I admit it, I’m a cat guy.  I like dogs, but I live alone and like to take extended trips, so a dog is a little too high-maintenance for me at the moment.  Leave a cat with food, water, and a clean box, and you’re gold.

I’d say I’ve had about a dozen or so cats over the years.  My favorite, though, I only had for a short amount of time in the late 80’s.

My wife at the time was a high-school teacher in the very, very, very small town of Revere, MO.  One morning, one of her students brought her a gift: a stray kitten he’d found wandering the streets.  The wife, also an animal lover, took the kitten — a mix, but mostly Siamese — and hid it in her desk drawer.  At lunchtime, she brought it home.

I got home from work before her, with no knowledge of this new little white-bodied-brown-faced critter.  I came in and went into the bathroom to take a whiz.

Mid-pee, I looked down and to the left of the toilet.  There was a goddamn possum right there.

I spazzed out and sprayed pee around for a couple of seconds before I realized it was a kitten.

So, because I mistook him for a possum, I named him Pogo, after the possum in the old-timey comic strip.

Pogo was great because he was one of the most affectionate cats I’ve ever had…but he was also a badass.

We had two other cats, Jasmine and Sidney (Poitier).  They were all indoor/outdoor cats, and when Jasmine and Sidney would come in after hard day of cattin’ around, they’d head straight for the food dish.

Pogo, however, would always come in and immediately jump up and snuggle with whichever human was closest.  He’d purr and rub up against you for a minute or so, then head over to the other and repeat the process.  Once he’d loved you up and showed the proper respect, he’d leisurely stroll to the food dish.

If we had leftover “people” food, we’d dump it in a pile out back for all the neighborhood animals to feast upon.  One day, Pogo was out feasting.  A big dog came up and challenged him.  The dog was in growly attack mode, but Pogo stood his ground, arched his back, and hissed evilly.  The dog looked confused and walked away.

Another time, we cooked a chicken but removed the skin.  The entire raw chicken skin, in one piece, was tossed out back.  Pogo, without chewing at all, swallowed THE WHOLE CHICKEN SKIN.  I thought for sure he was going to choke to death, but he only gagged briefly and walked off.

One night we were awakened by some loud animal fight noises.  We didn’t think much of it, but the next day the neighbor called and said, “I think your cat’s in our yard.”

Sure enough, there was Pogo, dead, at the tender age of one.  Nobody knows what happened – he wasn’t bloody or mangled up – but I like to think he fought a badass fight with whatever it was.  The neighbor was nice enough to suggest that we bury him right there in his yard, on the spot where he’d died.  We did.

Great cat.  Very entertaining.  And it’s fitting he went out with a bang instead of a whimper.  Crazy badass lovey-dovey feline.  Peace.  *Pours 40 of malt liquor on curb*

I love betting on the ponies, and last year, I had a spontaneous “let’s hit a couple of races” moment.  I headed to the Arlington OTB.

I normally bet $2 – $10 on a single race.  That day, I grew a pair.

I looked at the monitors, chose the next race, and bet $50 on the favorite to win.  He lost by a neck.

Damn.  That meant I was close.  I chose the next race and bet $50 on the favorite.  That was my entire bankroll.  He won by two lengths.

I checked the payoff board: $125.  Groovy.  I won $25.

I cashed in my ticket with the crusty old cashier.  The display rang up “$125.”  He handed me a wad, and I folded it up and stuck it in my wallet.

I got to my car opened my wallet.  I unfolded the wad and counted it: $250.  Couldn’t have been another wad, I only had a few other dollars.  And those crusty old cashiers never make mistakes.

Thank you, eight-pound-six-ounce baby Jesus.

Anyway, I wanted to spread the loot, kind of like Jesse in Breaking Bad, so I went to the local thrift store, one I know helps a lot of people in the community.  The plan was to unceremoniously donate a $50 bill.

I walked in and there were about six old ladies in the checkout line.  The cashier was the only employee there.  I walked up and kind of hovered back, trying to politely wait until the current customer left so I could quickly jump in, hand the cashier the bill, say, “just wanted to make a quick donation,” then vamoose.  Here’s what I heard:

Really-Very-Old-Lady-Customer (troubled): But it says fifty cents.

Not-Quite-As-Old Cashier: No, it’s $5.

RVOLC: But it says fifty cents.

NQAOC: No, it says $5.

MY BRAIN:  A damsel in distress.  And I could be Bill Gates for five minutes.

I stepped forward, holding the bill, and said, “you know what?  I can pay for it.”

The customer was flabbergasted.  “You can’t do that.  That’s five dollars.”

I said, “No, it’s okay.  I was going to make a donation anyway.  I can get everybody’s stuff in line, or at least what $50 will cover.”

