Tag Archives: mangina

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.

Pucker up, buttercup.

Is it just me, or do nice people chafe you like a cheap pair of undies?

They should be avoided like an Oliver Stone movie. Sure, hanging out with them seems like a happy place, where you can frolic through the proverbial, PG and free. But the minute you show your dark side, like a g-string riding high on the wind, you get the eyeball; an imperial look which suggests your place in heaven resides in the bum crack of a meat-eater.

Some guy at work today spoke for ten minutes about his sleeping patterns. At first it was a mutual conversation (if you call a jovial aside a conversation), but where it should have ended naturally, he just kept going. And going. My smile went from sincere, to frozen, to desperate, ending in limp defeat. He was blissfully unaware, speaking with a passion usually reserved for ones firstborn child. I felt like stapling a cork to my forehead.

Then there’s cult boy, who turns a funny conversation into a blueprint for workplace culture. One minute we’re joking around and the next, he’s wondering how our subject matter can translate into good employee management. It was like he pumped the brakes at 90 and left me with a rabid case of whiplash. What the?

Can’t you just have a conversation for the fun of it? What a Hymey.

I wish he’d grow some big fat ones and stop quaffing my cheese. Don’t stand up for the boss when he’s a chump and don’t tell me jokes about tomatoes that blush. I’d rather you pinch my ass with a live crustacean.

Nice suggests that we’re either light or dark, with no shadows in between; that there isn’t a place where compromise and conflict lie in wait (like Old Gregg set to pull you into the lake, intent on showing you his mangina). It’s a blanket of denial, fear that your dark side will override your light; that you’re Darth instead of Luke. The irony is nice makes me nervous (like a duck in the Chinese district), and I’d rather hang out with Melvin Udall, any day.

“People who speak in metaphors oughta shampoo my crotch.”


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