Cuntbag
Oh, hell, while I’m working on the Veggie Patch Playset (and seeing as though I’ve already mentally checked out), I might as well give you a Queen of the Underworld update.
She e-mailed yesterday to tell me that she thinks having a cartoon on page 3 is tacky and that I essentially need to bury it in the back of each issue (um, where I bury her monthly column? heh). At our recent conference, she told me to my face that we should get rid of the cartoon and run Spanish articles in its place (and in 100 other places). She is supposedly honored for her commitment to promoting many cultures in our profession, but between us, she only gives a flying shit about the Hispanics and the other Spanish-speakers who refuses to assimilate to our country’s culture, language and other ways. In any event, we had a big ole brawl at the conference (witnessed by Cruise Director, Demure!TM and Pride Fag, with no intervention on any of their parts) for the fact that she wants the articles printed in Spanish and that it will be a hit. Yeah — tell that to the people in Podunk Iowa and Redneck Montana who don’t speak Spanish. It’s a national paper, people.
Cruise Director handled her for me … by blowing her off in the nicest way possible. But she is clear that she’s out for blood, and when I had asked her to show me hard numbers of the demand for Spanish translations, she couldn’t. So I want to do a survey on what language(s) our readers speak and read. So, of course, I can throw it in her face that only her ballot-stuffers want their monthly newspaper to be in a different language.
I had asked her way back when why I should go for Spanish. What about those who speak Arabic, Mandarin, French, German or Hebrew? Will I have to translate every article into every language? She talks about not excluding people — but, of course, only if they share her descent.
I hate that fucking cuntbag. I hope someone cuts her hair with a machete next time she strolls into a beauty salon. I hear she’s going to be in town on my birthday — weep for me.
Speaking of my birthday, I am entitled to the day off, but Frosty the H.R. queen scheduled a mandatory team-building session. I told my boss that I have no desire to ring in my 30th birthday with these assholes in a mandatory meeting. No response from her on that, of course! But for Christ’s sake, I hate most of these fuckhats and would never, ever want to acknowledge that we are on the same team — most times, it’s like we’re all working against each other. And a miserable day together won’t help.
According to Frosty, this session (to be conducted by her best friend, with whom I have had several negative run-ins because she’s a fucking idiot who doesn’t know the first thing about good working environments) is a REWARD for us putting up with the furlough days. How can it be a REWARD when it’s a MANDATORY WORK SESSION on my fucking BIRTHDAY?!?! Here’s a thought: give me back some of my money! I still haven’t paid rent, and now I owe a $50 late fee so that they will revoke the automatic eviction notice.
Will I ever get a moment’s peace? Clearly, not if I continue to stay here. But working here has brought me some gifts I wasn’t quite expecting, and I have maximized my opportunities and built connections with wonderful people whom I wouldn’t have met otherwise. But I feel like this trailer-with-the-wheels-shot-off is sinking into the Potomac, and all we have is a couple of crazy straws from 7-11 to bail ourselves out with.