He thinks I don’t have half the brain to cook up half the stuff that you read on this blog because am his perfect example of the type of workers who waste the office internet watching porn and spend the other half gossiping like little girls or agitating for that long awaited leave. He always exclaims that I don’t even have the brains to at least tweet what the company deals in to attract customers. Luckily the bitch hates reading and don’t know how to access this blog all he knows are the big humongous charts at his desk as though he is a nursery kid. He plays with pink, red, yellow whatever colour crayon is at his desk that he sometimes sucks off making disgusting sounds like a kindergarten kid. He is always wasting company resources sketching funny pictures in the name of growth targets bugging every to hand in his departments growth target as though we are magicians who graduated from the school of Hogwarts while dipping his big fingers in slept over pizzas. Half the time he is asleep unless when the big, big boss drags his weight around the office wanting those files labelled financial reports that when he pulls out the broom to tease us. His secretary is twice as worse as him for she uses her face as a coloring book for her rainbow of facial paint and her body as the tester for all sorts of obese chocolates that clog the office rubbish basket.
My boss always talking about how the economy is so bad and we should thank him for steering this company afloat but when he talks of the economy he means I get to be paid the scraps and he takes the chunks.
Every morning he drenches my mysteriously done make up with digits, quotas and market stats stuff that usually creases my well pressed Maks&Spencer shirt telling me shit that I weren’t taught in school. My crime is because I went and opened my silly mouth and requested for a little pay rise. That school where if it rained the roof caves in and pours its bitter urine on our crisp clean mean shirts for there is nothing at work I hate like wearing uniform because the last time I wore one was to hide a roll of weed in my helm and smoke in trees to make them long days short. The name tag is even a worse pill, it’s the company’s way of reminding you to shut up and be happy for the little you have and stop being greedy for I will never get a pay rise. No wonder my report is lame the figures and recommendations on it will flame your eyes am sitting miles below the red line and next to the words ‘you are fired’
Talking of fired, do not call the fire brigade or the police. It’s my boss way of saying I own your life bitch and nothing you do go change that. Every time he whispers it down my ear drum, my spine erects like the penis of an octogenarian and I swirl down my time machine to the moment sitting their looking at my daughter begging dad can I get an iPod, dad can I get a iPad yeah said it and me I can’t access the funds to say I got the iPaid.