the end

Exactly one week ago today, at precisely 5:00, I officially became one of the unemployed. My time spent at Justifacts, which was the credential verification place I worked at, was abruptly brought to an end. The dimwit old hag that owns the place called me into her office and explained to me that business was slow and that she was eliminating my position.

True, business was slow for the Account Manager which I was working under…namely because the old hag kept taking her client load and giving them to Byron, her star employee who is actually quite a doofus. I realize that the real decision to get rid of me was because she disliked me. I hated the old lady and had actually gone five weeks without looking her in the eye, a record which I was quite proud of. She, however, being the micromanaging control freak that she is, demands worship and fear from the people she hires, so avoidance of eye-contact does not make for stellar employees in her book. In any event, I am no longer receiving a paycheck. Or benefits. Which has combined to create an odd mixture of feelings. You see, on the one hand, I’m quite glad to be gone. Of course, the whole money thing then becomes a large problem.

And while I’m eligible for unemployment, I’ll only be receiving a percentage of what I was earning there. So while I was working for peanuts, now I’ll be earning only a fraction of that peanut.

I heard from a co-worker that, the very next day, the slimeball office manager, Robin, told one of the girls that work there that she’d soon be getting a ‘promotion’, and that the plan was to ‘re-create’ my position in a few weeks and replace me with her.

So I have a new secret fantasy…and what’s funny about secret fantasies is how they change depending on your situation. When I had a job, my secret fantasies usually included gallons of whipped cream, a roomful of Playboy bunnies, and Britney Spears. Now, however, I’ve had to readjust this fantasy. I would now like to somehow find out that this ‘position elimination / re-creation’ violates some type of labor law, I sue the old bitch, and effectively bankrupt the company. I know, though, that this will never happen.

So I turn to my fall-back fantasy, which is that one afternoon, while the old hag and the office manager are sipping their eye-of-newt brew in the office, a large, smoldering asteroid lands squarely upon them, instantly killing them both and sending them directly to hell, no passing Go, no collecting $200.

I then race over to my ex-place of business and dance, gleefully, around their charred remains. So while others sleep at night dreaming of lottery winnings that will be spent on flashy sports cars, and setting world records in the Olympics, I will be spitting upon the graves of two very despicable people.