The following post was originally written on March 5, 2010. I told myself that I would not post this until I effectively gained full-time employment. The fact you’re reading it now means only one thing, which is excellent news: I now have a full-time job. The company in which I have been freelancing for over the prior eight months finally decided that paying contract rates for me was getting old, and that it was indeed fiscally more cost-effective to pay me 70% of they paid my creative agency instead.
It’s been a long, long time coming, but I am extremely pleased to be back on the path of stable employment. And with that, I present to you my swan song to the freelance life.
If I say I’m going to do something, bet on it
Pat Summitt is something like the all-time most winning-est coach in NCAA basketball history, male or female, which in itself is an amazing accomplishment, despite the fact that womens’ basketball is about as a legitimate of a sport as beer pong is. Seriously, there are like two good teams in the entire nation, being Connecticut and Tennessee, but when it comes down to it, UConn is still the better of the two, which is indeed fact, and not me just trying to discredit Tennessee.
Regardless of the pointless semantics, for some reason, Pat Summitt has become somewhat of a demigod to the lesbian community. Actually, let me rephrase that, because I don’t want to insult all lesbians; for some reason, Pat Summitt is a demigod to all bull-dykes. Now whether or not Summitt is one herself is speculative, since Wikipedia says she was married for 27 years at one point, but divorced in 2007, which could be an obvious marriage of convenience, dropped the moment the gay-revolution started to take over the world, but let’s face the facts – she coaches women’s basketball. Draw your own conclusions from that.
So why the fuck am I writing about Pat Summitt, if it’s obvious that I don’t give two shits about the woman?
Because I’m a sadistic, vindictive asshole, and I’m about as mature as a twelve-year old playing Halo on XBOX Live.
I worked at this one agency for quite a few months, and long story short, I worked with a raging bull-dyke, and she hated the ever-living shit out of me for no other reason than the fact that I have equipment between my legs. She began to hate me even more as the weeks passed because I’m a better worker than she could ever imagine to be, what with my arriving earlier and leaving later, producing more output, and not complacently taking my job for granted by sitting around playing Farm Town when there was other work to be doing.
And one can only endure so much ire, so much disdain, before the feeling becomes mutual, and when it became obvious that the bull-dyke let the misery of my existence make her this quiet, miserable, grumbly, testostrogeny lump of homosexuality during work hours, the feeling began to become mutual. I don’t truly hate a whole lot of things in this world, but without question, I really, really disliked the bull-dyke.
I don’t even know where to begin with all the reasons – there are just so many. She’s a lousy worker, complacent with her tenure, and her long, long career, but I get the impression that this place is where she wants to stay for the rest of her life, because she doesn’t have the talent to get along anywhere else. At least once a week, she would leave early, or not show, due to a myriad of appointments she was always going to, from dentist, chiropractors, various doctors, and even the gross ones that proved she was still a” she,” somewhere inside that flabby mustached fat croc-wearing filthy body she didn’t take care of. Her physical existence disgusts me.
And then there’s professionally – my first two days there, I hadn’t a machine of my own to use, so I was put on her machine while she was out on vacation (which I later found out, was wherever the fuck the WNBA all-star game was that year). The funny thing was, based on all the womens’ basketball paraphernalia scattered all over her desk, I knew what I was dealing with. The following week, when she arrived, she angrily pointed out that “someone was using HER machine.” Being the professional I was, I quickly got up, introduced myself, and honed up to using her machine, with good reason. To no reasoning at all, that began the tumultuous hatred towards me, and I never had reason to speak more than a sentence to her at any given point, even after I was forced to work with her on a Home Depot project, in which I did the legwork for, and she attempted to claim as much credit for it as she could, being the long-seasoned Home Depot designated worker. Often times, she criticized my work, and tried to explain that due to her long, long career of experience, she was right and I was wrong, and I defiantly ignored her “advice,” and did work the way I do work, to which was never resolved, and since it never came back with any issue, I’m led to believe that I was right all along.
After a while, she became this amusing specimen to me. Her behavior in the workplace was absolutely incredulous, and if anyone with any authority were actually paying attention, she should’ve been fired at least four times over in just the short span that I’d been there. All the time she spent on the company phones for personal calls, whether to the cable company, insurance, or credit card when she was disputing a charge discrepancy involving the tv show, True Blood, or to its awful homosexual life partner, to which it changed its voice to what I labeled “the itfriend voice.” Its crocs it wore on a daily basis became a thing of humor to be, despite the fact that the city of Atlanta has had some of its record lows in the tenure I’ve lived here.
