The Plight of Poor “Arthur”.
Poor Arthur. You are greeted by an evil, sneering smile plastered on your demonic-boss every morning at the office, where you have not only invested 22 years of your life, but suffered every known abuse known to mortal man (except sodomy for most of those years as well). But somehow, you find that inner-strength that God gave the noble mule, and all of His creatures, to continue living and fulfilling its purpose in the continuous circle of life.
One day while, “Mr. Perfect,” was out of town with another sexual-conquest, a stripper named, “Blaze,” from a dingy, dirty gentlemen’s club called, “Pete’s Place,” that he thought was unknown to anyone. But the night janitor, who also frequented “Pete’s Place,” on his night off, told you several damning stories about your boss and how he would sit near the stage and pinch “Blaze,” and all of the strippers in places where the common masher wouldn’t dare touch them.
Then he would order more Jack Daniel’s Old No. 7, black label whiskey, and boast to his spineless yes-men who cheered him on for fear that he might get physically-abusive with them before the night was over.
During your talk with the night janitor, “George ‘Cornbread’ Salter,” you confessed “the” worst embarrassed you could ever remember in the 22 years of working for your bull-headed boss who masqueraded each day as a mortal man.
You had invited the general partner of a new client, “Henderson, Bankwell, and Jones, LLC,” to meet you at “Pipers Restaurant,” a four-star joint, for a late supper to discuss doing business with your firm, but lo and behold, one of “Mr. Perfect’s” spies who worked in the communications department had pulled a “Judas” and let him know of your plans of where you were meeting this general partner and all of the vital information needed for him, the boss, to swoop-in like a vampire bat and suck the life out of you while taking credit for landing the new business client.
“It was the ‘nth’ degree past horrible,” you confess to “George,” who is listening to you intently for he is probably your only friend at your workplace. “I was sitting respectfully listening to “Robert Belker,” an intelligent and well-traveled man who was the general partner of “Henderson, Bankwell, and Jones,” one of the biggest steel manufacturing firms in the Charleston area, and in strutted, “Mr. Perfect,” with chest and stomach protruding–and reminded you of a bowling ball with feet as he bumbled and stumbled as he found you and “Belker,” at your table about to order your meal.
From then on it was pure Hades for you. The serpent-of-a-boss slapped you on the back so hard that you lost your breath. You always swore he did it on purpose to knock you out cold so “he” could run the show.
“Hey, Arthur, my old side-kick, don’t let me intrude on your . . .now who is this here?” “Mr. Perfect,” said almost to the top of his lungs. You knew then that he had been hitting the whiskey before ruining your meeting.
“Well, sir, I uhh,” you started to explain your presentation. Then he interrupted you again.
“Arthur, you are not telling this man, uhh, Belkie, how “I” personally invested my time off in designing this presentation that I think will suit your firm of, now what was it . . .”Hendley, Banker and Tones?” he said embarrassing himself more.
And it only got worse for you from that verbal stumble to the end of the meeting that “Robert,” told you later reminded him of a “train wreck.”
“Mr. Perfect,” passed gas several times and made vulgar jokes about it to “Robert,” who was not amused since he was from one of the oldest families in Charleston, the families with the Old Money–influential and powerful.
“George, I tell you, ” you say with tears in your eyes. “I felt more like a ventriloquist’s dummy with the boss’ filthy right hand up my butt than I did his employee trying to make a presentation.” That explains your speech impediment. And why your company lost “Henderson, Bankwell, and Jones, LLC.”
Disclaimer: Bad Boss posts are meant to be humorous and should not be taken seriously.