The hens were abuzz.  “You can’t do that, that’s too much, etc.”

I said, “ladies, I had a good day at the racetrack, and something told me to come here and give this to you.”

A bit of silence, then a lot of thanks you’s and gratitude.

I moved toward the door and said, “I hope you all have a wonderful day.”  Then I vamoosed.

MORAL OF THE STORY:  Even though they may deny it at first, chicks dig it when you buy them stuff.

I consider myself a pretty well-adjusted person.  As a kid, I received abundant positive attention from my parents, family and friends.  As a result, I require very little attention as an adult.

I really have no insecurities.  I’m pudgy, but I’m 49 years old and have to take weight-gaining pills to slow down my defective brain, so who cares?  Gray hair?  Had it for over 20 years; heard all the jokes.  Clothes?  Fashion’s for suckers.  I’m not cool because I haven’t heard of a particular band, haven’t seen a particular director’s films, haven’t read a particular book, or like a particular sports team?  Who gives a shit?

So you really can’t hurt my feelings.  And if you’re just trying to hurt my feelings in the first place, you’re the type of person I’ll describe below.

Let me start by saying that, in my experience, almost everyone craves some type of attention.  Most folks shoot for positive attention, such as giving a compliment, lending a helping hand, or achieving a noble goal.  Others can’t generate positive attention and resort to negative attention.  (I used to teach high school, and believe me, there’s plenty of the latter.)

Bullies.  Drama queens.  Hipster snobs.  Internet trolls.  You know the types.  They’ve all got something to prove:  I’m better than you, I’m smarter than you, I’m more of a badass than you, I’m trendier than you, I’m prettier than you.  Me me me, pay attention to me.

Anyway, I’m a pretty cheery guy, but there’s been one negative thing sticking in my head.  At that thing is all the people who have been insecure assholes to me in my life.

I posted a while back about my last boss, but there’s a long list of people who were just plain cruel and felt they had to show everyone their complete dominance over me.

Why are these people in my noggin?  My friends are all cool and my new coworkers are nice.  There’s nobody in my life telling me what a piece of shit I am.  So why are memories of toxic cretins invading my brain space?

Then something came to me.  I remembered a Simpsons quote.  It’s the episode where principal Skinner, Bart’s enemy, gets fired, and Ned Flanders takes over as principal.  Bart thinks it will be paradise, but he’s unhappy and directionless.  Lisa says (I’m paraphrasing): “Don’t you see, Bart?  You need a nemesis.”  Bart gets Skinner back and all is well.

Maybe that’s it.  Every time a dickhead (I’m using “dickhead” to represent both genders) has come into my life, I’ve taken the abuse, turned the other cheek and such, but I’ve secretly felt really good knowing I wasn’t an insecure got-shit-to-prove dickhead.

So…anyone want to be an insecure dickhead asshole to me so I can feel superior to you?

I recently started a new logistics position at a steamship company.  I’d been unemployed for over two years, and it’s nice to get back to being a productive member of society.

I’ve only been there about a week, but I’ve already noticed a huge difference between the new place and my last job: the people are actually nice and respectful.

You see, my last workplace was pretty tense.  Lots of yelling and emotional outbursts, and even an in-office fight.

But the worst part was my supervisor (let’s call him Dick), who tried to make my life as miserable as he could.  Every single day.  For seven years.

The guy was a trainwreck (that’s a pun, we worked moving rail freight).  Everyone knew he drank quite a bit, and would often knock down a few at lunchtime.  A couple of years after I started (and had endured a lot of harassment), he got his third DUI.  He said it was his third, but he’s quite a liar, so it was probably number 4 or 5.  He lost his license and needed a ride to and from work.  He approached me and asked, stating it “might be a few weeks.”

At first, a few other people also agreed to give him rides, so we’d take weekly rotations, picking him up every six weeks or so.  Not too bad, but remember, I was spending about an hour a day in a car with a guy who was a total shithead to me all day.

Before long, the other drivers couldn’t put up with him and stopped giving him rides.  I was the only one left.  I ended up being his sole driver for 4 years.  Picking him up added 45 minutes to my normal commute each day.  Often, he’d give me shit about my job performance in the car.  I rarely graced him with a response when he was being an asshole, but I’d think, “do you really think it’s wise to piss off someone who’s driving you 75 m.p.h. down the interstate and could end all this nonsense with a quick turn of the wheel?”

He was in an “only staying together for the kid” marriage, and would linger at the end of the day (forcing me to linger as well) because he didn’t want to go home.

You get the picture.  I could go on for hours.  Anyway, one day in the car he told me that if I lost my job, he’d give me a shitty recommendation if anyone asked.  I thought, “you’re such a cunt you’d try to prevent me from doing ANY other job?”

