There seems to be no shortage of underemployed or unemployed peers of mine attempting to stay afloat in this rancid soup of an economy. And it’s that unfortunate fact that keeps me from entertaining protracted rants about my shitty work environment. Because, yes, while it might be a horrible place, it’s a job, a steady paycheck—even if said check could be a bit more substantial to make the end of the month not appear so far away.
Still, this gay has to let his hair fro out every now and again—casting aside the conditioner and wide-toothed comb for a bit of old-fashioned vitriol and finger snaps to keep my hair curled. What exactly could be bad about my work environment you ask? Well, I work with a bunch of wankers. On a military base.
I know, I know—me, in a military compound? Hilarious. But it’s tragically true. Never did I imagine I’d be in cahoots with Big Brother. But when an unfortunate event—yay, job loss!—conspires with one particularly inane life choice—yay, I’m an anthropologist!—my work life becomes a real life version of The Office. But instead of a funny or attractive cast, I’m stuck with the unfashionable dregs.
At the get-go, I had three wonderfully fun, informed, and competent friends around me—balancing out the crazy in a precise four-on-four split. But then, one by one, they left me high and dry. (Okay, that’s not really true. They each left for better jobs or for their own reasons—meaning: preserving what little sanity they had left.) And the minute the last one left me—with me screaming from inside the barbed-wire after her, “Run, bitch, run!”— the orcas started circling the baby seal.
Then, it got Animal Planet in this motherfucker. And while this baby seal may be outnumbered and torn apart, I intend to give the bastards the runs. It’s the very least I can do. Especially for the leading whale herself, whom I’ve dubbed McNutterpants. I even wrote her a note.
I know you despise me. Don’t act like you don’t. Perhaps this is because I stand up for myself and can back up my arguments with actual facts, rather than the nut baggery you constantly pull out of your vapid head. Or perhaps it’s also because: (1) I’m proficient and competent in my job duties; (2) I can speak like an adult, and not the disturbingly high Disney character you so often channel; (3) I can actually use a computer to perform intensely difficult actions like, say, printing off an entire PowerPoint slide without assistance (I know, it’s hard); and (4) I don’t obsess over minutiae or interject myself into every conversation in a tragic attempt to make myself appear relevant.
So, do you think you could, I don’t know, fake a bit of professionalism?
But since I have yet to cast the last vestige of professionalism asunder, I’ll just leave that note unsent and add it to the pile.
Until I find myself in the middle of my resignation speech at some future staff meeting—and pointing to each and every person, and relaying my true opinion of them—I’ll just enjoy staring blankly at their incompetent selves while turning up the volume of Emeli Sandé’s “Next to Me,” then shrugging at their exasperation.
Can’t. Hear. You. Wankers.