I feel like stabbing my eyeball with a paperclip the shape of Fozzie Bear. (The bear is now under construction.)
My boss had his performance review today and I don’t need a doctorate from Kiss My Ass University to know, it did not go well. He’s chucking a tanty under the guise of legitimacy, which makes me wanna photocopy my ass, sign it and post it to him via internal mail.
He just demanded something that I’ve already given him. He deleted it the moment he got it, unread; I know, because I’ve got access to his inbox and I saw that shit go down. Now he’s ripping me a new one and I just have to take it up the tail pipe.
“Suck my fat one, you cheap dime store hood.”
This is the line continually running through my head (courtesy of an 80s fav, Stand By Me). If a woman acted this way in such a senior position, she’d be tagged as overemotional and erratic. But my boss has a mangina, so just deal with it.
“Who ever told you you had a fat one, Lachance?”
“Biggest one in four counties.”
He sends me on a fools errand (is there any other kind?) to rip someone else a new one, via the gift of delegation (the gift that keeps on giving). It doesn’t go well, they return fire and give me a verbal instead. I’m but a ping-pong ball on the table of iniquity.
Is it a full moon, or were they handing out manginas at the train station this morning?
Now boss man is nitpicking over all of my tasks, demanding answers but talking over me as I try to give them. It’s now that I begin to revise my mental CV – not the doc which charts my experience with mental cases (not far off), but the virtual escape hatch from Crazy Town.
Coincidentally, this is the moment a coworker chooses to ask me when my contract expires, wondering if I’ll stay in the job. It’s on the tip of my tongue to mention there’s a better chance of me getting plastic surgery to look like Mickey Rourke in drag, but I let it go.