Friday, December 26, 2008

Transcript of Skype Chat on 12/25/08 9:47PM

12/25/08 9:47PM
richd: hi bill
12/25/08 9:51PM
richd: you there?
12/25/08 9:52PM
BigWillyStylin: Yes Rich, I’m here. How are you doing?
12/25/08 9:52PM
richd: hi! hi bill. well i’m doing fine i guess. i have lots of time now
12/25/08 9:53PM
BigWillyStylin: Well, that must be nice.
12/25/08 9:53PM
richd: you know, since you fired me and everything
12/25/08 9:53PM
BigWillyStylin: Rich, I’m sorry you lost your job but
richd is typing...
12/25/08 9:53PM
BigWillyStylin: I'm afraid it had to be done.
12/25/08 9:53PM
richd: you’re a fucking asshole
12/25/08 9:54PM
BigWillyStylin: Excuse me?
12/25/08 9:54PM
richd: you can read, right?
12/25/08 9:54PM
BigWillyStylin: I’m not sure what you mean.
12/25/08 9:54PM
richd: you can read, right? because if you could you’d finally know that you’re a FUCKING ASSHOLE.
12/25/08 9:54PM
BigWillyStylin: Rich, you lost your job.
richd is typing....
12/25/08 9:54PM
BigWillyStylin: I feel for you, especially in these hard times, but frankly you’re very much out of line at the moment.
12/25/08 9:54PM
12/25/08 9:54PM
BigWillyStylin is no longer online.
12/25/08 9:54PM
richd: goddamn bastard
12/25/08 11:19PM
BigWillyStylin is now online.
12/25/08 11:19PM
richd: can i have my job back?
12/25/08 11:19PM
BigWillyStylin is no longer online.
12/25/08 11:20PM
richd: fuck.

Thursday, December 25, 2008

You kind of promoted me. I kind of hate you.

Dear Not-Really-My-Boss,

I had it made in the shade in my little corner of the office. The people I worked with were cool as shit. We took regular breaks to laugh at YouTube videos, cracked our own inside jokes, chilled out with Curtis Mayfield, and serenaded each other on gloomy Monday mornings. Hell, I took naps in the copious embrace of our leather chair, my feet in the lap of the young woman I playfully flirted with day in and day out. She loved movies too, and we talked for hours about Bergman, Antonioni, and Woody Allen. She liked to nap too.

Then you had to come along and ruin it for me. Almost as badly as you ruined it for the receptionist.

Life was hard enough for her before you decided to save the company a little money. Her mom just went to jail because her co-worker took the liberty of flushing their company down the toilet with a casual dose of corporate fraud. The legal fees emptied the poor girl’s bank account, and she had to drop out of college one semester before she would have graduated. After that every dollar of the meager salary you paid her went to her family. She took care of half a dozen children at home every day because their mothers were too busy working. Only twenty-two, she has to move back to Long Island, jobless, without a degree, deeply in debt.

You fired her because her benefits were due to begin in January, and you didn’t want to pay up. She was the first to go. A line on a budget. An ice cube in your spending freeze, you McCain-loving son of a bitch. And now you want me to do her job. Without being paid for it, of course.

I’m a lowly intern. I spend my days on the phone, Googling potential speakers for your conferences, eBaying the Blackberry you forgot to return, and sending your neice’s poorly-wrapped Christmas present at the post office. You pulled rank on my boss, and now you want to take me out of my niche and chain me to a reception desk. You want me to screen calls, to mechanically mumble the phrase ‘Thanks for calling blah blah blah how may I direct your call?’ To do even more bitch work than I do now. To sit next to your office and smell the wonderful mélange of your breath, so thick you could cut it with a knife, with your eau-de-molding-carpet cologne. To take calls from your nine-year-old brat, who will tell me how to do my job and knows the dirtiest secrets about everyone in the office. (I wonder where she heard them?) To quietly, mindlessly, dutifully render all of these services for nothing at all in return.

