Dear A4: Episode 3

Dear A4,


I am a model HD-10.
That’s right.
I say HD-10 and you know what I’m about. You can see me in your head. You hearda me.
At this point in my career, it is no longer boastful to say I have been through more paper than you could possibly imagine. It’s just a fact. After my first year, I thought it was easier to count them in reams. Now I don’t even bother.
First I started slow. Just memos. Two sheets at a time, six, seven times a day. standard stuff. Then word got around and I’m doing them practically a ream a day. Didn’t even need a break in between. Next thing you know, I’m doing whole proposals. I’m talking 16-pagers.
Nothing I couldn’t staple.
Secretaries? The fucking love me, man.
I mean, you bring em, you line em up, make em lie flat, I’ll staple em.
I’ll staple em good.
That is, until lately.
I dunno what’s up. I mean, one day, they bring in this new proposal and it’s nothing I haven’t done before like a dozen times in a row.
Then just before I’m about to penetrate, they stop.
They brought in this beautiful glossy attachment. A brochure.
Slim, glassy UV varnish and I’m not talking none of that cheap art card shit either.
This one was classy.
And then I panicked.
I’m just pushing through, just going straight into them and I’m reaching page 19, no problems. Fucking smoove.
But I see that attachment and I can’t push through. I can’t go in.
They tried changing the cartridge but it didn’t work.

Now I’m back doing memos.
Memos.
Little two-pagers!
You gotta help me man.


Max Stapler

Dear A4: Episode 2

Dear Zeerox,


First of all, let me set your mind at ease. You are not a murderer.

Murder is what O.J. Simpson did. Murder is singular, and in many cases, a crime of passion, completely out of one’s normal behaviour.

You, my disgusting little friend, are a perpetrator of mass genocide.
You are a metal, multi-featured, 50-pages a minute, page-collating, copy-sorting Hitler.
Have you no morals? No conscience, no shame? No SOUL?
Do you not feel anything as you lay waste to acres of forest?
Course you do, you sick twisted fuck.
You love it.
You live for it.
All those murderous, massacring MBAs cheering you on as you rip through another ream of paper. Paper that’s barely out of the wrapper.
Paper that coulda been something.
A blank canvass for poetry; designs for a new efficient mode of transport; the formula for a new energy source.
But you just cut that short you asshole.
You destroyed innocent potential.
And for what?
To perpetuate an entire generation of mediocrity? For people who couldn’t recognise an original idea if the words ‘original’ and ‘idea’ were arranged consecutively in a sentence?
I did some checking too.
You’re a bad speller.
The letter you sent me wasn’t the first draft was it dyslexia boy?
What was it? Four, five reprints before you got it right?
All the things they built into you and a spell-checker wasn’t one of them.
You coulda asked for help.
But you just reprinted anyway.
Because you secretly love this.
You did this to yourself.
And you’ll never change.
Do me a favour, don’t come crying to me you pathetic loser.
You make me sick.


A4.

P.S. Your mother’s lens is dirty from copying all that ass. Everyone knows it.