Monday, November 8, 2010

Bitch, I Will Cut You

Dear Jenny,



I know you’ve addressed the issue of getting stabby with co-workers, but what if it’s your boss? Alarming amounts of body hair where no woman should have any aside, this woman is a raging thunder cunt. She’s making me dislike ______ people in general. She’s literally making me racist. She’s managed to accomplish what being raised in the South could not. We have weapons at work. Bo staffs, nunchucks, and an honest to God “I will cut you bitch” sword. I’d honestly rather lather myself up in seal fat, dance provocatively in the ocean, and have my leg gnawed off by a shark than ever speak to her again. How do I control the urge to cut a bitch?



Signed,



Heather Heartless


This was posted to the now defunct Ask the Bloggess portion of The Bloggess just days before I was quit/fired. One would think that threats of violence and insults to ones furriness and heritage would warrant that, but rest assured dear readers, my ex-boss would never have seen that. That would take time and some sort of intelligence.


You see, I was fired for a medical condition, which we’ll be getting to shortly.


The defense will present to the court much evidence in the case of Random vs. Raging Thunder Cunt, a.k.a I can’t figure out why all of my employees quit after two weeks.


Exhibit A: The hiring process.


I found out about this job on Facebook at a time when I was just about to run out of money completely. I have a bankruptcy to pay off people and I can’t grow my own cigarettes. This was posing a problem. I snapped it up. I called and scheduled an “interview”. This interview consisted of me shaking her very limp hand (Danger, Will Robinson!), handing her my resume, and being hired. To be a receptionist and work with/shuttle small children/spawns of Satan/rabid wombats. With no background check. No ID required. Just, BAM! Hired. What if I was a Chester?


I drove the hour back home where I received a phone call telling me to come back in for a follow up interview. Que? Follow up after being hired? Enter most epic fail of an interview conducted by an asshole who mutters insulting things about you REALLY LOUDLY (which kind of defeats the purpose of a mutter, now doesn’t it?). Okay, we’re all set to start on Monday!


Exhibit B: The part where I find out she’ll be paying me less than minimum wage and no overtime.


That’s right. I was scheduled to work no less than 48 hours a week. FORTY. EIGHT! Which is more than 40. My weekly salary? $300 before taxes. That works out to a dollar below minimum wage there, Skippy. She even shorted me 6 hours on my first check, which was hourly. The next few checks I received were for $478. For 92 fucking hours of work! NINETY TWO!


Exhibit C: Where I found out she’s bipolar.


“The Labor Day Parade is next Saturday.”


“Uh… I don’t have to go, right?”


“No, no, you don’t have to.”


“Good, because I wasn’t planning on it.”


Fast forward to the Friday before.


“Heather, we’ll need you to do this, this, and this at the parade.”


“You said I didn’t have to go. I made plans. I’m going to be out of town.”


“Oh, well you’re expected to be at all of our events. You should know that. You need to make your plans better. You’re required to be there.”


“You said I didn’t have to be there.”


“Oh, well I changed my mind.”


*Blinks owlishly for a good minute*


She did this at least once a week to EVERY employee. Every underpaid, overworked, and abused employee.


“You said I could…”


“I don’t know what I was thinking. I changed my mind.”


AND DIDN’T TELL ME?! And then got mad at ME for doing what YOU said? Drugs. You need them. She was also a fan of doing things wrong, conveniently forgetting, and then blaming me for them in front of customers that knew she did it.


Exhibit D: Where I figure out she’s really just stupid.


I understand that you’re foreign and that English is your second language. I get that. But do you have any idea how irritating it is when you CONSTANTLY put the emPHASis on the wrong sylLABle? Do you? Beginning. Bah- gin- ning. Not Beggin-ning.


“We want to put the focus on corrector building.” Corrector building? Corrector? What the fuck is corrector building? It wasn’t until after two weeks of that did I see a poster that said “Character building exercise” and put it together.


“Oh, I’m so smart!”


Five minutes later…


“How do you spell medal?”


A girl at another location quit so I was transferred over there, without forewarning, to take her place. I was always in charge of writing the e-mails, especially the ones with more than five words. That didn’t change. Except sometimes, she would sneak one out past me. This has to be my absolute favorite:


“Winters are coming and we have Crew Sweatshirts are on Clearance Sale.”

A. I didn’t know there was more than one winter, but apparently they’re coming.

B. She thinks capitalizing words makes you want to buy things.

C. It’s like she had two completely different sentences, one raped the other, and this is their baby.

Seriously. Prepare. WINTERS ARE COMING!


Exhibit E: She made me slightly racist.


The murderous rage was building up over time, but on one single day she out did everything she had done before put together. I honestly can’t even remember what it was now, I think my rage caused me to black out for a bit and forget. She gave me a handwritten pay check. I take it to my bank. Nope, we can’t cash this without a five business day hold. I take it to the bank it’s drawn on. Nope, we can only cash this if you pay a percentage to us because it’s a business check. I go to Wal-Mart, forgetting that even though it’s a business check, it’s still a personal one as well, so no go. I’m sitting at a red light when a woman of RTC’s race wanders into the walk way. I thank God that there was a car in front of me because it took everything I had to not gun the engine and mow her down. Not because she had done anything to me, but because of what she represented. I ended up having to pay the damn fee to the bank I hate to have it cashed.

