Stamped: August 26th, 2005 | Toggle Similar
Tagged: work.

If you've ever been to a bar (which would mean you have to have a social life so if you don't go ahead and skip to the previous entry) you're pretty fucking used to seeing the pretty girl with the dog-face by her side. You know, how it goes — it's like the animals in the Africa…there's the weak one and there's the strong one. Well, at my time-waster of a job, I am the strong pretty one and my boss is the dog-faced, limping wildebeest that's about to get the smackdown.

Thing is - nobody seems to realize that yet, except for me.

Where I work isn't important, except you gotta know that I work in one of those Hollywood companies where what you drive defines you, where what you eat defines who will go out with you, and where what you wear defines how much money you make. It's where a self-conscious, no-backbone, sad, angry little woman with no home life gets an Exec. VP job and tells someone who is smarter than them and better looking than them to do shit just for the sake of doing shit. Little does the limping bitch realize, but her secrets are not only her secrets — but they're pretty close to being printed somewhere for everyone to read and if she doesn't get the hell off my back she's going to feel the full force of these bitches' claws.

Bitch has got claws, baby. And they're sharp.

So the no-backbone dogfaced Mercedes driving wench calls me from her car just as I'm sitting down this morning at 9:15AM (I'm not even supposed to be there until 9:30 but I come in early sometimes to go through her shit) and wants to start rolling calls — but this is how idiotic she is… She knows no one is even in their office yet, but because she's such a friggin coward, she has us put in calls to all these people so she doesn't have to talk to them. Then they call back and she's busy and we put the return call back in around lunchtime when she knows they'll be gone again. This can go on for days if she doesn't have the courage to just speak her fucking mind. Which she doesn't. Anyway, this morning in particular she calls me not to roll calls like I figured but because she wants me to go out and get her, wait for it now cause here it comes — a portable enema from the fucking Rite Aid Pharmacy.

Uh, excuse me?

Yeah, I heard her right. She doesn't know what exactly they're called or what kind she wants (and neither do I) but she's telling me that I have to get her one so she can (yes) USE IT today. She says to me, and I'm not shitting you (no pun intended): "Oh, Missy — I have been eating like shit all week and you know I can't purge so…this is the better alternative. You'll have to show me how to use it, okay?"

When did her ass suddenly become my business? Until I'm kicking her out ON IT because I've taken over her job, I have no reason to even go near that big fat sphere of flab. I tell her I don't want to leave the phones and she screams at me to go get her the damn enema and so I hang up on her and think of a better way to handle it. I wait about five minutes, then call her back on her cell sounding all panicky and I tell her that on my way out the President of the company was walking in and asked me where I was going… And that I told him I was heading to the Pharmacy to pick up an enema for dog-face.

What's her face screams her bloody head off.

I just laughed. Cause, well, it was fucking funny. And now she's gonna be walking down the halls with her ass to the wall, just because she thinks people will be talking about her. And she won't ask anyone if the story's true because she won't want to bring it up. It's brilliant, if I may say so myself.

A few dozen more of these and she'll be out of her mind. Maybe she'll even have to go on one of those retreat weekend things where they make her feel better about herself. Like before.

Last 5 posts by Missy

• Bad Week, Part II - September 8th, 2005
• Possessiveness - September 5th, 2005
• Stank-Ass Matt - September 1st, 2005
• No, You May Not Suck My Toe - August 30th, 2005