Baseball bats and boogeymen. Beautiful.

So. I’ve been reading the books of Ellen and Portia, simultaneously.

And where Seriously…’ is a joke flavoured confit with smooth self-help scent, Unbearable Lightness resides deep down the rabbit hole, quenching and insight full. One expanding, the other contracting, together they somehow mirror the rhythm of breathing. Curious.

Then, after feasting on such philosophy, I watched A Night At The Roxbury.

‘Cause that’s how I roll.

Meanwhile, back at the ranch: The Beast made her first appearance yester. Like T-Rex straining into my quiet cave on the sniff of a hunt, she swiped the shadows where I stood, my back glued to a rueful rock wall. Then, before I could counter, she fired coercion ‘n’ calumny at me in quick succession, the last of which lodged itself in my perplex.

Ordinarily I reserve hatred for such halloumi as M.Night Shyamalan and Smith (à la Kevin), but. With the uncanny ability to leave me tangled long after torpedo, Beast makes the cut.

Still. Rather than stew in soliloquy, I contemplate. Maybe I should ask my boss to find another boob to bestow Le Bête upon? Sure, my primary instinct is to bend over and take it up the tailpipe, but it aint in my job description (it’s merely inferred). So why not catapult the caustic cat into the lap of a credulous counterpart before she soils my see-sawing psyche?

It’s so crazy, it just. might. work.

Or, asking my boss thus is a catastrophic CLM (career limiting move) and I’ll end dressed in traits of the tiresome and entitled for causing ripples in once calm waters …

“Would you care for a bag of mixed metaphors, Ma’am?”
“I’ll just take the conflict, with a side of confusion, thanks.”

Published by 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.

27 thoughts on “Baseball bats and boogeymen. Beautiful.

  1. Cripes! You do make Ellen and Portia sound a ‘must’. Gotta have a look now. As to The Beast (hey! Why are we honouring her with a capital?) do a Ghandi – passive combat. After all, since there are socios everywhere, you will have one wherever you go. Somebody in my fam. once said “Choose your battles”, meaning don’t wear yourself out in every one – just the important ones. May the force be with you.

    1. I deffo recommend Unbearable Lightness. Compelling!

      Tres true about socio’s, but is that reason enough to lie down and let them have reign? For I think I could win this battle, Gnocch.

  2. Wuc and Goatpoet, I fully appreciate your witful analysis of workplace skullduggery and blood-sucking bum bandits. I guess I’m a “take it in the tailpipe” kind of gal, and advise the same. Karma has uncanny dexterity in bitch slapping the fudge out of shit-wits, corn and all. I have all the patience in the world for it and the front row tickets, raisinettes in hand for the events when they happen.

    Fortunately, I like most of the people I work with, but there are a choice few that I’d set up on a blind date with the characters in your cast with all the malice and vindictive joy a girl my age could muster.

    Thankfully not a boss, but superior (hypothetically), Scab Chewer is someone I had to assist a few years ago. After debriefing the incidents with my boss, she did not reassure me that I handled the situation in the best possible way despite Scab Chewer’s raging fits of prima donna infantitlement. I call my boss Vague Switzerland (for her knack in giving yes/no answers to either/or questions and her near to silent lack of reassurance when you have been wronged/blamed by an (insert derogatory employee trait here) coworker. Lately, it’s come forward after 2 years of entertaining Scab Chewer’s acidic temperament, that she is not long for that job. Hallelujah!

    1. Major cracks on Vague Switzerland, for I’d have figured ‘Switzerland’ to be vague enough. So your boss must be motherfucken vague, yo. Commiserations ‘n’ solidarity ‘n’ nod to ‘Noir for takin’ it up the tailpipe (for two years no less).

  3. I feel I have to say, you would look quite fetching dressed in traits, but I digress……as long as you watch Night at the Roxbury as opposed to Night at the Museum, you’ll roll just fine, wuc.

  4. Wuc-a-doodle-do…

    Office life sucks like a $5 ‘Lady of negotiable affection’ in a seedy ‘Blade Runner’ dark bar in the back streets of Bang-cock…

    You have Le Bête, I have La Chat Noir… You know the type? You have a black cat, his is blacker… A man with the morals of Your aunties pekinese, the one that humps Your leg (and everyone elses) at every single family reunion, a ‘man’ who’s grasp of the truth is as tenuous and insubstantial as a butterfly’s fart in the middle of a hurricane … He inspired this and I swear it’s all true!!!

    Keep on sharing Wuc and We’ll all keep on caring…

    1. Crackers ‘n’ crumbsies ‘n’ cheers for caring.

      “His aftershave is ‘eau de bullshit’, wuccadoodledoo indeed!

      Or indood, as the doh! flies.

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