There’s this boss. Let’s change around the name to obscure it just enough so his fat ass doesn’t try to sue my toned one… so his name is F.F.  This guy parks in the closest space to the office – it’s reserved for him. It is his company. He backs in his predictable black beemer (he boasts that he got the first charcoal grey 911S in the U.S for his car’s model year. Whatever… he also got the first all green shit stain in his tagless fruit of the looms when they came out too.

During the annual convention to Las Vegas, he sits in first class, all else in coach. He stays at Bellagio, all others at Imperial Palace (it’s a dump, the comforters have a highly uneasy relationships with black light).

He reimburses at 25 cents a mile – while the I.R.S. allows 55.5. Take it as a loss on your tax return he bellows. “Try sticking your head in your ass” I don’t bellow.

The same day he announced no holiday bonuses and no cost of living increases for the second year in a row (December 23 – holy Scrooge McFat), he has a Lotus delivered to the office for a test drive while everyone else watched.

Christmas party… lasagna in the break room. Lasagna for Christmas? If you’re Tony Soprano I suppose, but not for D.P. And Tony wouldn’t host it in the break room of The Bing – that’s reserved for good things like tits and steely glances from Sil.

If he demands a lunch meeting, it’s Dutch – and I don’t mean we wear wooden clogs, say “Yaah” a lot, and drink Heineken. I make it a point to only order water, not that I can’t afford lunch, but as a symbolic gesture of a sickly lack of appetite, like anyone would have when sitting across from such a troglodyte-ish mouth breather.

Last time called into office for a meeting – 25% pay cut. Although I am doing “fantastic work, it’s just that the company’s struggling right now.” I guess that’s why you didn’t buy the Lotus. I do feel bad for you, you would have looked like James Bond – if James bond swallowed an entire sheet cake with Miss Moneypenney as a chaser. I did negotiate to just 20 percent.

I am not just writing to vent because my name is up next week to clean the men’s room each day. I’m an analyst. Hmmm… not an ANALyst. I shouldn’t be responsible for what comes out of one’s anus, in other words.

F.F., your office is where good intentions and imaginative thought go to get pancreatic cancer. You interrupt people in 100% of meetings and shake your head in disgust as if the interrupted party just puked on the speakerphone. You use the words “stupid” and “dumb” yet you also use terms such as “supposebly” and “for all intensive purposes.” I saw you use the word “chiken” referring to a type of fowl when sending one of your college educated staff on your lunch run. BTW – it’s “supposedly,” “for intents and purposes,” and, for the love of footed-pajamas “chicken.”

I know what you’re saying intrepid readers – I get to go to Vegas once a year, you have a job when so many others don’t, have a break room with pasta – you should be living it up. Not. No other way to put it. But I am declaring June 21, 2012 as “Take some dogshit with a plastic bag and smear it under the door handle of your bad boss’s car day!” If you don’t have a dog, ask a friend if you can borrow some of their extra dogshit. That ought to get a pretty fucked reaction and alone, worth the price of reading this.

C’mon… to all my oppressed, under-employed, proletarian brothers and sisters, join in and make June 21, 2012 the 1st ever dogshit-smearing day. I doubt it will become a big holiday, but then again, look at Valentine’s Day. I know a lot of people who feel like dogshit on every February 14. But that’s a post for another time.