So thanks a bunch, you socially inept beanbag. Thanks for making life tough for someone who has already had to overcome more adversity than you or I could ever imagine. Thanks for using our poor economic climate as an excuse to replace cheap labor with free labor. Thanks for wrecking my last month at your tiny company with your pseudo-promotion; my parents will be so proud. But most of all, thanks for being you.

Happy Holidays,

The lowly intern

Wednesday, December 17, 2008

My Dearest

I interned for you for maybe five months and you never made a move.
It would have been cool had you gone there. But even though you chose
otherwise, I'm still down. I'm just really curious and I think despite
the awkwardness it will be really cool. CONTACT ME! WHY NOT!


Dear 'I Belong in a Tool Box,'

I am very surprised at how you are handling my recent termination.
I called you several times today and despite the fact that you are
probably having a shit day, you should have returned my calls. Listen,
I understand that you are under a lot of stress, considering the fact
that you recently fucked up your first marketing investment, but you
need to acknowledge that your stupidity didn't just hurt your
employers, it hurt your employees as well. You lost the company money
and you screwed over the staving artist you hired. You basically
sucked all around.

And the fact that you were only hired in the first
place because of a family friend only fuels my impression of you as
someone who sucks in a major way. And even though you smile a shit
ton, at the end of the day your annoyingly consistent smile doesn't
even come close to balancing out the fucked up shit you do when you
are not smiling. With that said I am sure you at least now understand why i am so
confused and frustrated with your decision to terminate me.

I mean, "mono y mono…", you screwed me over and you know it. You know
that compared to my fellow employees I was the least of your worries.
You fired me because your job was in jeopardy and you needed to
display authoritative management. If only your superiors knew that
your interpretation of management lacked any degree of intellect and
functioned purely on image. You fired me simply because you could, and
not because it was beneficial to the company. That's why every time
you lecture new employees about working for the company and not for
you, you cringe because you remember the extent to which you don't
follow what you preach. You're that person!!!!!

But, whatever. I believe in karma.

So in conclusion, I want to stress that I am Ok with your decision
for terminating me. At least I know that tomorrow I can wake up
unemployed and happy and that you will forever wake up with the face
of a melted stone tool.

Now I feel bad because it just hit me the extent to which your life
sucks and will continue to suck. I wish I hadn't been so hard on
you….but actually no I don't. You suck and you should pay.

Former Employee #1

P.S. Boooooo! Queen of Filth! Queen of Garbage!

Tuesday, December 16, 2008

Oh Assistant Professor,

If only you could read this now, respond immediately and act affirmatively. I had you for your first class, a politically correct liberal sociology propaganda machine about crime and the law. Some people said you were hired because you are black, young, and a woman, but anyone who has seen your booty and PhD thesis knows that can’t be true. I’m sorry for the way people way people with my skin color have treated people with your skin color. In fact I’ve been a naughty white boy. Punish me?

As soon as I laid eyes on you, my Nubian Queen, I knew you had to have me. As your research assistant. I performed every assignment with extreme diligence. I fought for every point in your retarded grading system of 5/5, 10/10 etc. that treated our writing like factors in the racial quota system invalidated by the Gratz v. Bollinger supreme court case. You see, I learned something. I was paying attention to your every move…

I did not lose one point in your stupid system. You gave me an A+. Even though I could have emailed you my take home final, I chose to come in and give it to you in person, at the party you set up for our deadline. I had popped 3 valium as I finished your exam, so I was already coasting by the time I showed up for pizza. After the others left, you approached me and I knew what you would ask. Yes! Yes’m, masta! I will be your research assistant!

Whip me. I will be your love slave.

Tell me I am a bad white boy, even though the suffering inherent in my socio-historical narrative as a Jew puts yours as an African American to shame. And you and I are both OK now, right? Let’s figure out how to make it all better.

I started by compiling articles for you about failing public schools in Atlanta. I went to an elite private school. I’m sorry. At our weekly meetings, which were unnecessary, I prayed that you would close the door of your office, strip me bare, and take out all your racial angst on me.
I really don’t give a shit about failing public schools in Atlanta, so I tried to start off with subjects that could lead somewhere more interesting, like Weber on the protestant work ethic. I also tried to do coffee instead of meet in your office but you always foiled that plan like a slave rebellion.

