Mr. Incredible - a long overdue work rant

If your New Year's did not include dancing relatives (blood-related and non) on top of bars, the gradual theft of a ham - slice by slice, and leaving your coat behind at the site of the ham theft, you're off to a better start than I.

But moving forward, I haven't talked much about my job not because I'm afraid of Big Brother, but because I love it. No, seriously. I'm one of those sick puppies who actually likes what they do. I walk chirpily to work, looking forward to my day. I'd rather eat lunch at my desk and get work done than go out for an hour. I've come in early and I've stayed late. All the things I didn't do when I was working with Nose Digger, Whiner and The Idiot Prince. I've even worked on weekends.

From home, yeah, but voluntarily I have logged into my network and worked from home. Why? Because I farking love my job!

I'm a sad, sad case, I know. But you have no idea what this means for me. I've paid my dues, y'all. Granted I took a step back in my position and salary to work at this place, but that was the only way I could convince them I was meant to work in events. And you know what? It worked. I got promoted after ten weeks. After years and years of bullshit co-workers and office politics and being reduced to tears on certain occasions, I am wholly gratified by my job.

Well, not quite.

See. There's this asshat in my office. No, it's not a hat made out of an ass, but if there were such a thing, he should be forced to wear one. Every Day For The Rest Of His Natural Life. Okay, if the word asshat confuses you, then let's do this: let's call him an a-haaaaassssss-hooollllllleeee!

Okay, okay, okay - let's call him by the nickname he has at the office. And that nickname is...drumroll please...Mr. Incredible. Make no mistake, this is not a compliment. It's far from it. Because it is not a reference to his character (or lack thereof), but his uncanny physical Meathead resemblance to a certain animated superhero by the same name. Although in the spirit of sarcasm, the name works rather well.

Imagine this image in human form, with a touch of rosacea. Scary, eh?

Seriously, this summumabitch is out to get me. I don't know what his problem is, considering we barely say two words to each other. He's a vice president at our office - his title reads "VP of Something Very Important Sounding". But after one drink too many at a happy hour, a few of us agreed that his title should be "VP of Bullshit", coasting on the backs of others and then taking credit for it. The general consensus around the office is...well of course the general consensus is that he's an asshat, but that's not what I was gonna say. The general consensus is the reason he doesn't mingle with the masses is that he has something to hide. And it's becoming more apparent with the digging we've all done that what he's hiding is his lack of credentials.

Yet he's still managed to sell The Big Man At Top a bill of goods and convince him that he is worthy of a VP title. The joke around the office is that his motto is "Overpromise and underdeliver". It's mind-boggling to me how, when he barely communicates with anyone who isn't upper management, he was once in charge of the Communications department.

(Blinking) The Man Who Does Not Communicate was in charge of our Communications department. And now he's a VP. Not only does the man not communicate, he can barely emote. Smiling takes a tremendous amount of effort on Mr. Incredible's part. And when he does, you get the feeling something really, really bad has just happened. Like somewhere in this world, the locusts have invaded and rivers are running with blood. So, really. I don't get it. Did he grunt his way to a promotion???

Facial Expression No. 2

Moving on, we barely talk to each other, right? Because I'm too lowly for him to waste breath on and frankly, I don't see what he can contribute. since the word 'teamwork' does not seem to be a part of his vocabulary. But on two separate occasions he's seen fit to meddle with me, going to my boss and saying I seemed unprepared for my job and on a second occasion, telling her I wasn't staying on top of one of my events. Thankfully, not only does my boss rock but I'm doing very well at what I do (knock on wood). So she thought to address Mr. Incredible's "concerns" with me immediately, instead of just believing him. In return, I was able to point out his thoughtfulness by choosing not to interact with me in the six months I've been there. So how da hail can he be the expert on what I am or am not doing all day????

Seriously, what kind of punk-ass bullshit is that? This is not the second-grade. You have a problem, or you think you do, you come see me. I'll set you straight first, then kick your ass before I go on happily to orchestrate another event.

Another thing. There's a lot of writers in our office, some good, some bad. I'm not saying I'm great, but I think I'm a good judge of what sucks. His writing sucks. The hilarity in all this is that he's actually referred to himself as an "award-winning writer". Yeah, I'm an award-winning writer too. See, I wrote this poem in the fourth grade? And they picked it out in a contest and I got to read it in front of the whole county at this special show and everything! That's right. And the name of this winner was "No More Cookies, Please".

Soooooo, someone Googled him. And we found his award winning work - snicker, snicker, snork. This stuff is award-winning all right. This was the winner of the "Toilet paper I would use only if poison ivy were not available to me as an option" Category.

Let me show you an example of this material that just has "Pulitzer Prize" written all over it:

"By the third cherry vodka and seven up I was ready to hunt anything, kill it with my fucking teeth. They think I'm a pussy city boy, I'll show them what real snipe huntin is all about. I'll take that fuckin twelve gauge and blow them snipes a new asshole. "

There's plenty more where that came from, but I think that's pretty much all you need to know. I mean, seriously. A cherry vodka and Seven-Up?!?!?! That's the drink preference of a bad writer right there. Or hunters. Maybe both. Because I don't see how the alcoholic cousin of the drink known as a Shirley Temple is going to send anyone off into a Badass Hunting Rage. Do you?

I rest my case.

Keep in mind that there's plenty more where this comes from. All cherry vodka and Seven-Ups does seem to do is result in an affliction where the swearing associated with Tourette's transfers itself from the mouth to the hand. I mean, he just spews and spews this dreck. Aaaa-haaannd spews! Much like I am right now. And I should seriously stop.

But man, I seriously do not like this guy. And I'm not alone. Several of us have agreed this is not a man you want to be alone in a room with. Aside from him trying to sabotage my reputation at work, there's definitely something a little "off" about him, in a Jeffrey Dahmer sort of way. Like if you were alone in a room with him, he would give consideration to the dismemberment and cooking of your parts. (Shudder) This is a man who cleans his teeth with the bones of former work colleagues, the ones who dared to get in his way.

But other than that, I really like my job.