Since everyone seems to have a gist of the company, I bring to you instead:
A day in the life of THG Worldwide,:
It's a freezing cold, 5-degree January day and I begin my daily 1.5 hr commute by train (and foot) to the NBC Tower in Chicago, the home of my day job and nightmares. When my train arrives to the loop, I'm greeted by the automated Ogilvy Transportation Center voice, a perpetual cacophony of track number updates for people who cannot read. Much like the receptionist in Office Space: Track Number 1. Track Number 9. Track Number 8. Track Number 2. Track Number 3.
Corporate accounts payable, Nina speaking. Just a moment.
I traverse through the city in one of my two suits, watching the salt gather on my pants like herpes does on a Marcus Evans phone (I'll get to that later). I pass over the Chicago River with the NBC logo in sight and with one last f*k you for good measure a gust of 40 mph wind piercing my face I reach the NBC Tower.
No, I'm not a frequent contestant on Jerry Springer or NBC news anchor. I'm an 8th floor Marcus Evans THG Worldwide employee, and I'm riding up the elevator to begin an 8-hour day of hell, accompanied by my 40-something co-worker, who recently attempted to hook up with a craigslist casual encounters hooker only to find out it was his Marcus Evans colleague playing a prank. (Wait. Collegiality is improper here. There is no governance or purpose between any two employees in this company)
I get to the fully furnished, modern lobbythe same lobby that is the kicker for many first time employees and see some fresh meat waiting for their own pre-determined fate. Part of me wants to whisper run and hide to them, but part of me is satisfied that I wasn't the only one stupid enough to fall for this place.
The minute I scan my card and enter through the prison doors, I'm greeted with sights that define the company: work station tables lined with germ-infested phones circa 1985, white-trash looking employees—some hung-over, some just naturally ugly—an off-white kitchen overflowing with boxes of s*y coffee, filters and Swiss Mix, and the usual employees who just injected caffeine into their veins: Lady who bangs the bell for every worthless sale she makes with so much force she's like a carillonneur, Jon Stromberg, the GM who's yelling orders at 8AM to get decisions from Presidents and CEO's of major corporations.
I then sit at my desk and begin my day, but first I'm told to not drape my winter coat over my chair because it somehow denigrates the professionalism of the office (hours later a co-worker would tell a story of a bird flying out of a Vietnamese woman's vagina loud enough for everyone to hear).
I start by making 5 or 6 phone calls and lucky me I reach one such executive who promptly tells me to stop calling because another THG rep just did.in fact, 95% of the phone calls on this particular day end in the very same fashion.
An hour later I'm told we're going to do a power hour where everyone stands up for one hour while we make sales calls to executives. Everyone's pitch is the same, minus a few words here or there. And 99% of the time, people still fail.
During lunch time, they advise you do lead research, as if trading your much needed vent-time for information on reputable companies will drastically improve your chances of getting a sale. Even if this were the case, there are 5 computers (98 Windows included!) to share among 15 sales executive. Keyboards come with residual fingerprints from every employee who circled the ME grounds.
Another 60 calls and my day ends. Repeat two-mile walk.
Well folks, high income potential is possible in the long run, I mean just look at the GM!
All you have to do is trade your soul to the devil for 17 years of deceit and acidic business practices, maybe a BJ or two if you're a woman, and your there.
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