Exhibit F: The part where I ended up in the hospital.


The day I was transferred was the most glorious day of my life. I didn’t have to look at her face. I didn’t have to hear her grating voice hurling abuse and random orders that changed every five minutes. For once in my life being at work was like being on a fucking pleasure cruise. Until the next day. When she called. And called. And called some more. To tell me how to do my mind numbingly simple job and remind me to do things I had already done the day before. I know you like to think that we’re all stupid and can’t figure things out, things that I showed you a better way of doing by the way, but we’re not. This continued every. Single. Day. Over the course of a week, I had this really irritating and at times extremely painful feeling on my left side, then my back, and then my right side. That Saturday it felt better until it felt like something near my pelvis exploded and I almost cried. And yet, I continued to work. The next day the pain was so horrible that I couldn’t walk, sit, stand, cough, sneeze, or blink without screaming in agony. I did what any person would do. I ignored it. At around 3:00 am on Monday the pain became so bad that I called the ER just to make sure that it wasn’t gas. The nurse had me press my hand into my lower right quadrant and let go. I screamed. Apparently it wasn’t gas and they’d see me soon. Fast forward through the doctor repeating that, me getting shot through with dye that made me think I was peeing my pants, and a CT scan and we find out that I have a 4x2 hemorrhagic ovarian cyst that is slowly but steadily pumping blood into my abdominal cavity. INTERNAL BLEEDING!


They gave me pain killers and an antibiotic and sent me on my way. I call in and tell her all of that, that I’m on opiates, and that I can’t get in the car to drive there because it hurts so badly. Plus, I have a note from the hospital excusing me from work for two days.


“So, can you still come in and pick up the kids?”


What part of I’m on drugs, in pain, and fucking HIGH do you not understand? So no, I will not be driving an hour to work, driving around small children in a 1987 14 ton van for an hour, and driving the additional hour back home. Sorry.


That Friday I had a follow up with my gyno that I had scheduled during our weekly meeting where we accomplish nothing. Nothing like a surprise pelvic exam first thing in the morning. When I return to work I am told that I need to find a new job, but she’ll let me keep this one until I do. She was worried that between the stress of working at the other place alone, the drive I made every day, and my “issue”, that I wouldn’t be able to handle it. Also that my commute was inconvenient for her. For her? MY hour long drive is inconvenient for YOU? “Is anyone helping you with this?”


“With this what? Financially? No, my parents are disabled.”

“No, no. Helping you with your issue.”


Helping me with my ovary? You’re aware that it’s an internal organ, correct? How does one help me with my ovary? I told my mom this and her reply was “What was I supposed to do, hold its hand?” “Ooh, tiny little ovary hands!” She drew a picture and everything.


The next Friday I was told I had two weeks to find a job. It ended up being a week.


Exhibit G: Where I almost ran her through with a sword.


The last few days I worked there, she was there. Every day. Every single day. This was a martial arts studio. We had weapons. WEAPONS! She was rearranging EVERYTHING in a place that she didn’t even work, to the point to where I couldn’t find ANYTHING when I needed it, when she started to move the sword around. I watched it wobble, I watched it dip; I prayed fervently that it would fall down, unsheathe itself, and stab her in the face. I would then laugh maniacally and refuse to call 911. But it didn’t. She ran her mouth on, and on, and on, and on until it became an act of will comparable to that of Jesus in the desert to keep me from taking down the sword and stabbing her to death with it. It was just sitting there, mocking me. And there was nothing I could do.


Exhibit H: Where she fired me and wanted me to keep working for free.


That’s right. You heard me. Miss Susie Sunshine didn’t understand the complexities of minimum wage laws, overtime laws, OR salary, which is what she said she paid us thinking that none of us would be smart enough to call her on it and also because she probably thought salary negated both of those things. I was out for two days with a doctor’s note, ended up working over 80 hours in that two week pay period, which I figured evened it out in the end. She paid me my regular salary for that week, which for once was legal. On my last day she calls me to say that she’s going to need me to come in for a few days next week to train a new girl. I wouldn’t be paid for this because, after all, she DID pay me for those two days I was out. SERIOUSLY?!? You FIRED me! For being in the hospital! What. The. Fuck.


The day that I was supposed to get my last check she held it from me until I drove all the way back home and picked up the uniform (which I PAID for) and the t-shirts that were given to me and brought them back to her. She swore she’d be there when I arrived, but evidently she had a stroke of unfucktardedness and left before I got there. I wasn’t going to threaten her or touch her, but I had some things to say. It ended with “Shave your fucking fat furry face”. Alliteration is a beautiful thing.


THIS is why I’d seriously rather have my leg gnawed off by a great white than ever speak to her again. I think I’d rather make sweet, sweet love to Kenny Roger’s beard, stab myself in the eye with a pen, hot iron my vagina, exchange needles, and contract gona-syphi-herpe-laids than be near her.

Do you think I showed up? No. The day I collected my last check I reported her ass to the labor board. So did the other guy she fired while he was in the hospital recovering from emergency surgery.


Also, she never changed the password to the e-mail account and apparently she can’t figure out what she told ME to change it to. But she hasn’t thought of calling me to ask what it is. I’m tempted to go in and change it to something like “SuckMyNuts”.

This concludes my novel. I’m sorry about the length and probably the lack of funny, but I had to get this out. Feel free to send me your horror stories about work.

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