You really were the master.

Later I composed a sourcebook on racial inequality for you, which basically found that black people are worse off than white people in education, health, life expectancy, income…basically everything. Despite the bad news, I hope I showed you that I am not like the whites who got us here, that I understand, and I will fight to change it. That’s why you wrote my law school recommendation, because you know I’m good doobie and I’ll fight the good fight. But what if I disappoint you by selling out and making a lot of money, in a way that somehow exploits you and your sisters and brothers through some complex or somesuch? Can I pick you up in my limo?

Working for you did not fulfill my male-dominated-sociocultural-raciological-sadomasochistic desire to jump you like a misunderstood inner city youth. But on the off chance you are reading this between interviews, or writing your next book, let me know, because I need some action. Affirmative action.

Your Research Assistant

Thursday, December 11, 2008

Dear Enabler

Things I learned from you: (Not things you taught me. Things I learned from you. Because you were most certainly unaware of the heap of life skills I amassed while serving as your bitch. )

1) Showing up to work hung-over is acceptable, because I can guzzle water and EmergenC while hiding behind my computer, and pretend to be working really hard by furrowing my brow at the screen and typing furiously if anyone walks by. I can then take an extra long time at the copier, scanner, and printer, feigning a slow or broken machine if need be, in order to prolong the hours that I don’t have to communicate with anyone.

2) Showing up to work drunk is also acceptable, and makes mornings of g-chatting and emailing immensely more entertaining. The impending hang-over will most likely surface around lunch time, at which point a greasy, savory meal will improve my condition just enough, so that upon my late return to the office, I can follow the procedure aforementioned in lesson 1.

3) Having a beer or four at lunch makes afternoons vastly more enjoyable. If ever the boss leaves early, drinking at lunch should be required. If ever the boss stays late, I can keep myself busy for about five to ten minutes after my usual departure time, so that when I announce my exit, said boss will feel as though I am somewhat of an ally, leaving me entitled, naturally, to march triumphantly to the nearest bar, to begin, or more likely resume, my drinking.

5) If ever the boss makes me stay late, I can furiously text those coworkers who have left the office already, and make my presence well known to the rest of the staff who remains captive, so that they may know my plight and can snub said boss for keeping his/her over-qualified assistant late into the night for no good reason. When I am finally released, the only suitable place to go will be the bar, to get sufficiently wasted.

Thank you for nurturing what has become a fully developed, professional, drinking habit.

Dear Mr. Burns

Dear Mr. Burns,

The six months I spent as your assistant weren’t so bad. You provided me with a consistent spring of private entertainment, which became increasingly public as I became more confident with my personal judgment of your character, and felt more comfortable communing with co-workers and friends on this account. Turns out my initial impression of you was as entirely astute: you truly are one weird fuck.

Your semblance to Mr. Burns, of the Simpsons, is uncanny. (When I shared this fact with friends, it was all too gratifying to affirm the array of expected questions: Is he bald? Yes. Liver spots? Yes! Slimy voice, hunched back, bony, fragile frame? Yes! I kid you not when I tell you he used to say, “excellennntt” more than just every so often.)

Your semblance, also, to the retarded man that stood on the street corner outside the rehabilitation center is similarly uncanny. It was a good day in the office – or at least one that solidified the growing bond between my co-workers and I - when I realized I was not the only one who mistook you, on multiple occasions, for this mumbling man on the street. Beneath his over sized, flat rimmed baseball cap, it was easy to confuse the two of you. The similarity of your perpetually nervous and overly concerned faces that would allow you easily to pass as brothers, matched perfectly your equally petite statures- physiques that appeared ever more slight under the extra-large, faded parkas you both sported, regardless of the weather. The only certain way of telling you two apart on the street was the item flouting your parka only, and not your dear look-alike's: none other (could there be a more geeky accessory? For a grown man? Oh, well, I suppose neither of you were fully-grown…) than a mini, Paul Frank backpack, dangling monkey and all. Mr. Burns, if it wasn’t for your adorable backpack, the rest of the office and I may never have known the difference between you and muttering Moe on the corner.