Ok, so, I was going to go about this finding a new job thing in a clear-headed fashion.
I think I am almost to the boiling point of I’ll-take-anything desperation.
Last week, I threw my back out pulling over 500 30-50lb. boxes from scaffolding and repackaging them, climbing up in rafters, moving palettes around, because everybody in the office was out of town. I got some really nice Tylenol #3′s out of it, but I could have done with earplugs to tune out my manager’s incessant whining once he got back, with no undertones of thanks whatsoever.
Add to that the fact that the owner is having some type of man-PMS and sulking around the office ignoring everyone, and you’ve got the nut zoo all in one peanut.
Right now, my manager is out in the warehouse questioning my fucking multiplication skills. All morning he has been riding my nuts. I’m so on edge when he walked in just now, I said “Yes” before he could even question any of my excel spreadsheet/box counting/outgoing order packaging skills, and this time, he actually had nothing to question.
He uses me as his punching bag. When he’s upset and stresses, he gravitates towards the “weakest” link, the only girl, the one most susceptible to pressure, the “lowest on the rung”. This morning was full of hovering over my shoulder trying to find something wrong with the way I’m doing my job, because he’s stressed and nervous and overwhelmed. When he couldn’t find anything wrong, he tried to tell me I was entering the wrong order into excel. In fact, I had just moved the order I had entered, and that was the order underneath. Because his short smelly body was so close to me, I was about to enter the order underneath, since he was so hell-bent on distracting me, but he saved me from his own ruse by pointing out my “mistake”.
Then he came back into the office about five or six times to point out various “errors”. Um, manager, do you know the part numbers to your own backpacks? Obviously not. Error averted.
He seems to think the more he distracts me while I’m doing something or tries to point out the error of my ways and hover, the more productive I’ll be. Or he just doesn’t think at all. If I could build tiny figurines out of toothpicks and light them each on fire one by one on his desk, I would hope he’d get the message. But he’s an ignoramus, and I have no toothpicks.
Where do they breed these bad managers? I’m not the only one suffering on a daily basis under the weight of some napoleon’s overbearing sweat-producing hairy testicles. If I could just shove these nuts aside, I could be free, right? But so many other people have bad managers. People who have no empathy, who care only about themselves, unless it serves them to be nice. People who cannot acknowledge, give approval or compliment. People who give “backhanded” compliments such as, “oh, it must be nice to take a lunch break” or “oh, so your dog’s home alone hu? must be rough. No wonder she’s chewing everything up”. Sure, asshole. I took this job because it was a five minute bike ride from home and you moved us to East Oakland. Fuck the hell off.
Somewhere, there is a breeding lab for parasitic psychopathic monster managers. It’s called The School of Kiss Ass. They take mosquito larvae and pair it with rejected blue babies. They throw in some maggots and crickets for good measure, put it all in a pot, simmer and play tapes all night that extol messages such as “kiss ass to save ass”, “you’re only as good as the people you fuck over”, “never show kindness, we’re in a battle against sincerity”, “your employees are just tools to use at your own discretion” and “You are always right, no matter what”.
When the managers are growing up, they get bullied and picked on by the older kids to toughen them up. They are taught the Golden Anti-Rule. Do unto others what has been done to you. They take micro-managing, controlling, manipulating, and guilt-tripping classes. The learn how to subvert their anger and use it covertly to get their own way. They learn how to look good by making others look bad, how to take credit for their employees successes, and how to make their employees look like they’re worthless sacks of shit who wouldn’t be succeeding without their undying devotion.
If they go to the school my manager went to, they must also learn to take out their anger on minorities, women, underlings and everyone in the service industry. They must make fun of the people who work at 7-11 by mimicking their voices. They must shout profanities at security guards who don’t let you have special privileges. They must mock lower-class neighborhoods when they know nothing about them or the people who live there. They must try to make the non-drinking coworker keep alcohol in her room. They also have to be a Putz to the P by ruining almost everything their hands touch, fumbling it up, exerting nervous antsy energy, rearranging things so that people can’t find them constantly, such as oh, the whole warehouse, supplies, etc. They must also make it seem as if everyone else has the problem, not them.
It makes me want to gag, I tell ya. I want to slip some arsenic into the coffee. But I won’t, don’t call the national guard. This is all for my “learning and betterment” according to the School of Hard Knocks. It just sucks that I have to take his bag of shit home with me at the end of the day.