The Art of Getting Sacked - Bringing the Dumb Cunt DownSubmitted by Spam at 2005-12-09 14:43:19 EST
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Day One: http://www.ubersite.com/m/78574
Day Two: http://www.ubersite.com/m/78630
(a note to the septics: CV = Curriculum Vitae = Resume and GP = General Practitioner)
So that’s all folks.
I aint getting garden leave now. Sure as shit. My quest for a righteous suspension has been a spectacular failure, ended almost before it began at the hands of some dumb cunt purely for her own amusement.
Title make sense now?
Wednesday (day 3): Wrapping up the loose ends.
So I had a week to get the sack and find new a job right? But that’s out the fucking window quicker than a burning WTC office worker so now I gotta improvise, get creative. I’ve gotta come up with some brilliant reason why I can’t go to work for the rest of this week so I can spend the time I need to circulate my CV to the necessary people.
“I can’t come in today - I’m Sick.”
Of course, I’ll have hell to pay when I do go back but there’s fuck all they can do in the meantime - I followed company procedure by calling in, I just didn’t fuck about with explanations.
Thursday (Day 4): Seeds of a plan
CV’s were out yesterday but there’s no fucking way I’m going in this morning, so I make another early morning call to Brenda’s mobile.
“B, I need a favour”
She means it too, I make a quick note to buy her a couple of bottles of wine before I leave for putting up with me.
“I need you to tell Donna that I’m not going in today but that you don’t know why. Then make sure that you tell Tom that I’m not actually sick and it’s all one big skive.”
“No problem” She chuckles and hangs up without asking any questions.
Friday (Day 5): My friend the doctor
No way. I mean, come on, it’s a fucking Friday, so I go to the pub for the day instead. But not before going to the Doctor’s surgery first.
So that’s week one done with. What’s the matter? Disappointed? I know what you’re thinking:- “You were supposed to bring that Ramona bitch down and so far you haven’t even been to work yet”. Am I right?
Ye of little faith.
It’s all in the details my friends, and for the most part, I’ve left them out thus far.
Let me tell you about Ramona.
Frankly, Ramona disgusts me in almost every way imaginable, always has. I get a lot of shit from people when I explain to them how repulsive this girl is, for various reasons, but mainly it’s because she is protected by the fact that you could literally throw a bucket of discriminatory labels at her at and most of them’ll stick like shit to a blanket.
Don’t understand what I mean? Try this: she’s short, fat, black and ugly.
Don’t get me wrong, that’s not why I hate her - some of my best friends are fat and ugly. No, what I hate about her is her attitude. This girls is Rude in just about every sense of the word.
I remember one day when she’d just started I was interrupted from my pretence of work by a derisive snort from the desk opposite me, the kind of snort that actually just means ‘look at me, I’m about to say something’. So I made the mistake of looking up. The image I was met with was one that at the time, bought bile up to the back of my throat almost immediately but later I was to realise that in the absence of partitions between desks, I would just have to get used to it.
Ramona was slouched back in her chair, the legs of her 5 foot frame dangling just above the carpet. Her left hand clutched an enormous bacon roll which she seemed intent on cramming into her rotund face whole, crumbs mixed with saliva and globules of grease slopping down from her chin in the process. She had hitched up shirt her to expose her enormous and grotesque belly that’d been marbleised by a coat of stretch marks and was using the other hand to go about the serious business of removing the clumps of fluff and dirt that had gathered in her bellybutton in order to flick them absently onto my desk.
Seeing that she had got my attention she gestured to a chubby girl across the office who I knew to be nothing other than sweet and, with her mouth still full, said in heavily accented Jamaican tones: “I doan know ‘ow it’s possible to let yo’sel get into dat kinda state. Does she even re’lise wat she looks like? Dat girl needs to goan get some ex’cise.”
Even through the shower of half digested meat I was hit with, I knew then that this bitch had no redeeming qualities whatsoever.
Monday (Day 6)
You know how this goes by now right? I’m only fifteen minutes late today because In all honesty, I’m expecting to walk into a bit of a shitstorm and I don’t wanna give these guys any more reason to be pissed off at me then they’ve got already. I probably only worked for a total of 15 minutes last week and all they’ve heard from me in the last 5 days is a phone call consisting of nine words and a hang-up.
I know that my plan has worked immediately when I see two anxious glances to me as I walk in the door and when Tim turns to give me his warning, I know already what it is he wants to say.
