Cram it up your cramhole, La Fleur.

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.

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.

4 Responses to “Cram it up your cramhole, La Fleur.”

  1. Like your blog? I shouldn’t but I do. I’ll be a great-grandmother in August and I have to learn to maintain an appropriate demeanor. Sort of properly queenly elderly.

    Instead, I’ve been laughing out loud and I’m from the U.S.! I don’t understand 1/10 of what you say (pretty high percentage coming from the U.S. I’d say…watch lots of BBC). Now I realize how you got to my blog… it was the part about the “sequel” wasn’t it? Kind of like the “Shave & A Haircut” knock bit in Roger Rabbit. You just couldn’t resist… You thought there was a movie involved?

    Still you did click on “Like” so I had to see what you were all about. Funny stuff, girl. Reminds me of Eddie Izzard. Now that hubby and I do most of our viewing from the computer, we stayed up one night and watched absolutely everything about him we could find. Never felt so good… laughter is the great healer. Hope you don’t mind the comparison….

    • Love the comparison, especially given he could also be described as a lesbian firefighter. (You inspired me to youtube him again, absolutely hilare.) Your comment is up there with my all-time favs, so glad you stopped by. Thank you!

  2. This is too much! God, you write beautifully – thank you, thank you, thank you for letting me find you finding me. Jesus, I wet myself. Cheers, your avid fan, Jack

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