Lopaty a Vykořisťovatelé (Shovels and Exploiters)

Immerse yourself in the world of work with exaggeration and humour!

Zero accountability. Cool at any price. And most of all, beware of the rapacious Exploiter! If he could, he’d skin the poor Shovels. And if they could, they would steal all his property. It’s a pity that statute labour has been abolished and that drones are not allowed to be used in companies.

The hyperbole and humour with which Jaroslav Kuboš, coincidentally ourtechnical director, explores the world of work from the perspective of company owners and their employees, not only entertains the reader, but also shows through two incompatible perspectives that nothing in the world of work is black and white.

The book has the ambition to make everyone laugh and outrage. It’s up to the reader to be outraged or to take the criticism in stride and realize something.
I think that one humorous situation can point out the problems in companies better than hundreds of dry sentences. I have collected a lot of stories from my surroundings for the book, but in many of them I am the main actor. Both on the side of the Shovel and on the side of the Exploiter. So I don’t just shoot at others, but often at myself too.

– Jaroslav Kuboš, author

The book has made it to the Magnesia Litera 2023 longlist!

You can buy the book in the e-shop of Host publishing house, if you wish to have the author’s signature or dedication, just write to jaroslav.kubos@navigo3.com, the author will be happy to sign the book for you. If you use the codeNavigo in your cart, you will get 30% discount on the book.

Excerpt from the book

Exploiter

I’ve been observing the difference between the Shovels and myself for perhaps as long as I can remember. Certainly from the moment my nanny drove me around our castle park in a golden pram. Even then I observed a world so different from mine, noble and rational. A world of existences that weld crash wings to their twenty-year-old Felicia, stick lightning bolts on the sides, put red seat covers on the seats and cut off the exhaust. Existences whose lives are full of bad decisions and illogical actions. Existences that stink of the crown. It is quite obvious that something like this must be hereditary. How else can they explain not sending their children to private schools? He’s not going to teach them to ski in Aspen or buy them investment property? What are they expecting then?

Shovels – simply those who must obey. Manuals. Children. Idlers. Trade unionists. Comrades. Working class. Blue and white collars, much frayed. In short, all those strange existences that try to work for us, the Exploiters. Where you put them in the morning, you’ll find them in the evening. And if sometimes – quite rarely – they show some initiative of their own, it ends in disaster. And I’m still paying them for it! Shovels should kiss my feet that they don’t have to send kids begging. But I won’t get any gratitude from them anyway. It is not to be spoken of too loudly, at least not since the proletariat began to rule the world, but my private tutor informed me of it. It is scientifically proven that there are two types of people, and I am the winning type. My clan has always tried to prevent interbreeding, which would destroy it. It’s better to marry your own cousin than Shovel. That makes sense, blood is not water. All the noble families that have died out have tried it with a DNA shovel.

There can be no question of style, class, elegance, or even grace in these creatures. They drink beer from a bottle, pee in the sink and scratch their asses like monkeys. White socks, sandals, camouflage bermudas and a greasy uniform are their typical attire. Complete with a plastic bag, of course. Only when they win tickets to the theatre in a radio contest do they throw on a faded sweater. I don’t need to add that they have claws sticking out of their sandals through their leaky, once-white socks, which would make even a quarter-mountain sabre-toothed tiger ashamed. The exposed parts of the body are usually decorated with a tattoo in the shape of a skull in males, or in the form of barbed wire wrapped around the arm in females. An indispensable accessory is the cheapest cigarette, eternally burning in the corner of the mouth. Children included.

In terms of character traits, such Shovels can be compared to jackals. As long as I keep my gaze on them, they are bobbing their heads and shaking with their tails tucked between their legs. As soon as I let them out of my sight, however, they become all-powerful, vicious beasts, attacking in packs and from ambush. An individual will never stand up to resistance on his own, he does not have the courage to do so.

However, being a humanist and an enlightened person and a lifelong learner, the biographies of successful people who rose from Shovels to Exploiters have not escaped my attention. It gnawed at me for a long time, until I finally came up with an explanation – left-handers. I may have a few of those too – with a maid, a cook and a gardener. In such a left-handed man, the Exploiter and the Shovel fight. He looks like a nobleman, but underneath the thin skin he’s a boor.

