Well do ya, punk?

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.

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.

29 Responses to “Well do ya, punk?”

  1. when I pass … I request that you might write my eulogy. I realize you don’t know me but I don’t think that’s really necessary to write a good eulogy. You may have misgivings about doing this but I would be grateful & it would allow me to scratch 1 of 4 remaining items of prepartion from my “gonna die – get ready” list. Bit of a snag however, in that I always had hopes that my eulogy would somehow involve the word ‘tummy’. I can do without naughty or vagina … but tummy was desired. I’ll be dead so you might even consider lying (we’ll say appease) & then totally disregard my dying wishes — but I live w/ that. Metaphorically speaking.

    Just passing & wanted to share something pointless. Let me know on the eulogy thing. Thanks – td

    • Wow, I can’t believe it took me so long to reply to this awesome comment! The guilt at my slacker silence grows with each comment I left unanswered, sincerely sorry man.

      I’d be verifiably honoured to write your epilogue, err eulogy. Major cracks on all within, undiluted by delay. Glad you can do without vagina – in my experience this tends to get the wrong response at funerals (the immutable exception being Hue Hefner’s passing) (still working on that phrasing). I can capitulate on tummy too, as penance for taking so long to reply thus. (Insert self-flagellation here.)

      Let’s take this declining puppy out for a spin!

  2. Greetings and salutations, your stuff makes me chortle… also, thanks for the like, yo.

  3. Fabulous. Bali is safer for 34 year old single women than any workplace . . . .

    Southern Girl.

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