You can Derelict my balls, Capi-tan.

Tonight. All is right with the world.

I’ve had happy champagne, ironically with the scourge of my current existence – my coworkers: Sidewinder, Mufasa and Obama.

Sidewinder you know, albeit in passing. Mufasa is the female Lion King to my fastly diminishing kingdom, Obama the beatific bite-sized politician who makes up the set. These are people who daily contribute to my crusty choleric and yet today, I enjoyed their company.

Contributing factors:
  • Champagne. (A cherubic chunk of it.)
  • The likelihood I’ll resign within the fortnight. (Yeah buddy.)
  • The fact I’m on leave next week, working on a film as a Production Assistant! (Unpaid, in case you think I’m a Disney character.)
  • Yep. That about covers it.

Ain’t it funny how people suddenly become warm, caring fuckers the minute you’ve got your exits covered? Or chimera caring, as the day may be. Get a load of this corker …

At 12pm I was told in passing (as one might impart what they ate for breakfast) that I had to move out of my current work desk by 5pm today. Here’s the kicker: they don’t have a new desk for me to move to. Yeah, you read right. I’m being made homeless. In my motherfucken workplace, yo. Not fired, just homeless.

Not only that, they’d known for weeks and hadn’t said a word.

Sidewinder tells me (conversationally over lunch) of the clandestine meeting which took place the moment I left the room this morning – whereby Mufasa suggests they don’t tell me at all. They should simply wait until I leave today and pack up my desk while I’m on leave (presumably to move me to the basement, sans stapler, like moribund Milton of Office Space lore). They actually convened over that shit.

Questions:
  1. Who are these people?
  2. What in the Sheryl Crow?
  3. Is this any way to do business?

And so on, and so forth.

Sidewinder tells me this as I picked out my pumpkin risotto (aka orange opium), then acts askance when I react in the negative. (Insert expletives here, Aussie style.)

Whatevs, yo. Twenty minutes before, as excellent timing is want to do, my old boss rang to tee up beers and confirm my references were checked for the job I interviewed for yesterday. A job within film – as vast and diluted as that industry may be. Not one in the most ideal direction and not where I design to end up, BUT! In FILM baby! I’m their first choice and he’s gonna reference the shit outta that puppy.

BOOYAR. Sock it to you.

So. As my mangled day came to a close, there I sat. Alcoholling with Mufasa, Obama and Sidewinder. Rather enjoying myself, as perversion would have it. Quick-firing quips which neither their political correctness nor intellect allowed them to catch; throwing caution to the westerly winds which phase my hairdo not.

The irony (in an Octomum family of ironies) is that Sidewinder has fought so hard for their good opinion, only to be shunted to the shady corners of the high-school yard; where I warmed those parasites to me as quickly as I emotionally exited, stage left. I foresaw a month of false farewells in my future before I faded into their obscurity, and they became faceless portraits in the Edvard Munch’s scream of my past.

How many times I’ve done this I care not to recall, but I knew the musical steps as surely as Mozart’s prodigy. The beauty of laying it all on the emotional and pipe-dream line was, I very much planned never to do it again.

About the wuc

I'm a chick living in Australia, working for the man. I hate office work with a passion usually reserved for James Cameron, but somehow I ended up with a career behind a desk, stapling my forehead at random intervals.

25 Responses to “You can Derelict my balls, Capi-tan.”

  1. I’m stunned that a boss would be so rude or gutless. Off to better places then.

  2. I can so relate, as I’m at a similar crux. June 28th (2-pi day!) will be my last day workin’ for da man. After that, Retirement City. Perhaps not a permanent address depending on how the coffers cough up coins, but we shall see.

    Aye, Amiga, we’re viewing reality through exit-colored roses, and it all smells sweet. Freedom, even the impending kind, buys a lot of smiles and fondness!

    What’s it the young uns say these days, “Girl, go you!” Or something like that…

    • Hey Smitty! Okay, yes I am abashed it’s taken me four months to reply to your comment. I’ll even throw in ashamed, free of charge. But better late than dead, right? I hope your retirement is treating you stately, young bean. My anti-retirement is going swimmingly, update to come.

      • As I believe they exclaim down your way, “No worries, mate!” (At least, they exclaim that way on TV and on the Big Screen (TV), which carry the only reality I know (and by “know” I mean “wish were true”).)

        I’m not sure retirement is better than sex (although sex in retirement would surely be aces), but it’s definitely better than chocolate, and it’s beyond words better than that proverbial sharp stick eye thing (but then what isn’t?).

        Glad you’re in the swim! I’ll see your update and raise you a new comment.

  3. Ah, your bosses must be Japanese. That’s an old Japanese custom, to take away your desk and wait for you to demonstrate the good grace of quitting, rather than make them stoop to firing you. I think it would be amusing if you moved into your boss’s office, uninvited and unannounced, since such shenanigans were either instigated or condoned by said boss.

    There are better places awaitingyou. Everyone winds up where they are supposed to be.

  4. I wasn’t asked, but I luv ya! Keep us updated, let us know soft the casting couches are, and DON’T stop bloggin’!

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