you can see every drop of water...
my manager, who's image is not visible in reflective surfaces, is beyond asshole. we have had to invent new words to describe his behavior.
and i have decided "it's all you, darth." is chinese for "how does my cock feel in your ass?"
i have, however, learned in two years of penal servitude in the pizza-delivery field that anal rapes hurt less if you don't fight them.
this is how a typical conversation betwixt myself and my benighted manager (with my cranial play-by-play in parentheses) might go:
"darth, you think you can take all three of those?" (the proposed triple is some evil concoction from the very dark depths of hell that will have me out of the store for at least an hour and probably wondering what the fuck happened to my tip average at the end of the night--but he's only asking to apease whatever miniscule and atrophied sense of guilt he might still have.)
i shrug and say, "meh." (i know, since the three orders are soon to go late in the computer, and i am the only driver in the store, he is going to give me all three, but i won't play along or feed into his need to be absolved of his stupidity and selfishness.)
"well, there ya go." (i also know, if this 40-year-old loser whose very existance revolves around the store we are currently occupying were more of a gambler, he could let one or two of the orders he has just given me go over a minute or two, and another driver would be back to take it. and as sure as shit, as i heft the bags of pizzas to my car, i will pass another one of the drivers in the parking lot, who will spend the next twenty to thirty minutes standing around trying to look busy while he waits for another customer to call.)
furthermore, my apparently psychic manager will keep me standing around myself, until past my time to be off, because he is sure "it is going to get busy." never, ever, have i seen his crystal ball, or tea leaves, or tickling anal hair be right. but that won't stop him from doing it yet again another night. and again. and again.
there is only one sure thing about work: the predictability of stupidity.
just two more days. and i am dying my hair blue to celebrate my new-found freedom.