Never in my career is (sic) a “writer” have six little words ever said so much. It is now my humble task to try to use my wordcraft to evoke a feeling within you, to make you know what it is that I feel. I want you to taste my heart.
The word of the day is misery.
Doesn’t everyone have their Christmas party on January 11th? I think this magical day is traditionally known as The 29th Day of Christmas. “And my true love gave to me … her company in my misery.”
Yeah, I’m making the wife go with me.
Like everything the boss does, this party is about as well planned and organized as WMDs hidden in George W. Bush’s magic Tony the Tiger underoos. It’s underwear that’s fun to snare.
Once upon a time my last boss invited his
bitches employees to a Christmas “potluck” at his house AKA “I’m too cheap to pay for dinner.” I believe the theme of the party was cage fighting to the death. For reason, in our society, the more you immerse yourself in wealth, the more you get off on other humans destroying the shit out of each other. Look, the blood on Georges St-Pierre’s face matches Rudolf’s glowing nose! Festive!
His party was “non-mandatory” which is boss speak for “off the clock.” As such, I politely and respectfully declined the invitation. I do not mingle in my off hours with the likes of bosses. Ever. At least not until I meet one that is human.
Not to be outdone, the boss retaliated with (at least in the confines of his vacuous mind) the ultimate threat: No attendee my party, no bonus. Yeah, that’s a “Merry Christmas” from a true Christian who always reminds me that I’m going to Hell and he isn’t. Neener, neener.
The proudest moment in this lifetime was when I still declined. Take your fucking “bonus” and shove it up your ass.
My new boss, of course, knows none of this. Even so, he’s not to be outdone. When there was a vicious rumor he was thinking about having the party at his house and personally making the dinner, staff gloriously rebelled en masse and the plot was quelled. It turned out that none of us wanted to consume food at the house of a guy who never washes his hands after using the toilet. Go figure. Personally I have taken a blood oath that I’ll never set foot in his house as long as I live. That employee rebellion moment was truly delicious and sublime. It was the second-greatest moment of my life.
For some inexplicable reason small business owners seem to think that there is some obligation to take their employees out to dinner. The sick thing, of course, is that none of us want it. My guess is that in his boss-sized brain it makes him feel all-powerful and benevolent. It just makes me feel sick.
The last thing I want to do is get off work then go right back out to have dinner with the very same person who was shitting on me all day long.
And get this: No alcohol!!! Oh, God. Oh, God. Oh, God…
Sometimes when I go to dinner I have a pre-dinner so I can eat like a bird. This occasion calls for the pre-binge. I’m going to be prepared.
The problem is that in an office with only three employees, if you fail to show, your lack of attendance would be fairly noticeable. At least the place where my wife works has 200 employees so she was able to get out of her bullshit event. Her absence was still noted but at least it wasn’t monumentally awkward.
Why not just make up a lie and get out of it? Don’t you think I thought of that??? What am I? An idiot? The boss made it clear that he’d reschedule up to one million times to make sure we’d all be there.
“How about Friday the 13th?”
“Oops. Sorry. That’s the day of my moobs exam. I’ll be high on a radioactive milkshake. For a happy rear-ending I also got the colonoscopy bonus.”
How the hell do you think we ended up on January 11th? We burned through 29 days until we found an opening in all of our schedules. Dammit.
I could just make up as many lies as needed, but after the third one it would become a little obvious. In a perfect world the boss would issue an “invitation” (something that can theoretically be declined as opposed to a direct order), you’d politely decline, and the boss would, gasp, graciously accept it. That’s how humans who care about each other act. In the real world the boss dips you in a hot vat of oil and fries your innards out until you acquiesce whilst screaming in pain. That’s reality.
All day long I work six feet from the asshole. All day long he eats his foods making noises that you could never imagine. His lips smacking, mawing* and loud gasps of breath are the stuff of legend. You want to know what it sounds like? I think it is best described as the sound of a school of piranha eating a live cow down to its skeleton in under five minutes. Now, for the boss to show his “appreciation” I have to share a table with him for dinner?
I have a better idea. Give me the $50 you were about to spend on feeding me and the Mrs. and we’ll go out, alone, and do something we’ll actually enjoy. That would truly be a way to show appreciation. Of course, we all know the appreciation angle is one of the biggest scams of all time. Make no mistake about it. This dinner is about power, control and boot heels to the umpteenth degree, which makes the experience one of the biggest fucking jokes of all time. So no $50.
I have an idea. What if I pay you $50 to get out of it. Will that work? No? Help meeeeeee….
Who is the asshole who decided that bosses taking their employees to dinner was acceptable and, even worse, should become a holiday tradition? I’d like to kick that fellow in the nards.
Check this math. For the privilege of being some dude’s whore, in return I’m expected to give him 1/365th of the evenings in my life? The cost is too high, dammit!!
So. How did I do? Was I able to convey the impression I don’t want to go?
* Technically this isn’t a word. I made it up all by my own-self.