Satire writer struggling with deadline decides to write about himself

The internet is a many-splendoured thing, but it has utterly failed to help me write a piece that will fill up column space.  

I even joined a work meeting an hour before the deadline. A work meeting, too, is a many-splendoured thing. But even that failed to jumpstart the satire muscle calcifying in my brain.

Over the past week, I have been asking writers to help me out, throw me a bone, bone me a throw, anything, really. Anything but this would have done. But no, they came up with a watertight excuse -- they have jobs.

I had dreams about the graphics boss, who always does me a favour by extending deadlines while also reminding me that I was always missing them, which just makes me feel guilty. I dreamed about hitting him repeatedly so he would fear me instead of the other way round. That dream won't come true.

In the meantime, I procrastinated till the last moment, which is what procrastinators do, and I am a procrastinator. I started panicking during the work meeting, which surprisingly gave me no tropes to work with.

That's a lie actually; it was full of tropes, but this week they were too specific. I mean, to use any of the material I gleaned from the work meeting today would be a dead giveaway. The bosses would know what I did. I could use them two weeks later, by which time they would have forgotten that they told us to be grateful about being paid. But I needed the writeup, like, yesterday.

Oh, will you look at that -- 281 words. Another day, another taka.