Saturday, November 19, 2005

Whacking Day...or Week

At the risk of being Dooced, I hate my fucking job and my fat fuck of a boss! Several inanimate objects were thrown, smashed, and generally disabled this week because of how much my job sucks. If I were smart, I would have photographed the things I broke to post here as evidence, and for a chuckle! Work has become increasingly difficult for me, which is something I kind of expected. Just sitting right now writing this is for 20 minutes is uncomfortable, so imagine sitting at a desk all day, or standing in the lab. Also, driving has become something of a problem for me, as you'll remember. Actually, things in that department have gotten worse, in that the only comfortable driving position for me is with my seat back as far as it can go, the recline back as far as it can go, and my right arm up over hy head. This is problematic because I drive a 5-speed, and I need that arm to shift. Luckily, most of my commute is highway. Finally, within my work group, I'm one of the more productive employees. I'm not bragging, really, because most of the other people in my group are either unbelievably lazy, stupid or both. So I'm really just the cream of the shit. I am usually assigned higher priority projects because, well, I can complete simple tasks on a deadline without my head exploding. Until lately, that is. The stress factor has gotten out of control with me in my regular life, what with boy-child and the holidays and all, and work is just the icing on the fucking cake. So I decided to be proactive and speak with my boss about this. My boss who weighs 300 pounds, has a broken front tooth and a head shaped like a potato. These things are all true, by the way. His incredibly corporate response was something you might read in a 'How to be a seizure-inducing middle manager in 10 easy steps' handbook. First he told me how glad he was that I shared with him. I wanted to say, 'Listen you dumb fuck, I'm not sharing with you because I want to be pals and tell you all about my period. I'm "sharing" with you because you are in the position to do something here to make my situation more bearable!' The remainder of the conversation went like this:

Fat Fuck Boss: I'm not really going to do anything about this. Continue to work at the same pace and intensity and just try to not let the stress get to you.
Me: Smashing, coupled with crying.

I'm paraphrasing a little. Also, I didn't start smashing until he was gone. The very next fucking day he was back up my ass asking for reports and data that he knew would take a few days to write. I'm starting to think that the stomach pain I've been having is more stress related and not pregnancy related.

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