Little Miss Corporate

Jessica’s constant gloating about her grad position is like using the party potato salad to relieve your yeasty itch: it makes her feel good but leaves everyone else feeling a bit sick.

In her mind, being offered a $50k entry level finance position has redefined the notion of human achievement. In one fell swoop, she has Gillard’d herself above her peers and stands as a role model for women, nay, humans everywhere.

Like most Wall Street ballers, Jessica occupies the top 1% of her parent’s dwelling. Without the need to slay the demons of rent and bills, she is free to spend her salary on power suits, heels and leather document holders.

Basically, she dresses exactly like the sort of shit head who says she will “pencil you in”, despite her entire day consisting of making coffees for man-gunted fat cats who leer-dream about her juicy spreadsheets.

Most of her day consists of sending people Linkedin requests and being Facebook’s biggest shit-eater. How does one achieve this? By “checking in” to work every morning and showboating work she’s barely involved in:

“Getting ready to value a client’s assets for a float… think i’m going to need a coffee… or three! haha #justfinancethings”.

It’s exactly the sort of status that leaves her friends looking at their screens like Elliot Stabler looks at vicious felonies.

It’s now Thursday, and Jessica attends a corporate wankfest sundowner. A meet & greet that will allow her to demonstrate her “value” and what a strong female role model she truly is.

That is until she has necked 2 glasses of mid tier wine and sends the 2IC a Linkedin message strongly implying she would like to go at the man’s soggy booze-noodle like an Asian businessman sucks on a ciggy.

Sometimes to stand tall, you have to get on your knees. Lo & behold, she is already winning. She is given permission to use a colleague’s office for 2 days while he is on leave.

She snaps more photos than a Belmont janitors toilet cam and relentlessly posts the news of her “office” on social media. Clearly, she was born without the segment of her brain that gauges whether people give a shit or not.

A knock on the door disturbs her online gloating. It’s a young sparky who needs to wire some shit. She barely acknowledges his blue-collar existence as she grunts and moans every time the pleb asks her to move. She fires off a text to her friend, “omg gross like a tradie is in my office, smells like sweat”.

Nah he smells like someone who earns twice your salary you she-schmuck.

Documenting the Human Zoo is thirsty work, so if you enjoyed what you read how about buying Belle a beer, ay?