The senior manager sits, cheeks puffed like a frog, His calendar choked in a digital fog. “No bandwidth!” he gasps, through meetings at seven, While booking three more between four and eleven.

His inbox is a graveyard of threads marked unread, His slack has fifty tabs turning faces bright red. “I’d love to,” he wheezes, “but bandwidth is tight”— Then schedules a workshop on “Doing Things Right.”

But wait! There’s a savior, a solution so bright: “What if we just... let the robots write?” He waves at the engineers, coffee-stained, tired, “AI could do this! Should they be retired?”

He dreams of a future where ChatGPT codes While he orchestrates… something… from PowerPoint modes. His engineers smirk at their keyboards and wonder: If bandwidth’s so precious, who makes all the blunder?

For AI, he promises, works without sleep, No coffee breaks, no knowledge to keep. Just infinite tokens and infinite speed— Unlike his own team (who apparently don’t bleed.)

So here’s to the manager, puffed up with hot air, Who’d trade all his humans for silicon flair. Perhaps one day soon, AI will agree: “Your job’s the one that we should do for free.”

The senior manager lives, cheeks puffed like a frog, His calendar’s smoked in a digital fog. “No bandwidth!” he gasps intimately to heaven, Booking dozen of meetings through four and eleven.