Disclaimer: This is neither educational nor motivational. It will add no value to your life; just like the three “working girls” I’m about to describe in a minute.
After an eight-month hiatus from blogging and four failed password attempts while signing into WordPress, I find myself unable to suppress my thoughts about the one topic I was never interested in writing about before: workplace politics.
Instead, I used to encourage my readers to be independent, career-building, goal-oriented members of society. One day, I decided to take my own brilliant advice and get a full-time job. This ranks pretty high up on my list of “Biggest Mistakes I’ve Ever Made. . . EVER!” Not only was I happier before that, but I was more successful in the sense that I was doing something I enjoyed and interacting with people I liked.
When working as a freelancer from the comfort of my own home, I never really have to deal with functioning in an office environment. I have my clients, call my own shots and am as free as a bird. And although I’d already caught a glimpse of the unmatched Lebanese professionalism a few times (and no, I do not mean that as a compliment), I would have never predicted what was in store for me within a workplace.
As an educated person with manners, I was still in shock months into my – then – new job because of the “people” I had to deal with on a daily basis. Now don’t get me wrong; I worked with many fantastic people who I’d even become friends with, but then you have the unavoidable “I’ve come to ruin your day” folk that would make even Buddha hostile.
I guess I should have sensed it from week one, when Ms. Whoreo walked into my office in a skin-tight shirt and no trousers. As I stared at what could have been her secret garden, she stuck two large pieces of bubble gum in her mouth and proceeded with her enlightening questions, “You’re the new girl right? Who brought you here?”
I wasn’t really sure what she meant, but I explained to her that my credentials got me the job. For the first and last time since I (unfortunately) met her, she paused her camel-like chewing and stared at me emptily as though I’d just told her that her shirt is too long. Unable to remain in a vertical position for too long, she plopped herself down on a chair beside me, stretching out her bare cellulite-covered legs as she showed me the color on her toe nails – a blinding fluorescent shade of urine, capable of lighting up the state of Texas . . . during a blackout . . . on a moonless night. Forcing myself to smile (versus throwing her out of my office), I explained to her that I was very busy. Oozing with charm, Whoreo yawned loud enough for the whales of the South Pacific Ocean to migrate here believing it is mating season in the Mediterranean Sea. “Hahaha – busy doing what? It’s Friday! I’m so bored I could fall asleep,” she retorted so intelligently as she furiously chewed her gum. She even proceeded to mock my English, repeating “eeerrrr” and “yo, yo” and “yeah man” after every syllable I uttered, making me want to apologize to her for being able to speak more than one language fluently. I knew then and there that I’d fallen in-hate with this creature, but I was intrigued.
How did she manage to find a job that didn’t involve pole-dancing? She clearly had no qualifications where her mouth wasn’t involved, and she couldn’t have possibly completed high school. After asking around about her, I found out she secures a certain lowly and irrelevant job position, but has more immunity than a board member. When/if present at her desk, she answered calls with a mouthful of food or gum, strenuously signed on received packages, and welcomed visitors with open arms (and legs).
In an attempt to locate the fax machine, I found myself at Whoreo’s desk. To my surprise, she was chatting with yet another Whoreo who goes by the same name! Whoreo II actually managed to use her one “skill” to climb the career ladder; although I’m sure even her own mother knew, since the third grade, that her little Whoreo of love is better off as a stripper. Thirty years later, she does in fact look like a stripper, wearing a long, see-through sweater that matches the color of her nipples, no trousers – of course – and knee high patent leather boots. I couldn’t help but stare at her hair, wondering what color it was supposed to be (I don’t think cat vomit qualifies as a shade). Also, was it a perm-gone-bad, had she just gotten laid, or did she forget to brush those tresses for twelve weeks? Whoreo II caught me staring at her bed hair and gave me a dirty look followed by a very sexual sound, which turned out to be her voice forming a sentence, “Can I help you?” As I unwillingly looked at her sarcastic facial expression, I wanted to tell her that I’m not too fond of massages with happy endings, but instead I turned over to the less of the two evils, and asked Whoreo I to fax something over for me. She held a finger up at me, gesturing for me to wait. She was surprisingly overwhelmed with work; there was an excruciatingly focused expression on her face as she rested her D-cups on her desk, held the telephone with her left hand and jotted down notes with the right. “We’ve placed a large order to this address countless times before,” she snapped at the person on the other side of the call. She then took the document I wanted to fax and condescendingly said, “Look at me doing five things at once. Anything else I can do for you?” Maybe I had misjudged her, maybe she really was a hardworking, multitasking savior of planet earth. Maybe she was just a very bad dresser that didn’t know trousers existed. Maybe . . . My thoughts were interrupted with her bellowing into the receiver, “No, no, no! We want three chicken sandwiches, three hamburgers and four boxes of fries! Pfffft!” This time I couldn’t hide my shock. As she bent over just enough for me to catch a glimpse of her uterus, I snatched my document back, forced myself to say thank you and stormed off.
Whoreo III, who also goes by the same freaking name, was constantly hounding every male employee in the company. Her failed attempts at flirtation were possibly because she looked like an electrocuted hamster that reeked of desperation. Not only did she hate me for no reason, but her and her gang of juvenile dimwits had the loudest voices, most sordid fashion sense, and were BFFs with queen vagina, Whoreo I. Funny enough, this clique of Slutology grads thought everyone envied them. Whoreo II actually pranced around repeatedly bragging about all her haters, and how everyone in the company was jealous of her.
HA-HA-HA . . . No.
No one hates you, Whoreo II. We just all deeply and utterly dislike you because you’re a slut. You look like one, talk like one and act like one; and frankly, your arrogant, pompous attitude doesn’t match your white trash appearance – not one bit – or the fact that you’re uneducated, untalented and rude. The reason we don’t talk to you is because we don’t want to be associated with the office skank. It’s as simple as that.
So why care, you may ask. Ladies and gentlemen, I am pissed off because there is a hierarchy based on common logic that’s been twisted and remolded into something very ugly. The likes of Whoreo I, for example, need to understand that they are at the bottom of the corporate food chain. It is simply unacceptable for a vagina-baring homewrecker to give orders to higher-ranking employees (whose work is actually vital to the company) and get away with it; this is workplace politics.
In today’s work environment, it disappoints me to see such a trend where capable people with excellent credentials sit jobless at home, while such sasquatches get paid to disrespect their coworkers, chew gum and gossip all day.
If Whoreo I, II or III ever read this, I’d like to say two things:
- Somewhere, there are three trees wasting their time supplying each of you with oxygen. Apologize to them.
- Wear trousers for God’s sake!
As for all the employers out there who are content with such staff, I’d like to congratulate them on hiring the only three living creatures, who when combined, possess the IQ of a table. Here’s to growing your business!