Thursday, September 04, 2008

Beginning to pull back the curtain

If you know anything about wrestling, you know who this is. If you don't, well, his name is Jim Ross. And he is pretty much universally considered one of if not the best announcer in the history of the business, and definitely the top working right now. So why is he here? Because I am taking great pains to make sure that if I feel the need to call out someone for their being an ass, that you know who I am talking about, and who I am not talking about. And while the Jim Ross pictured above is a fan of the Oklahoma Sooners, I have decided to not hold that bit of poor decision making against him, and say that I LIKE this Jim Ross. However, there is another Jim Ross. One that works here, as the boss of the boss of my soon to be former boss (didja follow THAT?). He is high above Moleville, and he even has a title. It is a five word title. I don't know what it is, but the acronym for his title is FACHE. Which I have always pronounced "FA-chee".

I was just at a farewell party for my soon to be former boss. From this point on I will just call her Carole, because that is her first name, and I don't have anything bad to say about her. But at this farewell party, not only was I subjected to having to at least feign interest in the words of the man who is Carole's boss, the man who decided offhandedly to outsource my (and many other loyal, hard working people's) job(s), make lame attempts at humor while explaining what HE went through when he heard that he was losing Carole (he also went on and on about how he was originally the boss of the man he replaced, the man who hired Carole away) in what I can only interpret as a vainglorious attempt to re-establish his alpha male identity in the confines of the hospital, I was also forced to listen to and watch the jackass that I always called "FA-chee" as he sat there on a table (so his Napoleonic complex wouldn't get the best of him), his stubby legs swinging back and forth like Carol Ann as he surveyed his minions eating chicken salad wraps and meatballs and drinking overly sweetened punch, watching the managers of the hospital mingle with each other while those of us with our heads on the chopping blocks sat around. I was half expecting to have to get together as a group and face him, saying in unison "Those of us who are about to die SALUTE YOU!" But we didn't have to do that. Which was nice.

The wraps were pretty tasty, too.

But I told you all of this in order to introduce you to one of the men who caused BSR to have one of the worst weeks EVER. And since I just watched him glad hand a bunch of people who's lives he ruined without a hint of remorse, I can only call him...

T-22 and counting.

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