As I mentioned, I’m work in an asshole exercise factory; however one mutant chode in particular has really chapped ass lately. Said anus being a Puerto Rican version of Vin Diesel with a neck-shoulder combo tribal tat, nailsonchalkboard Mee-yah-mee accent and a natural sense of entitlement accompanied by zero sense of work ethic. He’s a member of the sales team (HOLY SHOCKER THERE BATMAN) and more tooley than the hardware section of Lowes. Anyway, my first week I stroll to the corner of my space to fold towels and knock over a blue bag, previously teetering on the edge. Instantly, fumes begin blazing my nostril hairs and I realize a bottle of cologne had fallen out of the open side pocket and smashed against the hard ground. I panic, hoping this bag doesn’t belong to the even larger black manager… who bears a freakishly close resemblance to the African man in Blood Diamond. The scent of asshole must’ve wafted over to Puerto Dicko because he looks over at me, then his soulless eyes fix to the heap of dripping blue glass on the floor.
I tell him I accidentally knocked this over the recklessly placed bag positioned in an unsafe zone causing the cologne to break. He informs me the cologne belongs to him, is Chanel and costs $150. I apologize profusely and he makes what I believe to be a joke about me getting purchasing another one. The next week of work he asks me about the cologne every day—sometimes multiple times a day—using different approaches such as where’s my new cologne, my mom bought that for me, I hate not smelling good at work, I can’t believe you smashed my cologne. I shirk these passive aggressive attempts at a guilt trip for something that wasn’t my fault and I refuse to compensate a man whose main topic of conversation revolves around the amount of money he makes. Eventually, the statements become less passive aggressive and more aggressive-aggressive. These include: look I thought you’d feel bad and buy me new cologne, I’ll even give you a discount, is it money? I can help split the cost I know you don’t make much here. Each statement is more condescending than the next until I want to shout Listen you simpleminded ass pirate, I may be here folding towels but I’d venture a guess you didn’t complete the tenth grade explaining your career selling gym memberships and speaking in LEbonics (This is a particularly horrendous form of Ebonics attempted by someone of the Latin persuasion.) Instead I continue brushing these comments off, until he asks me if I’m having “money problems” and that’s the reason I can’t pay him.
“No, I refuse to pay for something that wasn’t my fault. YOU left your bag there with the side pocket open and a glass bottle inside, also like you leave your phone hanging off the side of the counter and your ‘important binder’ on the floor and yell when you can’t find them. I think you are an ass.”
“I want my cologne.”
“Whatever I’ll get you a damn cologne you f-ing baby.”
At this point, I still have zero intention of giving him anything other than a swift roundhouse to the trachea. I also find myself in a sticky situation because not only is this slimy scumbag a grade A stalker with no shame, he’s also BFF with Manager Blackitron, who is also an exceptionally large bag of douche. Together, their professional conversations range from the amount of slutty girls that buy them drinks on the weekends to the amount of protein in any given meal they’ve just eaten. Pretty intellectually stimulating stuff. I mean, I work at a gym, so I don’t expect heated forensic science debates, but I’d expect some level of professionalism. The next day Papi Chulo storms up to me on a rampage, steaming enough through his large antennae to send me a few steps backward, considering the angry Spaniard has probably got about 5 inches and 100 lbs on me.
“Enough playing. I want my cologne. I want a date when you will have the money to me. You keep saying you’ll pay me. I already gave you a discount, I want the money. I’m not playing games.”
A discount? I didn’t fucking scalp your sub woofer off Craiglist—your cologne broke. How is it my fault you recklessly placed your bag there and happen to use a brand of cologne that homosexual fashionistas wear.
I turn to see the manager and a few others watching this entire debacle, saying nothing. In the professional world, this could and would be considered harassment. In judge Judy’s world, this idiotic man’s claims would hold no weight she would publicly embarrass him. I again tell him he is being ridiculous that it was an accident and I would never FORCE someone to pay. I neglect to add that I would’ve offered to pay if the plaintiff in question wasn’t Satan in Hispanic form.
“I just want my money. I’m DONE playing,” he grits through bared teeth and walks away.
At that moment, I realize I work with a complete sociopath and will undoubtedly be forced to dole out the money to end this harassment. I also recognize that I am in nearly in tears. And considering my emotional disability causes tears to take seasonal form, it takes a lot to send me overboard—then again I guess this is hurricane season. I call him an asshole, wait until his back is turned, and inform someone I am going to use the restroom, where I immediately erupt into Old Faithful, for no reason other than the fact that I’ve rarely come into contact with humans that have undergone a lobotomy replacing their brains with dark empty holes they strive to fill with money, social acceptance and perceived power. These individuals have low self esteem and project this unfortunate attitude onto others. And I vote to use them as crash test dummies in Smart Cars.
Against the advice of my family and friends, I write the asshole a check for sixty dollhairs because I want this rabid Spanish Spider Monkey off my back. I also entered “WHINING” into the memo line, to at least keep some dignitity. And when he returns from cashing the check ten minutes after handing it over, he begins laughing saying that the teller had made fun of him about the memo line. To my obvious dismay, he cracked up, repeating, “damn, you funny trick.” Call me trick, sweetheart, babe or any other pet name again and I will carefully castrate you with a sharpened barbell. And you can ice your crotch with a protein shake.
This bothered me more than anything. I inform him my intent lain far from good willed humor. I had originally planned on writing “BEING A DOUCHE” in the memo line, but my mother warned that such a stunt could result in termination. So, I decided on something in the middle, but clearly not far enough to the left to get my point across. Which was: you are a fucking baby. I was not trying to be silly or cute, I was being a bitch. And if one thing irritates me, it’s when I attempt to illustrate my bitterness in creative ways and morons neglect to comprehend the underlying connotation of the gesture. So if I text you a flaming pile of shit emoticon after you’re a particularly heinous form of bastard, it is a profound metaphor for you are a flaming pile of shit; not me being a silly kity. Read between the lines, dipshits.
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