The 556th Post About People Not Like Me, Who I Can't Stand Because Of That Fact

Hey folks, what's good? I'm at work on New Year's Eve and it's a skeleton crew here. There are literally only 7 people in a 50 person office. Most people, myself included, are taking the time to clean up their cluttered offices so that they can come back to a uncluttered New Year. I did that shit in record time, basically by shoving most of the shit into the garbage. If I didn't need it at this juncture, hell, I won't need it. Plus, most of it is me being CC'ed on some FYI shit that the staff sends me to let me know what they're doing. This is the big secret: I don't give a fuck what they're doing, as long as they aren't getting me in trouble by not producing.

The thing is, one of the people that showed up today is my secretary. I was filing the shit I actually needed to keep and she came in and had a hurt look on her face. My first reaction was to ask her "What's the matter?". She said nothing and started to ask me what she came in there to ask me, which was for something to work on.

Now, folks, I know everybody's not like me. I don't pretend to understand y'all. But if my boss was doing something that I was supposed to do, and it was a menial task, I'd welcome that shit. Less garbage shit I have to do. Second, why the fuck on New Years Eve are you asking me for shit to do? Play solitare, surf the internet, knit a gotdamn sweater, go suck your boyfriend's dick for a few hours. What do I care? I don't give a fuck. Stop needing to be gotdamn LED so much. I get paid to lead. Can I get a day off? There's nothing to lead you to do. Nothing. No phone calls, no walk-ins. Nothing.

On Christmas Eve, I let everybody go home at 2:00, mainly because I had to drive to Detroit and I wanted to get a head start. Today, I have no where to be but here, but I was still considering letting them go. She's making me rethink that shit. I mean, what the fuck would she do with the free time? She'd probably ask me "What should I do with the rest of my day?" Fucking idiots.

Peace,
KZ

Scarabanga Muffiglio

My job is ok. Some aspects at least. The long stretches of doing nothing and dodging meetings are the best. The worst part is budget time and staff shit. I got a employee that has this high level of puppy dog enthusiasm. She always needs a bone (please folks, follow the metaphor). I toss her the bone and she runs back to me with it and drops it at my feet. And I throw it again. She never gets tired.

But I do. I'm constantly passing off my shit to her because she THRIVES on it. She always needs and asks for more. I give her shit that I think will keep her occupied for days, she's done in hours. You'd think I'd love that right? You'd be wrong.

I actually wrote about this shit a little over 2 years ago, but I was filled with vitriol. Now I'm more philosophical about it.

It MAKES so much more work for me to make sure she's occupied. My other employees don't want me to bother them, and I don't want them to bother me. It's the perfect relationship.

I also have to deal with ass-kissers. The latest thing is one of the secretaries, Office Broccoli, is in my office trying to clean it up for me. Site plans, blueprints and maps are everywhere and she's rolling them and arranging them alphabetically. She's lingering, making general observations, and basically just hanging around. Of her own accord. I didn't ask her nor do I want her to do it, but she's here. I can't complain really because my office is getting clean, but shit, I'd rather be left alone in my filth.

As you can tell, I really don't have that much to complain about. I'd just rather be at home.

Peace,
KZ

Open Pit

Friday's are the shit in most cases. They are the beginning of the weekend. If you work a straight up 9 to 5, Friday is nirvana. But if you're me, and one of your staff people keeps begging you to come over for dinner so they can kiss your ass on "some Friday", it's pure hell. Especially since they remind you weekly that they'd really love to have you over, and also since it's this guy.

But I had this guy go above and beyond for this project. "Thanks, Dub, I owe you one." Why the fuck didn't I choose my words more carefully? "Well if you'd really like to pay me back, take me and my wife up on the dinner invitation."

I'm thinking, if this cat had a inkling of who I am, he'd leave me the fuck alone. I like people who allow me to be anti-social. But I'm not trying to hurt his filthy feelings. I accepted and went over to their crib for dinner on Friday.

What do I have in common with a 60 year old white couple and their 30 something son? Nothing. It was painfully clear. They were grilling this eve and the joy juice was plentiful. So I drank away the pain. Everything was a lot more bearable.

Sweet, sweet TAD was trying to help me out by calling me claiming to be stranded by the road and needing help. I fucked that up by not feeling the phone vibrate when she called.

His little round wife asked if I like asparagus. I responded affirmatively, vigorously. Dub C, my staff person, went to take the veggies, covered in olive oil, out to the grill in a dish. He made a pit stop. That's right, to the restroom, before he took them out to the grill. He came out of the bathroom post haste. I heard the toilet flush as he opened the door. No sink faucets were turned.

He made his way out to the grill, placed the dish by his side and began to manipulate the olive oiled veggies to make sure the were properly lubricated. With his hands. His bare hands.

I watched as he put the asparagus on the grill, once again with his bare hands, in horror. All I could do was pray.

Fuck these dubs, and fuck hospitality. People are fucking disgusting, and I'll be damned if I accept another invitation to a horror show. Satan's Anus earned it's name that night, with the inane conversation and the hours filled with "how did you get to upper management from the ghetto" type insinuation about my background.

I don't wanna talk to you about my life, I don't wanna hear about yours, and stop trying to feed me pissy asparagus!

That's all I got.

KZ