I hate the word ‘naughty’, I really do. Sure. It aint up there with ‘tummy’ or ‘vagina’ … but for the love of Gandhi! If you aint a parent, you got no cause to be using it.
This anti-penchant may be due to my sociopathic boss of traumatic times past who would extend his hand to be spanked when naughty. As he was a dullard who couldn’t wipe his own ass, much less make it to a meeting on time, this was disturbingly often.
I should’ve known something was off the day I met him, given his striking resemblance to John-cunting-Howard. But tragically, he slipped under my radar and I found myself down for every tango on his sociopathic dance card. He’d steal files from my office and root through my bins at night, lying in wait the next day to interrogate me over the contents.
Think, De Niro. Polygraph. Focker.
So knotted was his ego, he was confounded when I finally left and looked upon it as a betrayal. Sure, Hathaway gets the horizontal mambo with Simon-bloody-Baker in gay Paris. All I got was unemployment and a hole in my psyche the size of Oprah.
Those were the salad days my friends.
The other end of this mind-boggling spectrum are my two ‘best’ bosses. Real down-to-earth guys. The kind that’ll catch-up for coffee when all’s said and done … then fare-thee-well with a gratuitous grope. (Is there any other kind?) One went for the boob, the other for the ass (though, I suppose I should be thankful, not at the same time).
My résumé reads like a mutherlovin after-school special, yo.
Which brings us with whiplash speed to present day. Why do I impart such golden nuggets the likes of which a courtroom has never seen? I’m up for parole, see. This job finishes in a couple of months and I don’t yet know what follows. Though I’m too wizened to look upon this horizon like Oliver Twist upon the kind rich man who takes him in.
Knowing my luck, he’d Brownlow my proverbial the first chance he got.