I Wish I Had A Slide And A White Board
Over the past couple of days we’ve read about two different people who had finally reached the point of no return with their jobs. One - Mr. Steven Slater — spouted some profanity, grabbed a couple of beers and went for a ride on a slide. The other is a woman named Jenny who quit using a series of photos which she e-mailed to every person in the office. At the conclusion of the pictures, Jenny eventually exposes her bosses internet indiscretions. (Author’s note: this has since been admitted that it’s a hoax but it’s hilarious nonetheless.) In that same vein, I thought that I would relate to you one of the worst bosses I ever had and see if you could out do me, or our two new heroes.
One week out of every month I get the privilege of sitting in a meeting room with several elected officials, every one of which is my superior, for approximately 12 hours over two days. I know that this isn’t unusual and I’m sure many of you spend far more time in meetings than I, but what is so jaw-shatteringly frustrating is that those 12 hours could easily be reduced to six. I swear that by retirement my teeth shall be worn down so far as to make my face resemble that of an Alabaman’s mother’s sister’s uncle’s cousin’s husband’s daughter’s toothless maw. You must understand that I work for individuals that may be considered rough and thoroughly rural by urbanized folk. It is not uncommon to devote an hour or more discussing “the crop” or so-and-so’s brother who bought something at an auction, or just generally bullshitting for more time than I have to spare. Unfortunately I cannot remind these Deer Hunter rejects that every minute I spend with them is another minute I’m falling behind.
The larger issue with these meetings is in the company that they must be shared with. While, in general, they are decent and well meaning folk; they can be so fucking ignorant that I want to remove their entrails with a spoon and strangle them with their own personal visceral noose. For example: there was one individual at my previous posting that was so socially inept that he couldn’t pick up on the most blatant hints that sometimes his behaviour wasn’t acceptable. Keep in mind that this is a 65 year old man, so it’s not like you could blame his ignorance on youthful idiocy. In the context of a professional meeting, this blight upon humanity would expulse the most noxious of gasses as loudly as possible, belch at the most inappropriate times, and generally share all of his bodily functions with the entire room. This would include defecating in the connected facility (even though there were other options) and leaving the door open so that we could all share its gratuitous, lactose intolerant aroma.
While these … habits were disgusting to say the least, it was the stupidity that finally set me off. I can handle bodily functions, as abhorrent as they may be, but I will not tolerate gross fucktardery. This pantheon of human intelligence insisted on having ice cream after every break for lunch. Sometimes we would go to a local restaurant and, even if we were running late and had a delegation attending the meeting, we would have to wait for his po-dunk ass to finish his ice cream. If we insisted that he not have his ice cream at the restaurant, he would wait until we got back to the council chambers and obtain his treat from the four-litre pail he kept in the refrigerator freezer. On a couple of occasions we had government ministers attending our meetings and, even then, the knuckle dragger would be sitting there, slurping his ice cream, out of a bloody coffee cup. It’s very hard to be taken seriously when one of your elected officials is licking a mug of god damned butter ripple.
The final straw was when I caught him chewing gum. It’s bad enough that he’s chewing it like a cow with its cud, but then I notice that it just disappears. No swallow, no trip to the garbage can, just gone. After the meeting when everybody was gone, I checked under the table. The chocolate-chunk chewing cur had actually been sticking his gum to the bottom of the table for fucking years! Who the hell does that? I don’t think highschoolers do that anymore, never mind a 65 year old retiree. The next meeting I bided my time. I watched that geriatric prick like a fat cheetah stalking a very old, very stinky, very cerebrally challenged gazelle. There was the grab, and the stick! I produced my weapon, an eight-inch blade of cold, reflective stainless steel and pounced! As I placed the butter knife into his hand I said, “You had better get to work.” Damned if he didn’t clean every fossilized wad off of the underside of that table and complain about his bad knees the entire time. While he certainly wasn’t the only reason I left that position, he definitely contributed to my flight.
I know most of you can beat that. Who is that one person you have or had to work with that just drove you absolutely bat-shit crazy? And I don’t just mean your standard assholiholic, I mean that person that you look at every day and wonder how the mongrel remembers how to breathe. Or, give me a tale of sweet sexy vengeance. The bloodier the better.