Even as a little boy I longed to call them all: “Work better, faster and cheaper! Think about work! Obey the higher moral principle and stop stealing!” But they, the dullards, don’t understand me. They go on making rubbish, committing mayhem, loafing and stealing.

Shovel

I feel like they’ve been coming after us forever. My great-grandfather went to Marquis Gere’s mines and burned to death in a methane explosion caused by a cigarette butt that the debauched Marquis threw in. In her youth, my grandmother was beaten with a whip by the evil peasant Brůna when she tried to steal three potatoes. She needed to feed her ten siblings. During the First Republic, our family had a career as shoe shiners for the Barrandov elite. It was just better during the socialist era. There was always enough material on the dismantled housing estate to build a beautiful shumper on your own. And in the holidays we could go camping somewhere, once even to Jugoski. But then came the wild nineties. Enterprising smart guys in purple suits, factory bankruptcies, couponing. When the teacher told us about serfs at school, I had the persistent impression that if I lived in the Middle Ages, I would be one of them.

The exploiters are the ones I have to listen to. Papalazzi. Headhunters. Big animals. Grandmasters. The deputies. Entrepreneurs. Well, just all those guys with a silver spoon shoved up their asses who feel like they’re more than us. But the truth is elsewhere. They’re the laziest creatures that ever existed. You come into the company when I’m already on my break in the middle of my shift. They have absolutely no idea what we actually do at work, but they have millions of ideas and improvements that they push on us. If I screw up because of their princely advice, it’s on my bonuses, of course. But when he brags about the result, not a word about me.

They have a fixed feeling that the Tuzex-style block, eating half-rotten Argentine steaks, holidays in luxury hotels and behaving like a TV course on water etiquette makes them better people. But the opposite is true. They’re lighting their cigars with 5 grand, but when they fire Shovel, they argue with her over the last 5 grand. When you need to show how grand they are, hold an involuntary charity fundraiser among the Shovels and then pass it along on behalf of the company. They prattle on about the importance of loyalty, but once they take advantage of a person, they ditch them without a shred of compassion. Their secretaries are all single mothers who write books from the red library that my old lady reads all the time. Except there’s this contrived happy ending, where she lives happily ever after with a millionaire. Well, simply, the Exploiters are huzzah on top, yuck on the bottom.

The same principle they use to build their families. A blonde muse winds up with a twice-aged Exorcist at a Christmas party like a 15-year-old at a disco winds up with the captain of the football team. Even their kids are like something out of a magazine. They’re in ten clubs each and they’re national champions in at least five of them. When this muse, God forbid, has to talk to the plebs, she drops amazing lines like, “Don’t worry about it, your Pete failed second grade math. Our Vilibald recently got a B in third grade in partial derivatives!” Or, “My husband took me on a private jet to Bali for our tenth wedding anniversary. And how did you celebrate your love?” But the Exploiters are the ultimate posers. If only because they change the muse at least three times in their lifetime. She starts taking antidepressants and the kids usually end up in a nuthouse.

Looks like the cards are dealt. There is simply Them and Us. And there’s nothing you can do about it. Or is it? There are exceptions. I know one such case myself – Marka from the neighbors. My parents were complete Shovels, my mother massaged udders in the cowhouse, my father was a tractor driver (and an alcoholic). But Marka worked her way up. Now she’s printing all kinds of funny t-shirts and riding around in a BMW. Simply a big businesswoman. I bought myself a nice T-shirt with the Che Guevara logo on it. It’s a great way to get a vein in the Exploiter’s temple throbbing. Anyway, Marka calls herself the boss and goes to bed in a costume! Where did it come from? Did the district secretary knock up her mother and pass on the Exploiter genes? I also remember a few falls on my face. Bastards from wealthy families who squandered their parents’ money and ended up in a fete under a bridge. They had a great life, but they fell in with the Shovels, or even deeper. No, I’m kidding, you can’t go any lower than the Shovel.