Move around. A brisk five-minute walk can make you more alert. If you work at a computer terminal, try standing up and marching in place for about five minutes. Stretching also may help.
Try marching in place. Be a trooper. You're economic infantry. March like you are a whore to your boss. He stands in the corner with his arms crossed, smirking as you march in place; he nods his head; he is proud of his trooper.
A co-worker of yours has noticed your marching for the past three minutes, but he thinks that you look ridiculous. It was only until the third minute that he noticed the boss in the corner, supervising your marching. Your co-worker streaches his arms above his head, twists his back - crack.
"Why don't you go for a brisk five-minute walk, Jennings?" The boss' voice snuck into Jennings' cubicle like Milford, the popping sweat ball who rolled his fat body into everyone's workspace at least twice every day, uninvited and smelly, and therefore disliked. Jennings disliked that fat ball of crap almost as much as he hated his boss' ridiculous commands; and don't get Jennings started on how foolish and pompous you look right now.
"You and you Goddamn marching." Jennings whispers under his breath as he gets up from his seat; he wonders if his sweaty ass has made a print on his rotating cloth chair. Even so, it's not as if the boss would say anything anyway; he's the type of man that loves being indiferent to the smell of a locker room.
"It'll make you more alert."
Jennings starts walking away from his boss at the pace of your dumbass marching in place, so he leaves the room quickly enough. Of course, as Jennings walks, he only thinks of that boss of his standing like a statue; an erect dumbass who wouldn't move if he pissed his own pants. Astute in his own right, he believes that every one of his workers look up to him as an authority figure. The bulge in his pants shows them that he has the keys to this place; he's the one who locks it all up at night; it's all his, and so are you.
As much as you know you look foolish, and as much as Jennings bugs you about it at the bar, you still don't mind marching in place in front of your computer terminal. It makes your boss proud, and that makes you proud. You start to imagine you and your boss at the gentlemen's lounge sipping scotch and puffing smoke from brown phallus.
"Feel good?"
Your five minutes is up; sit back down and disappear completely.
