It was 2016. I was thinkin… I hate my boss. He really is a piece of shit. He was this interior designer agent, a real scumbag. I’ll do one more day then ask for more money so he’ll fire me. No way this dipshit can keep affording to give me raises. I already asked for two. But do I offer to do more work for the money? Or just say no to whatever he’s asking me to do until he gives me a raise? That’s holding the work ransom, isn’t it? Who cares. Make this prick suffer. I won’t tell you his name, but I’ll tell you a few of the things he did…

It’s Not JUST That I Hate My Job Because of My Boss, I hate my boss cause he’s a TOTAL DIPSHIT

It all started when my girlfriend at the time was living in LA and I was living in NY and needed a way to commute every other week. I had to make sure the job I had didn’t know I was traveling all the time. I had to make my boss think I was hard at work in my cubicle at home, slaving away for his shit-ass company. Little did he know I would be breaking the Guinness World Record for Longest Road Trip while posting dumbass shit to our social media.

The whole situation was hard to maneuver. 

When he hired me it was cause I sent him a resume with cartoons on it. Seriously. I had my sketches all over the resume. It was slightly a joke, and slightly a way to stand out from the crowd. He called me and asked about my experience. He was hiring a social media manager, and my background was in public relations. He wanted to meet me. So I went to a shared office space, which he assured me was temporary and that our company would have a real office very soon, and we chatted where the fake Keurigs were as other Manhattan-based small business owners checked the fridge for their lunch. His name was, well, I won’t say, but he was a stocky, gay, bald man who looked like he mighta produced Broadway at some point. He wore glasses though I’m not sold on whether he actually needed them. He represented architects as an agent and was trying to build a company around him, only problem was he was a psychopath. 

It’s Not That My Boss Is Mean, It’s That He’s a Maniac

At first the job wasn’t bad. 

Sure, my boss is mean and blah blah blah, but I was going to many fashion events, which was new for me. I think fashion is for reality TV, but not me. I really did hate those events, but then I would meet such astronomically cocky and full of themselves people that it made it entertaining. One time I was in line for the bathroom and some weirdo wearing a bow tie with red and white stripes asked me who I was. 

I’m Greg, who are you?

I’m Frances Domingo Santo Gonzales.

Dude gave me his entire name. That’s the type of people who showed up to these things were: Whole-name sayers. I commented on his outfit and while there, figured I would ask for some fashion tips. 

So how do I make myself look like such an elegant imbecile?

No I didn’t actually say that, but something similar. He said: The key to fashion is pairing together articles that really don’t match.

I actually think he may be right in a weird and ugly sorta way.

Then one day, at one of these events, my boss handed me a drink to hold for him while he took a photo with some big wig fashion designer. I told him, I’m sober. I don’t like to hold drinks. Personal thing. Again that night he handed me his drink and so I placed it on the ground and walked away. He never said anything about that. I doubt he ever found his drink. We were in some furniture store that had cleared out the furniture and made it into an event space and there were hundreds of people there… all the while his little cocktail waiting to be kicked over by some high heel on some fashionably dressed monster.

My Coworker Hates Me More Than I Hate My Boss

Anyway, I had a coworker who absolutely hated me. She was super hot. That’s not so important. One day we were asked to all come into the office so he could go over all the other events he wanted us to be at with him. It was only five of us: My boss and his husband (who I swear was stoned all day long), my coworker who hated me, me, and some chick from Brooklyn. He only wanted me and my co-worker who hated me to be at the events. He didn’t invite the girl from Brooklyn. She wasn’t very attractive. I wondered if maybe he just wanted people who were attractive to be in his entourage. Yeah I’m calling myself attractive, so what? Point is this was another bullshit characteristic this guy had about him: bring people with me that don’t need to be there but that make me look like I have hot slaves. 

Anyway, one of the events was in North Carolina. Another in Los Angeles, and others were in Manhattan, where we were based.

The phone rang. 

My boss picked it up. His accent changed and his facial expression changed. He was speaking with a hasedic Jewish accent all of a sudden. That’s when I started to notice he changed accents depending on who he was talking to. When it was an Indian he had a weird Indian accent. When it was a Chinese person, he made this weird Chinese accent. At that moment, I realized I hate my boss so much I may call him out on that. Even my coworker who hated me could connect with me on it in the hallway one day. And she mighta been thinking: My boss is mean, but she was ALSO definitely thinking: my coworker is gutter trash. You wanna know why she hated me? My coworker?

She Hated Me for a Good Reason…

Cause she read this blog that you’re currently reading and some of the sex stories bothered her (with good reason). She thought I was a misogynist the way I spoke about women, and I was. She wasn’t wrong. I’ve since corrected myself (I think). Anyway, for that reason, and the fact that she was an outspoken feminist, she goddam hated me, which made the job all the more unbearable. But together we hated our boss. Team work.

The straw that demolished the camel’s back happened in Los Angeles. I was there at that event I mentioned to you a few sentences ago to capture photos for our Instagram (one of the worst jobs for your self-esteem) and post them with all the bullshit hashtags and at the bullshit times that work best or used to work best for gaining followers. That’s all he wanted: followers. He really was a piece of shit.

But what happened was this one day I heard him–while he was all drunk–lean into some other dude’s ear and say that I was his assistant. Then he laughed as if to say: Even my assistant is hot, is that awesome? But I wasn’t his assistant. He was paying me a salary to be his social media rep. So what did I do? Nothing. I planned a getaway. 

I planned a PR stunt to release my first book, which is all about my fucked up life as a vagabond. In order to promote myself as a vagabond I decided to break the Guinness World Record for longest road trip, like I said before. Once everyone knew who I was, I would plug my book. It was my own PR campaign.

Game Plan: Dick My Boss Like He Dicked Me

Yeah I hate my job because of my boss but I coulda stuck with it if what was about to happen never happened. The story is this… I planned out the road trip PR stunt so that it started RIGHT after one of my work events so that it would give me a few weeks where I had no events and could work from the car. Then when he told me he needed me in the office but I was somewhere in Idaho, I said I would be unable to make it into the office. On the next occasion where he said he needed me but I was now somewhere in Texas, I said I would continue doing my work better than ever but that I would not be able to come into the office or go to an event for a little while longer. The idea here was to milk my paycheck until I was ready to call him a prick via email in front of everyone.

The day came where I was somewhere in Colorado and the record was already broken when I decided to rip the Bandaid off. I got an email saying that my paycheck would be late this month, and that I should be doing my job better, so what did I do? I wrote him an email saying YOU CHANGE YOUR ACCENT WHEN YOU TALK TO JEWS YOUR ANTI-SIMITEC BAG OF SHIT.

And that was the end of that job.

The moral of the story is, if you hate your boss: plan your getaway strategically before you bounce. Make the most of your self-sacrifice, and for goodness gracious, DO NOT KEEP WORKING THERE. Set his car on fire.

Now here’s a story about a chick who blew up a truck.

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