When I met Mr. Individual, he was standing besides his masters, like a slobbering golden retriever. They were all mediocrities, but I did not mind that. Individual was not even a mediocrity. His IQ was lower than that of a symidae. For many months, I was at the beck and call of this contemptible nonentity who oiled his way into a middle-class job by being totally ruthless in performing the moral equivalent of a blowjob for his eternal masters.
When the reporters come back in the evening after a hard day’s work, he looked like a happy man. They stood behind the desk of this cheerful fellow, giggling, with their hands covering their mouths, when he occasionally stopped to wonder, “Ideology ka spelling kya he?” If it were productivity or talent that mattered, an ambitious college smarty would have long replaced him. His masters had no intention to do so, for reasons best known to them. Useful idiots too have their uses.
Everyone wanted to believe that Individual was simple and humble because he was as dumb as a mule. A colleague once told me, “Individual is very, very dumb. He is also spineless. But, everyone thinks that he is nice because he is such a contemptible moron. I hate him more than anyone in the office.” Everyone was enduring the truth, but only the strong would have seen the obvious.
When he did things, he did it behind my back, pretending to not know what I was talking about. Then he asked the men at the copy desk with desperate earnestness whether they had any intention to publish “his boy’s” pieces tonight. When I left, many of them told me that they could bear anything, but not my writing about him. All the facts to the contrary were powerless to change what they wanted to believe.
When they often said that Individual is a very lucky man, it did not occur to them that this was a cruel joke. Deep down, they pitied him, but they often claimed that he was “sweet”. Sickeningly sweet. Like Mr. Marx, he too looked like a harmless creature, a perfect idiot whom any rascal can dupe. But, it is not clear who was duping whom. He had not just cheated his way into a job that he cannot handle. He had also conned them into believing that there was some great, mysterious virtue somewhere below, in someone who cannot spell “virtue”. His victory over them was permanent, and near perfect. But, the people who were sane felt contempt and revulsion. Given a chance, they would have spat on his face.
(From The Horror File in my secret diary.)