One week last year, right around this time, I kept obsessing about him.  I’d think of the numerous things he’d said, and what I should have said instead of always taking the high road.

So I composed a letter and e-mailed it to him at work early one weekday morning.  I told him I sent it to everyone in the office.  I know it’s rough, but the guy had to know what’s what.  I wouldn’t have sent it if he hadn’t flat-out told me he’d try to mess up any future employment.  Needless to say, I didn’t use him as a reference.

——

Dear Dick,

As you know, I was out sick when [Dick’s boss’s boss] called with the news I’d been laid off.  My first reaction wasn’t, “Damn, I don’t have a job.”  It was, “Thank God, now I never have to deal with Dick ever again.”

It doesn’t surprise me that you didn’t call me at home to say, “sorry about the news” or “let me know if I can do anything for you” or even “thanks for sacrificing hundreds of hours of sleep getting up early to drive my drunken ass to work for four years.” It doesn’t surprise me, because showing compassion is what non-sociopathic people do.

When I told you I needed time off to visit my dying mother in the hospital, you said, “I don’t know, that’s kind of short notice.  I don’t know if I can find a ride.”  Real sensitive unselfish grown-up stuff there, Dicky.

In seven years of performance reviews, you never gave me a single above-average mark, out of about 40 categories.  In fact, most of them were below average.  For an intelligent, college-educated employee who came in on time every day and did his best.  What’s that say about the supervisor?  I used to teach high school, and if for some reason I had a bright student for seven years who never got better than a C, I’d think I was a pretty shitty teacher to that student.  But then, I’m not a sociopath.

And, as you love to start sentences, “I’m curious…”  What managerial training did you take that taught you constantly berating employees in front of everyone is an effective motivational technique?  I thought managers were supposed to keep their employees happy and productive.  You do just the opposite.  Every friend and family member I ever talked to about you said the same thing: “How does that guy keep his job?” (My guess is you have incriminating photos of someone somewhere.)

You’re a joke, Dick, and the saddest part is that you don’t even slightly realize that.  On days you weren’t there (which, thankfully, was a lot), the department was ecstatic.  We were so much happier, relaxed, and more productive.  I don’t know a single coworker, inside or outside the department, who ever had anything positive to say about you.  Let’s just say it’s not a good sign when several people routinely comment, “I don’t know how you keep from punching Dick in the face.”  [Dick’s boss] and [Dick’s boss’s boss] each came to my desk (more than a few times) and basically said, “look, I know the guy’s a dick, but bear with him, okay?”

So, since I have nothing to lose:  Fuck you.  Fuck your plethora of insecurities and your need to project them on everyone.  Fuck the embarrassing way you act like a horny 15-year-old around any somewhat-attractive woman.  Fuck your juvenile storming-off temper tantrums.  Fuck the same five lame stories you tell over and over ad nauseum.  Fuck your blatant ass-kissing (you don’t have to loudly fake laugh EVERY time a superior says something remotely amusing).  Fuck “Bud Man” (by the way, what kind of known alcoholic dresses up as a beer mascot, jumps around on desks, and acts like a complete idiot?  Oh yeah, the oblivious attention-whore kind).

Tonight I have a date with a bottle of Jim Beam.  Because, you know, I’m not weak and can control that sort of thing.  You know what I’m going to drink to?  Never having to hear you pathetically fish for compliments and beg for validation ever again.

Have fun on your annual 146 days off, get plenty of rest on the second floor, and I’m glad they finally figured out what an idiot you are and busted you down from “supervisor.”  When you get fired, you can use me as a reference if you want.

Your pal,

Gary

P.S. Just a tip from a former professional comedian: laughing at your own “jokes,” especially when nobody else does (99.9% of the time), is just a big bag of sad.  And pranks?  How fifth-grade. Notice how nobody was even slightly amused when you covered [coworker]’s desk in tin foil?  I thought not.  She wasted a half-hour unwrapping everything.

P.S.S.  I still chuckle over the time you called me at 7:10 p.m. wondering why I hadn’t picked you up for work yet.  Drinking that night?

P.S.S.S. The phrase is, “the point is moot,” not “mute.”  Everyone always got a big kick out of that one.

P.S.S.S.S.  You once told me, “you know, people are scared of you,” but you wouldn’t tell me why.  I thought it was strange, since I’d always been quite well-liked at all my other jobs.  But we both know why “people” were “scared.”  I was a quiet white guy who took obvious constant shit from his boss day-in-day-out.  Those situations sometimes escalate and wind up on the national news.  Aren’t you glad I’m merely a clever writer and not an unhinged psychopath?  Count your blessings. Your next employee might be an unstable firearms enthusiast who’s not so tolerant of your condescending bullshit.