Monday Spells Bitter

It really soothes my day to post something about that old pigfucker, Mr. Panty Waist. It's like exorcising all those old demons and letting the hate run free.

This is typical of the sort of conversations I'd have daily, with the old warthog. He was really a miserably, irritating man who would do his utmost to weasel out of anything he didn't feel like doing. He'd sigh about a million times, whine, sulk and make excuses as to why he couldn't do a certain thing (oddly one of them was never "I am an incompetent baboon.")

If he was mysteriously absent from the office (OK not mysteriously exactly, he was always absent from the office) he'd finally call in and this would happen:

Mr. PW: So anyway, I’m not sure what exactly I’m going to be doing today.
Me: Ok.
Mr. PW: So if anyone asks what I’m doing, you don’t know.
ME: ...well...I don’t know!
Mr. PW: Exactly. Be vague. Don’t volunteer any information.
ME: I don’t have any information. I have no idea what you're doing.
Mr. PW: That’s what I mean. Be vague, do you know I mean? I don’t want them knowing my whereabouts this afternoon.
ME: Again, I don't know your whereabouts. Where are you?
Mr. PW: I’m out of pocket. (Car and road sounds in background and kids fighting)
ME: Ok. What if I need to reach you?
Mr. PW: Email me. Email my blueberry.
(He had a Blackberry. Got confused. A lot.)
ME: OK...you do know Cruella is in the office today and may call about the client.
Mr. PW: Well, just remember you don’t know where I am.
ME: I DON’T KNOW WHERE YOU ARE, YOU ANNOYING FUCKNUT! (I may have silently said that last part in my head)
Mr. PW: Exactly.

The man was a ball of paranoia. He was fearful at all times of anyone knowing his business. He'd skulk around awkwardly trying to avoid his coworkers, especially those who might want to "talk to" him. Which really, was only ever his fellow partners who had to talk to him for the sake of the business. No one voluntarily wanted any interaction with him for fear of landing in jail for being forced into beating his brains with a swivel chair, after several seconds of his whining.

Cruella de Ville was not to be messed with. She reduced giant, ego-swollen men to their knees in tears, she was so mean. Mr. Panty Waist detested and feared her with every inch of his over-sized, disillusioned being. He'd openly groan if you mentioned her name then whine like a tired three year old about how he didn't have time to meet with her - it's hard to schedule the Chair(wo)man of the company into your calendar between, "scratching my balls" and "staring at my feet" I guess.

Sometimes, even though I haven't seen his bloated visage in three years, I still hear his voice whining in my head and it takes all my strength not to pick up a wrench and bash my skull till he's gone.