“She did it again mate. Brenda told me last week that you weren’t really sick, but that fucking twat Ramona overheard her again and went crying to Donna and Martin about you. All three of them are waiting in Martin’s office for you now”
09:30: Yet another Meeting
I stroll into the office cheerfully and I can see that this unsettles everybody immediately. Over the course of the last two years, I’ve built a reputation for fucking with people during private meetings and Donna and Martin recognise straight away that my charming smile signifies that I’ve got something up my sleeve for them. Nonetheless, I know they’ll carry on with everything regardless, unoriginal bastards that they are. Ramona, on the other hand, has no idea what I’m like and her victorious expression is something I’m going to take real pleasure in removing.
Martin starts up the meeting.
“Sam, do you know why you’re here?”
I shouldn’t, but it’s too good an opportunity to refuse.
“Because it’s tough to find jobs where I can get paid for sitting at home watching TV?”
Martin knows better than to pursue that line of conversation and yet again, I have to say I’m impressed at how professionally he lets the quip slide.
“We know that you weren’t sick for the last three days Sam, we’re here to give you an opportunity to explain yourself.” Again, it’s very diplomatic and it almost sounds like he’s doing me a favour by dragging me into his lair.
“Well that’s very gracious of you Martin, thank you. But I’ve a better idea. Why don’t the three of you tell me what grounds you’ve got to sit there and call me a liar to my face and then, when you realise that you’ve made a mistake, you can all apologise to me.”
It’s only when I hear myself come out with statements like that, that I realise how far I’ve come in the last week. When this started all I wanted was to leave early without pissing anybody off too much and still get a reference. And now…?
Well now I just Don’t Fucking Care.
Anger passes over Martin’s face for the briefest of instances and I can tell I’ve got to him. Which means I’ve won. When he replies, the diplomacy has dissolved and there’s a hard edge to his voice.
“Well Sam, in that case would you care to explain two things for me please? Firstly, how is it that on my lunch break on Friday, I drove past you strolling down the high street looking more than healthy and without a care in the world and secondly, tell us how it is that Ramona came to overhear your colleagues discussing a phone call where you admitted to one of them that you were not sick at all.”
Fair dues, being spotted on Friday was unexpected, but nothing I can’t handle. I fill my repost with as much feigned anger as I can muster.
“Well Martin, let me first congratulate you.”
“Well y’see, when you saw me I was in fact, on my way to the doctor’s surgery to get my back checked out. The reason I’m congratulating you is because this doctor, Doctor Kott, had to do at least five years of medical school followed by maybe another year or so of internship in order to become a GP. Even after all that, he still had to perform a number of lengthy medical tests to come up with a diagnosis. Yet YOU, a call centre manager with absolutely no experience in medicine whatsoever, were able to fully examine me and confidently give me a clean bill of health BECAUSE YOU DROVE PAST ME IN THE STREET?!!.”
Stop getting carried away Sam.
All three faces in the office are agape at my apparent fury and It is with a struggle that I don’t burst into laughter. So that they don’t notice my inner turmoil, I look down as I rummage around in my pocket and the produce the sign-off note Doctor Kott had given me on Friday. I slide it across the desk with evil smile straight at Ramona.
Donna and Martin stare in turn at the note, then at me, until finally their questioning gaze falls upon Ramona too.
“No, no, no. wait a sec'and. I swear I ‘erd Brenda telling Tim wha’gowan.”
There’s a pause as the managers try to make sense of the gibberish. A pause I take full advantage of.
“Look,” I begin, “I didn’t want to go into this but you’re leaving me no choice here. I’ve noticed that over the last three weeks or so, Ramona’s had some sort of problem with me for some reason. I can’t explain it properly but it seems that she’s always sniping and having a go at me. Now I know - I’m a big boy - and really, I don’t mind that so much, but last week she was discussing my lateness with Donna when it had nothing to do with her and today she’s making up lies to get me into more trouble with you guys.”
Donna and Martin have that look of worry that I love to see on the faces of management and Ramona is completely outraged.
I continue: “I’m sure if you ask Brenda and Tim in here, they’ll confirm that this alleged phone conversation never took place.”
I turn to Ramona now and say in a tone of friendly support, “Ramona, I have no idea why you’d be like this but I’m sure you see how unfair this is. The only thing I can come up with to explain it is that maybe you’re attracted to me in some way but you’re upset because you're wise enough to know that I'm not intrested. I’m probably wrong, but like I say, that’s all I can come up with”
Another stunned silence The managers’ faces are plastered with raw curiosity and intrigue now, like they’re watching their favourite soap opera. Ramona’s look of rage has gone now and in it’s place, rather inexplicably, is one of acute sadness.
“Who Tol’ you dat?” She says.
“Dat wos supp’sed to be a secret”
Well fucking hell.
Even I didn’t expect that.
(To be continued...)