The Target Spirit-Killing Chant

Why am I always surrounded by shiny happy gung-ho sheeple?  At The Red, there are little meetings called Team Huddles.  They are impromptu gatherings in various aisles during the shift.  Huddles are meant to gather up the Borg drones and disperse orders and other store information.  If you come across one of these while shopping for toys and patio furniture, please, try not to stare.  There are bound to be at least two worker drones that are not yet fully assimilated into The Red Collective.  If you make eye contact with this version, you may get in tune with their brutal inner-mind screaming and your ears may start to bleed.

Occasionally, one of the life-long "retail work is the greatest job ever" managers, will do something in the huddle that makes me want to tear open one of the cutlery sets and wield a serrated steak knife around.  At the end, we all must thrust our fists into the center of the huddle circle and one worker chants.  My inner ear lid automatically shuts at this time, for my own mental safety, so I do not recall what is actually said.  I'm usually quite adept at reading lips, but at this point my eyes are filled will red and I can't see a damn thing.

This brings me to a quandary.  What is the exact purpose of this fisting-chant thing?  Is it really to drain every ounce of chutzpah left in The Red's drone workforce?  Is it really meant to club the baby seal of thought out of the mob?  Is it... come on I could go on forever.  Or maybe it is that the average Target worker is completely devoid of any longing for a better life.  Maybe they have never uttered something like:  "Hey, there has to be something more to life than straightening shelves for 9 hours a day with only a federally mandated 45 minute break."  I reckon that in the manager's mind, all the fists together and the lone drone chanting is designed to brainwash the thinking-challenged in a cult-esque manner.  I don't need to be part of some collective team spirit bullshit to make me all warm and fuzzy inside.  That's why I hate organized sports.  I'm a lone wolf baby.  I maybe over analyzing, but I don't think so.

So please, when you are wandering around The Red with your little toy aisle destroying asshole of a kid, rest assured, that somewhere in the back room, there is drone unhooking his head clamp from the pod and is happily ready to straighten the Lego aisle.  Yay! Target.

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