I need to start drinking on the job... atleast it would take the pain away...

When we last left off faithtful readers, the buzzards were circling as the not-yet dead carcass of one of my co-workers lay helpless in the office of one of my bosses. Thankfully, some quick acting colleagues of mine led an inspired rescue mission and saved the young woman only moments before she would have been no doubt deemed deceased and promptly robbed of her worldly possessions. At last report, she had made it to the hospital and was released after alleviating her stomach woes by taking an apparently significant and life changing dump much to the chagrine of those hoping to make a little chip off her sudden stomach rebellion. I should have taken yesterday's little episode of "How NOT to Handle a Sick Coworker" as an omen that this week at the office was only going to get a bit more ridiculous and tedious as time went on and thusly called in sick this morning. This tactic I have employed several times this summer in order to avoid entering the hallowed halls of the place that makes me wish that I have never been born. Of course, being the fool that I am, I decided instead to show up some 45 minutes late to the office, another one of my new favorite tactics to demonstrate to the powers-that-be that I fucken loath them.

Unfortunately, the powers-that-be were waiting with the spite wagon, which meant that I was promptly informed that a colleague of mine had called in sick as she has several times this summer in her apparent attempt to mimic my tactic of avoidance, and that I would have handle her deposition. In addition, I started up my work email to find a nice little love note from my head boss asking me why I had not called in to inform them that I was running late and thus the deposition that I was to handle for the other sick colleague would now have to be handled by another poor sap. Of course, the powers-that-be managed to get a little dig in by stating that due to my apparent inability to call in and inform them that I was going to be late, I had forced another member of my office to have to handle MY DEPOSITION. (HEY CORRECTION SHIT HEADS, last night when I went home, I did not have a fucken deposition instead that was the responsibility of Little Miss-Call-In-Sick who apparently is free of your guilt inducing jitbag of an email...) While I did not have the time or the balls to inform my boss that the reason that I did not call in was because such a call would only be necessary if I:

A) Cared about my job; or

B) Gave two shits about whether or not the powers-that-be gave two shits about my whereabouts...

I did manage to track down the file before it was given to the other poor sap to handle. (While I may hate my job, my bosses, and the subject matter, I do not and will not piss of my colleagues. We are in the shit together... CHARLIE IN THE TREES...)

Anyway, as luck and kharma would have it, I then received the satisfaction of getting to sit through the seven hours of the questioning of a Ecuadorian man via Spanish interpreter about how he managed to have ladder he was standing on while cleaning asbestos collapse beneath him rendering him permanently disabled and with TMJ. Trust me, you really haven't lived until you spend a significant portion of your day trying to figure out how to explain through an interpreter that you want to know if said individual was able to get a boner before he had his traumatic little event since he now is as limp as I am after 12 beers. Not suprisingly, the words boner, hard-on, flesh rocket, do not apparently translate as easily as one would like but man did I try.

So after I walked out of the room after seven hours of incoherent responses and imperfect translations, I was further rewarded with a final kick in the nuts and asked why I had missed a meeting with one of my bosses at 2:30 this afternoon. Jeez guys, I don't know... Why don't you ask Mr. Perez and his limp penis... I am sure he can explain it better than I can... morons... On second thought, maybe, I will explain it by showing up tomorrow with a bottle of jack, a stripper, and no pants on... eat shit and die fuckbags.

Is this a sign...

Currently at my job there is a girl lying in my boss' office writhing in pain due to some mysterious stomach ailment that has gripped her being since coming to work today. Apparently, she cannot go home because she does not have the necessary leave time that would allow her to take the rest of the day off. Thankfully, my bosses are some of the most compassionate people on the Earth so I am sure that they are currently either helping her out of the office to a car service that they have called for her or have called the necessary medical personnel in case her little tummy thing is an exploding organ or something of that nature. Oh wait, my bosses are actually giant cocksuckers so instead of what I wrote above, they are probably just standing around poking this girl with a stick hoping that she will die so that they can steal her money and give her body to the vampires that work in the Title Search Office.

Even better is that this girl has been working here for less than a week but somehow her stomach has realized how fucken unbelievably shitty this place is and correctly decided to rebel against its host. If only my own body had taken similar action three years ago, so that I would not still find myself here, treading water, and hating my own professional existence. Sadly, my body did not take such measure, but for this newbie, there is hope. Run free little one.. head towards the light... DO NOT LOOK BACK...

And yes, I am jaded and absolutely hate my job... and soon you will too...