Look Away, Ye Nosy Bosses

It's too bad I can't talk very much about the politics at my job. I'd have a book-length blog-post, and you'd be riveted to the screen, laughing your asses off about the crap I have to put up with most of the time.

I'd tell you how I nearly got fired a couple of weeks ago because a little old lady complained that I was physically aggressive with her (thank Big Brother for video cameras). I'd tell you how the same customer came in a week later and complained to me that one of the other workers was the rudest man she'd ever met (even though he wasn't rude, not even a little bit).

You'd hear all about how one of the assistants was sent home for sleeping in the meat cooler, and later returned with a "doctor's note" stating that he should be excused from remaining in a state of wakefulness while working in the meat market, where we use knives and saws all day.

I'd tell you all about how one assistant manager accused another assistant manager of popping hydros all day, and that's why he was able to work so fast (even though hydros are downers?).

I'd tell you so-and-so's wife calls the store every day to make sure her husband is actually at work, and not somewhere else, messin' around with someone else. (My personal philosophy is that any man who needs to be kept on a leash isn't worth keeping, but to each her own, right?)

I'd tell you how it's best to have an escape plan if you ever find yourself in conversation with a certain someone who is known for talking for forty-five minutes without saying anything of consequence whatsoever.

I'd tell you all the nicknames we give to the regular customers. Rug-man, Juan Valdez, The Red Baron, Nosy Rosie and Spot.

I'd tell you about the guy who kept sending nudie pics of himself to all the girls, even the lesbians, because he was pretty sure he could turn 'em straight.

I'd tell you about the infamous five-dollar-foot-long, and you'd spit coffee through your nose, because that shit is hilarious.

I tell you who does a SPOT ON impression of the big boss, because what kind of boss would he be if we didn't do impressions of him every once in a while?

Maybe I should write the stories anyway. One day, when I've escaped the company, and there's no threat of backlash, I'll publish those embarrassing, revealing, ridiculous sagas, and your sides will ache from all the guffawing, and you'll beg for more, and you'll read them aloud to your friends around the lunch table at your jobs where you wish you could talk about work politics.

But for now, I suppose I'll have to keep them hidden away, and you'll just have to wonder what the hell I meant by "five-dollar-foot-long."