Bramble Tamble

Here's how the rest of the day will pan out.

Barring a stroke or an aneurysm or appendicitis or freak meteor that hits his office and leaves me unscathed - any scenario of which, it should be noted, I am rooting for - Doom will be here the rest of the day to wreak more havoc.

I will get blamed for "losing" a very important document that was last seen in his hands. Poop on me for not just making a copy from the only copy of the document I had before turning it over to him earlier in the month. After 30+ months in this position, you'd think I'd know better, since the fucker can't find his ass with both hands and a map. So, I suck, 40 lashes with a wet noodle, etc. etc. ad infinitum.

I will get called into his office for a "chat." He'll ask if everything is OK, and I'll lie and say that I'm perfectly happy and content and just a little bogged down right now, but it'll all be all right. (He doesn't know I'm trying to flee this shithole like a rat fleeing a burning ship. He'll shit when he finds out. And then I'll get blamed for not having a clean pair of Depends for him on hand, but that's a risk I'm willing to take.)

Then, he will completely overhaul my system of doing things, because he couldn't put his hands on this particular document, and so the system is broken (in his deluded "thinking," which isn't really "thinking" so much as it's pure dumbass instinct, like a pig rooting for truffles, except a pig is classier). He'll call my real boss in, and I'll get talked to like I'm 3 years old and have the mental capacity of such, nevermind my near-genius IQ.

My real boss (who is not Doom and therefore does not suck balls) will reassure me that everything will be OK, just to ride this storm out until it passes. (He knows that I'm trying to flee this shithole. He's trying to stay objective in the matter, but I get the feeling that he can't help but secretly root against me because he knows that he'll have a hell of a time finding someone else who can keep it together here, especially given the environment I'm working in.)

I'll go home, enjoy what little time I have with my wife before she goes to work - her employers put her on stupid nights for about 6 weeks, and this is week 3, which partially explains my comparative lack of blogging as of late. We'll have supper, and I'll bitch about my day and how much I wish Doom would get some sort of painful, terminal disease borne by leeches on his next fishing trip, and she'll tell me to quit if I'm so goddamn unhappy and see if I can just do something from home. As if that's viable.

Then, hopefully, I'll spend the rest of the evening with Son playing outside and then coming in to watch mindless children's television. I have the theme to "Make Way For Noddy" running through my head right now, and the prospect of watching a 15-minute cartoon about Toyland seems so innocent and fun and cheerful, which makes it the exact opposite of AntiChrist's Feces, which was actually the name put on Doom's birth certificate.