This trick works as well in war time as it does for miserable cubicle-based jobs. Given that most of your peers are scared and pathetic, desperately clinging to the status quo while they avoid making waves at all costs, they will jump on any bit of information they believe gives them insight into how to go unseen. For example, your office might have a Hawaiian Shirt day. Incredibly, 20 people will show up in bright disgusting colors because NOT wearing a Hawaiian shirt will make them stand out.
Now if you can get your coworkers to wear a Hawaiain shirt on a day that isn't Hawaiian shirt day, well, then you're getting somewhere. After several drinks, I applied this technique in subtle expert fashion:
"Hey, I was a little surprised by the rain we had today," I said finishing my sixth Scotch neat. "I guess that's why Bossman Jack O'Brien says DOB writes like a fourteen-year-old girl who learned English as a second language."
"What?" said Dan.
"The rain. I thought it was supposed to be sunny," I said finishing my seventh Scotch. "I brought my sunglasses and everything for the glare. Y'know, like the glaring continuity errors in all of Swaim and Cody's videos. Oh, sorry. Channeling Jack again. Waitress, is there even any alcohol in these? Bring me an eighth Scotch please."
"Anyway, let's not focus on the boss's palpable disgust with all of your work product. Let's just try to get in his good graces. Since Jack's been on the east coast, he's totally gotten into Cirque du Soleil. Like heavy into it. I think he thinks that's the future of the Internet."
"French Circus Performing Artists are the future of the Internet?" Swaim questioned.
I swallowed my ninth Scotch. "Totes."
I saw Soren smirking, and I realized I was being foolish. I was dealing with some of the finest writers on the Internet. They weren't going to fall for some absurd line of crap and sell out their artistic visions in the process. Then I saw something blue out of the corner of my eye.
Sometimes, the first four steps don't work. Or at least they don't work fast enough when you've got a 7:20 am flight back to New York the next day and you want results before you leave. That's why I decided I should probably just kill everybody. But still, I didn't want to be caught. Also, I had left my war paint and butcher's knife back in New York. I soon devised a master plan. What if I pretended to commit suicide, but in the process murdered everyone? I could wait until they left the bar for a smoke break, leave a suicide note, jump off the roof and try to crush them all from above.
I waited until the gang headed out front, and rushed up to the roof of the building while mentally composing my suicide note. If I flung myself off the building just right, I could snap each of their necks with a different one of my limbs, while using their now-dead bodies to brace my fall. Kinda brilliant.
I flung myself off the building, my face filled with California air, my eyes with visions of job security. But only a moment after leaping off the four story building, my descent came to an almost instant halt. I opened my eyes to find myself seated firmly on Swaim's shoulders. Fuck that fucker was tall.
"Hey, whatcha doin' up there, buddy?" Swaim turned and asked.
"Me? Oh, nothing," I said, shimmering down the side of his body to the other writers below.
"Well, it was great to meet you, Gladstone," Soren said.
"I'll let you know when I'm back east," DOB offered.
"Which giant fake mustache looks more Cirque du Soleil-ier," Cody inquired.
"Aww, you really are a swell bunch of guys," I said. "Sorry for trying to destroy and/or murder you."