Blister here. Maybe you think they keep me in a styrofoam casket and drag me out in January for the you-know-what. Not a chance. I've made more deals than you took craps today, and from what I've seen (thank you StatGrabr), you take a fuck of a lot of craps.
I'm sick of this North Side croissant whining about his night shift. Don't like it? Get the fuck out of my office. There's a little industrial-part Internet database you can go work for. You've got attention to detail? Good. You can keep track of how many tit wrenches I go thru in a week... and it's a fuck of a lot.
The little content fairies -- the little Stella Artois-drinking, compulsively masturbating-then-crying nordniks I hired are grousing. I know how fiction works. What the fuck is it? Fictional Construct. Behind the Electronic Veil. I read all that shit in MBA night class. How 'bout My Electronic Foot Between Your Liberal Arts Asscheeks? Get the fuck back to work. It's called a swing shift. Jack Welch did it. Steve Jobs did it. John Fitzgerald Fucking Kennedy did it -- with grace, aplomb and 13 Manhattans a night.
There's a reason I've got a three-speed ball washer and my name on the door. It's called delegation, folks. Get back to work.
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