But my favorite behavioral pattern by it was its feeding habits. It would do unethical things like come in, in the morning, punch in, so the clock recognized that it had arrived at 9:15, but then declare its immense hunger, and then leave the premises to procure food from one of the nearby eateries, portion size withstanding, but most importantly, without punching back out to do such an errand. Whenever there were emails about a special lunch, desserts in the breakroom, leftover Halloween candy, or leftovers in general, it would erupt out of its chair and blast in the direction of the free food with the fury of a thousand mythical gods. First in line in anything related to free food, and first to get second helpings, even when there was just enough for everyone to go through once. Whenever a co-worker made the courtesy, but not genuine “does anybody want anything” call prior to themselves going out to get lunch, everyone would say no, except for, it. I once took one for the team, and spoke to her, when the free Halloween candy was in the breakroom in November. Without any word of acknowledgment to me, she was out of her chair and charging down to the breakroom, much to my amusement. And when it returns from wherever it picks up its lunches, in giant paper bags that would upset Greenpeace, it cracks into the containers voraciously, like a character from Resident Evil, smashing crates and barrels, looking for herbs and ammunition.
Anyway, her existence bothered me, as mine very obviously did to her. And when I was summoned back to this job, I tucked my tail between my legs, because I was out of work, and could certainly use the money. An on-call designer is the last thing I want to be in my career, and it certainly requires more money than what I’ve been making to draw me out for anything shorter than seven hours. But I could take solace in the fact that upon arrival, it happened to be one of the days in which it was out of the office on many of its frequent doctor visits. This is what I’d refer to as high-maintenance overhead. Much to the delight of my wallet, I was requested to come back the following week, and I did, knowing that I wouldn’t be so lucky the next time around. And as such, Monday morning, I arrive as promised, and fifteen minutes late, right on time, comes in the bull-dyke, and much to my horror, she is coughing and hacking, and sounding like a lung cancer victim with the cold. I did everything in my power to avoid the same walkways, pound water in advance, and wash my hands frequently. I thought about going to Target to get some surgical masks or something, but this also happened to coincide with yet another snow storm that made the Georgia roads unsafe, thus preventing me from doing such. And it proved to be my undoing.
In two days, I developed a case of bulldykeulurosis, and I was at home, pissed, and angered at entering the state of unemployment once again, as well as being sick. There was no way that this was the last I would see of the bull-dyke, and this place of on-and-off employment. I would have my vengeance. I would be vindicated.
And naturally, the place, called upon me yet again, and I realized that it was time to payback, for the sickness, the usurped credit, and the uncomfortable work atmosphere. All the visions of ugly cankles in crocs, and the sound of its shrill voice on many a personal phone call. For not covering its food vacuum of a mouth when sick and allowing its rancid germs to infect me with a miserable sickness. I would tarnish its most prized possession.
This Pat Summitt toy, which was the only thing that was allowed to stay on her desk when corporate clients were coming to visit, and all employees were instructed to clean up. And clean up, IT did, getting rid of all the cheap souvenirs and womens’ basketball paraphernalia. The best part is that it didn’t actually go to the University of Tennessee; it went to the much inferior Georgia Tech, thus making it nothing more than a mere poser and fair-weathered fan of Tennessee. Whom thanks to it, I have dislike for the school as a whole, and subsequently root against Tennessee in everything now, and was especially pleased when Virginia Tech defeated Tennessee in the Chic Fil-A Bowl. But I’m going off track here; the TOY was the prized possession, the one personal effect allowed to stay, even in the wake of important clientele. So I knew what I had to do.
To this day, it sits there, and it has no idea that her bull-dyke god had bathed in the WC, and loosely dried with toilet paper, and remains on her desk as a filthy, unsanitary memento. I said I was going to do it. And as god as my witness, it has been done. This is my swan song, my farewell to unemployment for the time being. I will not post this until I get a new, full-time job, and hopefully one I can be proud of. And when I do, and the coast is clear, I present to you my farewell to freelance.
The funny thing is after all this was written almost two full years ago, I ended up going back to work there at least three more separate instances, and it got to a point where I would rather forfeit money and go watch baseball during the day than to go back to that god-awful dyke-filled environment.
Ironically, Dykeland has moved since this was written, and amazingly, they’re currently within walking distance to where I’m going to be working permanently for the foreseeable future. I know this because there is a food court I can walk to, where on numerous occasions, I have seen several familiar faces of some of the people that worked there. At first, I thought it was coincidence, and that one or two individuals have since relocated jobs, but when I began seeing other familiars, it dawned on me that they did indeed move.
I have not seen any of the bulldykes I used to have to sit near, so that much is nice. Maybe the it was fired for being a crappy worker, or too much of an insurance burden, it makes no difference to me. As far as I’m concerned, I’m grateful for Dykeland for supplementing my income for as long as they did, but thanks to them I’ve also developed this distaste for bulldykes.
No matter though. I’m employed now, and such is a milestone in which celebration is required.
