I've accepted a new job at Satan's Journal. This time, the powers-that-be wisely divvied up the workload. So instead of filling four different positions, my new title is simply "editorial assistant."
For the first time in a long while, I'm literally twiddling my thumbs and watching YouTube clips of The 700 Club.
I look over to see the new intern Kevid smacking his lips to my friend Ryan about my penchant for Pat Robertson. Of course, I decide to mosey over to the cubicle and proceed to chew his ass out.
Kevid cowers in the corner, shielding his face like I'm some goddamned wife beater. "If you have a problem with my watching Pat Robertson, you should come over and tell me like a fucking adult. Grow some goddamned balls," I tell him.
And I pivot smoothly and decide to clean up the office restroom. What else am I gonna do? I'm watching episodes of The 700 Club for chrissakes.
While scrubbing the toilet, the CEO chums up beside me with a glint in his eye. They've hired yet another intern.
"Be nicer to this one, too," he goes. "I've been talking to Kevid again."
"Well, Kevid is a fucking idiot, so of course, you'd side with him," I tell him, looking up from scrubbing the toilet. "It's the one trait you've managed to a tee: hiring fucking idiots."
The CEO steps back and throws his hands up in mock resignation.
"Bye bye," I say sweetly as he ambles out the door. The acid in my voice could burn the enamels off your molars.
As I look down at the doodoo-encrusted rim, I think to myself, "honestly, didn't I quit this job weeks ago?"
2 comments:
Work dreams suck. I've had lots of those lately but I don't really feel comfortable posting them.
Well, this Kevid guy is a fictional character my subconsicous mind created. As for the CEO, I've sassed him to his face in real life, sans the profanities. That's why I'm forbidden on the premises. Thank sweet Oprah Winfrey.
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