The buck has stopped here. Okay, fine, I can deal with whatever. I'm inured to it by now. Honestly, if I had a dollar bill for every buck that stopped with me I could finance a pole dancer's college education. Such are the economic realities of office policy.
Apparently someone was very busy surreptitiously passing the buck from desk to desk until its long journey finally ended at mine, materializing out of thin air like forgotten money falling from an old jacket pocket. I guess I'll just save this buck with the others that came to rest in my purview this fiscal year.
So the buck slowly reveals itself, crawling out of a sealed manila envelope marked 'Immediate Attention Required' in block capitals so the handwriting cannot be identified. Not that I care who's responsible. All the usual buck-passing suspects are equally as worthless as each other. Consequently individual culpability is irrelevant since any buck passer caught red-handed is merely replaced by yet another buck passer. It's a vicious circulation, so to speak, apparently without HR regulation.
No doubt I'll be required to explain the buck's provenance at some point in the future. The current rate of exchange is fifteen emails per buck; inter-departmental memos having fallen three-eighths of a percent against the rising email in recent trading. Fortunately, I can afford to take the hit. I've been working here so long I've become to big to fail.
And my vague 'In God We Trust' excuses and justifications do keep the higher-ups happy whenever a stopped buck is questioned. I call these exculpatory presentations "Quantitive Pleasing.' I have become the Federal Reserve of Failure.
Text written by me. Image produced by AI, obviously.
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