|I am humbled
||[Apr. 18th, 2003|01:28 pm]
Heavens, this fellow with whom I am acquainted bears some un-gentle feelings toward his former boss. Apparently the strife kicked off on Day One of his tenure under one Dick Dickerson (named changed by me to protect the presumably guilty). Mi compadre opened his new office and removed a "Giuliani is a JERK" bumper sticker that was pinned to the wall. Mr. Dickerson, entering the room moments later, saw the discarded sticker and immediately tacked it back up. In this new guy's office. Mr. Dickerson, see, had originally placed it there and either couldn't IMAGINE how anyone working for him wouldn't share his enthusiasm for the gloriously mature practice of pasting up novelty announcements or he wanted to make sure everybody, indeed, knew who was boss. |
Either way, Suffering Pal labored under Mr. Dickerson for a year, until the latter departed for a gig at a different magazine. Mein friend was promoted and happy to be Dickersonless until his ex-superior sent him several jaunty, peppy-temepered emails inquiring about freelance opportunities at the title he left behind.
The response follows
Great to hear from you, Dick-o! Now we can pretend we’re pals!
In fact, how about we pretend ALL SORTS of fun stuff!
Let’s pretend you can write!
Let’s pretend you can edit!
Let’s pretend you’re qualified to siphon oxygen from those of us who actually EARN the right to claim such capabilities!
Let’s pretend you’re a swell, A-OK Joe that ANYONE with whom you have conducted previous business would want to become entangled with for a second bout of misery!
Let’s pretend that there might be some shadow of a vapor of a flicker of an imitation of talent or ideas or a simple ability to successfully complete ANYTHING in the vacuum of obnoxious stupidity and rank tobacco-and-unwashed-$5-sweater stink that is you.
Let’s pretend you exist.
Anyway, how IS the new gig, ol’ buddy-o-mine?
Tell me, are they making you WORK? Is it THAT bad? Are they cool with your traditional three-hour lunches? … I mean , after all, you must still go to the trouble of staying in your office until all hours using company equipment to do … gee, what in the name of all things rational, worthwhile and/or adult DID you do?
Have the new bosses they fixed you up with a Fetchit? You know, someone to prepare and deliver Her Majesty’s reading material first thing every morning (it was MY honor for so long that maybe I can advise the new pissant on how best to appease you).
Do they at least allow you to comfort your oh-so-twubbled heady-pie by simultaneously blaring a television, a really super-rockin’ Stew-owns CD and Irrational Puke-Lick Radio all day (and again, for NO reason, at night)? Have they warmed to your wacka-zany-kookoo interior design sense? How about your cadaver-of-a-crackhead style of dress? Anybody ever prompt you to wonder what a grown-up haircut my feel like? Or a bath? Or the concept of deoderant? Or the ludicrous notion of your worrying about what an employee WHOSE DAILY WORK FLOW IS STOPPED DEAD BY YOU might do with the resulting down-time (like, say, play a stupid video game).
"Imagine how that reflects on me, man!" you moan.
Yeah. Imagine. "Man." It might indicate a smidgen of a hint of an inkling of your grotesque incompetence and your abuse of company time and materials. In other words: The Truth. And bleeps coming out of a computer really can’t compete in the "reflecting" department with your filthy clothes, filthy office, filthy hair, filthy stench and good, clean egomania and cluelessness. And again: YOUR INFINITE, INFANTILE INCOMPETENCE.
Just ponder, for a moment, what the (fictitious) throngs to whom you are so compelled to keep up this dynamic, hyper-professional image might conclude if they were made aware of your strident, inescapable, enragingly unnecessary blockading of EVERY procedure. You obstacle. You dead weight. You parasite. You counter-product.
Let us dismiss laughable abortions such as your beaming over proving yourself "correct" in the use of semi-colons and such via style manuals. Which took hours. AT A WHACK MAG. Let us attempt to erase the memory of entire afternoons spent locating and importing a properly-designed Icelandic letter for those completists who’d have suffered without a "proper" representation of (UGLY SOW) Björk’s surname. All we need focus on is your willful, poisonous, indefensible method of SITTING ON PAGES for HOURS if we were lucky and DAYS if we were not. And, Dick, we had to drudge under you. We were NOT lucky.
