My baby thinks she’s a train.

Don’t flatter yourself.  This is not a career.  You choose a career.  You make a career move.  A career is deliberate.  It’s on purpose.  It involves thought.  This is a job.  You take a job.  You lose a job.  Jobs are like pennies.  This job is a bad penny.  And getting worse.

Your enthusiasm is beginning to piss me off.   I thought it was for show.  Like a peacock fanning its tail for the new guy.  I was wrong.  You’re no peacock.  You’re an over-zealous, annoying hick with a fat ass.  You never let up.  It’s like working beside a moving freight train.  The phone calls, the slamming drawers, the dramatic sighs, the mumbling, the fingernails on the keyboard.  It’s too much.  Give it a fucking rest.  

And why must you race walk to the fucking printer?  Slow the fuck down.  Seriously.  Printing is not a competitive sport.  You click the button.  You go pick it up.  It’s pretty fucking simple.  That whine is not a starter’s whistle.  It’s warming up.  Because it’s a machine.  It’s a printer.   It is not giving birth.  You are not witnessing a fucking miracle.  Your presence is not required for operation.  So stop it.  Stop running, you fucking dim wit.

You like your job.   Good for you.

Keep it to yourself.

About the Author: Jon Carter Jackson

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