Those Who Live By The Sword, Die By The Sword, But I Am Eventually Slitting My Wrists Anyway

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One of the "gentlemen" I work with (very loose use of the word) is a self-confessed alcoholic. Not self-confessed in the manner that he goes to AA meetings and avoids partying, but self-confessed in the fact he proudly drinks vodka on the job. And offers it to whomever else might have a hankering for alcohol.

To put it nicely, this guy is annoying. He is, after all, one of the people who tried to unsucessfully steal one of my deals. He is loud, brash and frequently voices his unwanted and uncensored opinions. There are not words to express his ignorance.

This afternoon, I had a car traded in that he was interested in so he took it out for a little test drive. He comes back, tosses me the keys and tells me how horrible it is. Two minutes later, he informs me that brake fluid is leaking from my trade. Hmm. Could it be because YOU last drove it? He also informs me that this would indicate the brake lines broke, which means I now have no brakes. And I still have to move it. Do you understand that? I HAVE TO MOVE IT.

I was already irritated at him for something else, but then to have the audacity to break my trade and then expect ME to risk life and limb moving it?! How about no. I mentioned this to him, but he didn't really seem to comprehend what I was saying to him (a wee bit too much vodka?!) and he repeated, again, that my brake lines were broken. Ha, ha. (He has quite possibly the world's most annoying laugh, rivaled only by that of my manager.) We repeat this back and forth process about fifteen times, until I cheerily offer to choke him and retreat to my desk.

At this point, I am worried. I have a car gushing brake fluid and no way to move it. I most certainly do not trust my own driving skills. Idea! I con the lot boy into moving it. I inform him of the problems and he assures me that he can safely move it.

Until my manager comes out and yells "GREAT! Now I have a seventeen year old moving a car with no brakes. Fucking terrific!"

I suppose you would rather have ME, who is far less knowledgable about cars than the aforementioned seventeen year old, move the car and possibly KILL myself?! YES! SOUNDS LIKE A GREAT IDEA!

I momentarily quavered between a full-blown diva tantrum and kicking his ass. I opted with neither, continued typing on the computer and made sure the car was safely moved.

I am now regretting not suggesting Vodka Vinny move the car himself.

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This odd narrative is my life. I ended up in Pittsburgh, of all places--from the beach. I have no hobbies, other than cooking excessively and eating microwave popcorn. I enjoy shopping, the Food network, hiding the remote so the Food network cannot be turned off, find ethnic food stores and restaurants and reading voraciously. My life is decidedly pedestrian.

I worked in the car business where I was required to be ruthless and soul-less wench, which is when I started this project. Since then, I've kept it up because secretly, I've always wanted to join the military. Every male in my mother's family has joined and I quietly entertain thoughts of joining. I haven't yet and don't know if I ever will, but sending the troops cookies keeps me sane. it makes me think I still have a shred of human kindness left in my withering soul. it's a small way for me to salute the men and women who are brave enough to fight for freedom. And makes me feel like I'm contributing toward troop morale--even if I'm not. So if you want to help, send me addresses of troops you know stationed overseas. you may also contribute toward the cost of chocolate chips, but don't feel obligated, that link is here only by request.

the past


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