the DiBiase brothers and their little tagalong. Bradshaw I can beat. Bradshaw and his pansy goons? No problem. But throw in two self-declared so-called champions with pockets full of dough and delusions of grandeur, and the math becomes a bit more complex. Add a potential venereal disease to the mix, and the odds suddenly tip violently in their favor.

Dilbert pulls out a faded Rolodex. Clearly, for all his technological savvy, sometimes the old ways are the best.

Dilbert: When the ledger is balanced against you, only one thing to do: raise the stakes. I'm not a big fan of 4-on-1 odds, but if I could take it back down to mano-y-mano, victory will be mine. It looks like I need to hire an outside consultant, to handle some of these extraneous matters. Only question is, who?

Dilbert flips through his Rolodex. He starts at the very beginning, which is a very good place to start.

Dilbert: No. No. No, no... Hmmm... Blazing Phoenix. BP and I worked together quite well, back in the day. Has it really been that many years? I feel like a completely different person than I was back then. Of course, I was. Fortunately, I've suppressed that little bit of lunacy. Not good for your performance review to come in dressed like a preacher and smacking yourself on the forehead.

Perhaps I should leave BP out of this. I suspect the old, bad habits will come flooding back again. NORGLEBEEP!

Dilbert clamps his hands over his mouth in shock. This could NOT be happening to him now. His eyes roll back into his head as though he were addressing someone else in there.

Dilbert: NO! You are dead and buried, do you hear me? I am in control!

Co-Worker: That's what they all say, you lunatic. Play with your dolls or something.

The sudden interruption brings Dilbert back to his senses, though it makes him no happier.

Dilbert: Those are COLLECTIBLES, damn you, and they're worth more money than the total product of your pitiful little brain to date!

*deep sigh* Anyway, now that that unwelcome little interlude is over, I had best move on. I have business to attend to, and the report is due too soon.

Hastily flipping past BP's phone number, Dilbert settles on another name.

Dilbert: Ah, Mr. Hellmann. A sure sight saner than my other business associate, as was I when I worked with him. Not much of one with the fighting, though he certainly has the money to go toe to toe with either JBL or the fortunate sons in the business world. Sadly, my projections indicate that a simple hostile takeover won't relieve me of the problem at hand. Some other time, I suspect.

Pages pass by in a flash.

Dilbert: Now here's a possibility: Richard Warwick. For all he looks like a slob- for all he was a slob- he had what the French call a certain... I don't know what. Talent in the ring, the bulk to back it up,,, definitely the fighting spirit. He would do nicely.

It was just about then that Dilbert's eyes set on the picture of himself and his old tag team partner. Richard, to be specific, wearing his title belt as a bandanna. Dilbert could only roll his eyes and shake his head.

Dilbert: Ah, yes. Silly me. For a moment, I forgot he was an idiot. I'd best carry on, then.

Dilbert flips through several more names... until his eyes light up. This was perfect. He had his consultant.

Dilbert: Excellent! Now this is a man of substance. Calm, rational, intelligent, but with a bit of the fighting spirit. If any man can take care of the DiBiase brothers for me, it's him, no question. Now, the only matter for me is to focus on my core competency... namely, handing John Bradshaw Layfield his ass on a gold-plated platter.

Dilbert whirls around to his computer, and bangs out a few lines, before turning back around.

Dilbert: This damnable TTP Project Summary Executive Summary will drain the life from me yet. What was wrong with the first summary? Can they not handle a clear, concise 47 pages? But never mind that. JBL, you've had what I want. You've been a world champion, and I haven't. You're rich, and clearly, I'm not. But you're going to suffer at Shockwave, and I won't. I'll enjoy every last minute, as I tear you limb from limb. You rich punks make me sick, flaunting your money while you oppress the people who create your success. I want my slice of what you have, and I'll take it right out of your hide if I have to. At Shockwave, you will feel the fires of Heck rising, lapping at your throat. You will watch as the Prince dims your insufficient light. And you will be crowned, by the King of the Cubicle.

And Ted? Mike? Ashley? My consultant is coming. He has my back, and will plant the knife in yours. Funding's been cut, boys. Your project is about to be terminated.

FADE TO BLACK.

Recent

Articles

Options

Stats

Members

Stats

Users Online

Words of Wisdom