From: Eleanor Stuck, T.K.C., D.D.M, 2ndclass.
Listen up, maggot-fuckers. The turd-slurping basset hounds who like to call themselves my staff managed to meet their quarterly goals. Yep, they managed to meet the bare minimum standard for me to not drag their nuts through a golf ball washer as I fire their lazy asses with two cannons fired by a grandma who gave birth to quadruplets while on her third tour of duty in Vietnam.
Those bean-snorters in HR sent me one of their pathetic little memo thingies that can’t even make a paper cut when I use them to wipe my half-sister’s hairy arse. So I read it and it said I’m supposed to give a reward to my people—if you can call them that—for all of their hard—if you can call it that—work—if you can call it that.
I’d rather sand my nipples off with the Washington Monument. But I do need to pay my rent, and without this job my only other option would be pleasuring my landlord again, and that man’s got scales, tails, and teeth in places on his body where scales, tails, and teeth shouldn’t go.
I registered my protests, but they were overruled, so fine. I’ll play along, even though the last time I played anything I was six and it was a game of Boggle with live ammunition. I brought in some fucking quiche that I made with my own damn hands. The eggs are fluffy, the pastry is flaky, and the fillings are delightfully savory.
And those weak-livered little fart-sniffers in the Women’s Intimates department couldn’t even shovel sixteen pounds of handmade quiche down their gobs. Ain’t that gratitude for you?
Their loss is your gain, not that you deserve it. Eat this quiche or I’ve got fourteen dozen eggshells that I’m going to shove down your throats and then pull out through your belly buttons.