"Sometimes I get busy in the middle of the day," you whined. "But then I’ll stay late and you ALWAYS get those pages the next morning."
Nobody cares about whatever it was that got you "busy." Not NOW. Nor does anybody care about why you lurked on-premises past 11pm most evenings AND NEVER, EVER ONCE completed a single assignment ahead of schedule.
So sit and fester and mull over how the following reflects on the grandiosity of Dick Dickerson: immediately upon your absence, our magazine closed 12 DAYS EARLY. Then we had to SLOW DOWN in order to not close more than 15 DAYS prior to the present deadline.
And, hey, what about the printer in the new place? Ever get a peeved look from someone waiting for, say, work-related material that’s been delayed by your endless output of True Believer propaganda? NOT that anyone would have a right to feel uppity: after all, YOU are just concerned about our freedoms! YOU protect us from tyranny! Every tree that gives its life to bear the sacred scrolls that YOU scour the Internet for endlessly (during work hours) in pursuit of forging a more Just Society does so in tribute to the moral hugeness of DICK DICKERSON!
And, harumph, that Giuliani sure was a JERK, wasn’t he? Him and his … his … RULES and stuff! Dick Dickerson is BETTER than that!
You’re no JERK, are you, Dick?
Because it’s sure NOT "jerky" to keep records on co-workers’ "indiscretions." It’s sure not JERKY to peek in on progress by poking around in computer files. It’s sure not JERKY to attempt to impede or outright obliterate someone else’s creative and/or moneymaking ventures that only ENHANCE your task at hand. And a JERK would never get two consecutive underlings FIRED and then advise the next one to quit because, gosh, who among us lowly folk would dare to expect to live up to the massiveness of celebrated non-JERK Dick Dickerson? After all, it’s not a JERK who comes to the conclusion: "A lot of people hate me—especially people who have worked for me!"
Because THEY are the JERKs, right, Dick? NOT you! THEY! THEM! THOSE JERKS!
You 36 years of omnidirectional failure.
You. Jealous. Zilch.
And you agonizingly UNFUNNY zilch, too. WHO told you that buried in your tubercular vortex of naught that there might be a glimmer of WIT? I imagine it was someone, understandably, trying to say something to make you go away. Or maybe it was a cruel joke (again an impulse I with which I sympathize). The sad part–for everyone who’s EVER encountered you since—is that you obviously fell for it.
Come on, Dick, talk in TV catch-phrases! Stick a nutty Post-It on somebody’s door! Dash off a haiku email! Occasionally stun everyone with a gut-busting item of (vermin-shredded, carbunkle-ensconced) clothing bearing a titterific message such as the word "Kinky" shaped like the Kinko’s logo (or, for a sprinkle of IMPORTANT SERIOUSNESS: "Fuck Censorship!"—and THAT on the scarecrow corpus of the free-thinker who would limit the availability of off-color adjectives to PORN writers)! Blather on and on (and on) in unconscionably moronic copy and then refuse to have anyone "devalue" your comedic gold by a single, precious letter ("Why we’ll just add more PAGES to the magazine")! DO THE "HAPPY DANCE," you desperate, detestable fume!
Do all this, and complicate every detail of everyone else’s existence. Add unnecessary steps to all processes. Pile new duties on those not deferential enough to your editorial and managerial might. Sneak around. Cast doubts. Badmouth. Slow everything down. Screw everything up. LIE. Blame anyone who is not you. Destroy anything and everything you pollute with your mere presence.
You slithering nada.
You bufoonishly postponed suicide whose time has for too long—FAR too long—been at hand (or open wrist or trigger-finger or rope-adorned throat or toxin-beset bloodstream).
But before you do the universe that ultimate favor, you pointless suction, lose my contact information.