"Oh, hello there, Joy Boy," said Charles, spinning around in his chair. "In a certain regard, you might say that, yes, I have an early deadline. Or, more precisely, that I had a deadline. A deadline to stop enabling ugsome and ill-begotten evil-walks-the-earth scoundrels and swindlers from taking all of the glory and the profit from my hard work and talent. However, my dear friend," Charles continued, looking to the floor as he shook his head. "How I let it pass. How I let it pass by being roped into their mind-numbing, zombie-yielding tactics. A yearly review. A Christmas insult. That mollycoddling worry: What will I do without health benefits? 401k? Oh Joy Boy, dear Joy Boy, this smokescreen they've created in order to run our lives and thieve our labor. Our days, our years, our very lives, I say!" Charles leapt up suddenly, raising his hands in the air. "Management by fear: knocking us down and making us fear that we will be lost without them. And all the while keeping us baited with a little something, or a little nothing, which is always just around the corner. Like this putrid mug!" he said, grabbing the TV Talon mug from his desk. "And so we live our lives, or we continue to breath while our lives pass, spending each day washed away from reality in thoughts of what little treat awaits just around the corner -- ooh what is it? what is it?" he said, prancing around in front of his desk on his tippy-toes as Little Red Riding Hood with her basket, "is it a five-cent piece of bazooka? Or maybe a two-dollar gift certificate to the bookstore? -- and we keep waiting for what's around the corner, waiting for what's around the corner, until finally we round that corner and we get what we deserve for being such weak fools -- a coffin! That's it, it's over . . . hold these nails, will you please, and step in, chap? Yes, that's it, just lie down right there, you've got the idea. Yes, Joy Boy, but they are deft in what they do, and I must say I have to give them credit, as they've succeeded in duping me for four years to the day. And when I leave, this chair will be filled by another wide-eyed starling who'll begin unwittingly tapping away his or her life into nothingness. Oh, do I have a deadline, you ask. I'll say I've got a deadline," Charles concluded, placing the mug back on his desk as he looked to Joy Boy. "But look at you!" he remarked, with a change of demeanor, "you're looking rather happy today, quite a turn around from the sorry state you were in yesterday!"

"Oh yeah," Joy Boy said, sitting down at his desk. "Had a little spat with Flyaway yesterday, but things are looking up again. I'm sure that by the end of today everything will be worked out."

"Oh, those women," Charles began. "Their incongruous thoughts can ruin even the best of times. Marplots, really," he said. "Nothing but unbridled higgledy-piggledy running rampant inside of their heads. My experiences prove it. One pippy dame after another, each more hell-bent than the next on conjuring up drama and confrontation out of thin air, like some sort of black magic sorcery. The only thing you need to know about women," Charles continued, "is that each and every one of them refuses to log on to logicandreason.com. Yes, their thought patterns are the very model for efficiency-defiance. Oh, but they don't mean it, and once you know the magic phrase, you can look forward to a lifetime of serenity: Yes dear, you're right. It's a keeper, give it a whirl when you get a chance. The sun will shine brighter, the air will smell sweeter and your head will stop spinning. Yes, women," Charles said, "what a unique creature, indeed. I gave up on them long ago."

"But, you're married," Joy Boy noted.

"Exactly," Charles said. "That is to say, yes dear, you're right." Charles spun back around in his chair and began once more tapping furiously at his keyboard.