Good afternoon, Bitch – may I call you Bitch? Thanks.
I invite you to stop, take a break from whatever you do in the back room that prevents you from coming to help us out front (and yet keeps the shipments from ever being ordered correctly, and the schedule from being done right), step out the door, and look across the street.
You see that? Those massive buildings, the vast stretches of parking lot? Do you know what that is? That’s right, it’s a University of 22,000 students and Gods know how many faculty members and staff, right across the fucking street.
But I know you’re familiar with this fine university. I’d guess about 60% of your employees attend it; the rest either go to the local community college or the high school that’s a block away. Since you’re transferring out the guy we just trained, we have only one non-student in the store: and that would be you.
So how is it that you failed to foresee that maybe move-in weekend and the start of classes would double our business overfuckingnight? How can you not bother to check the schedule of the institution that makes us one of the most profitable stores in the district? How is it that two weeks ago, during the store’s slowest time of the year, between the end of summer school and the start of fall quarter – how is it that then, you scheduled five people to stand around with their thumbs up their asses every closing shift with nothing to do, but now that we are flooded with students from open to close, you can’t spare a single extra person?
And then you lecture us on the way we close the store. Remember, you shit-dribbling halfwit, I’ve closed with you. And I wasn’t pleased to be getting out at quarter after one in the morning. I dare you to just once close the store and leave at 12:30 like we’re supposed to, before you go and lecture us on what we do.
When you came to this store, the staff was a friendly, cohesive, efficient unit. We worked together well, we relied on each other, we bailed each other out, it was a good atmosphere despite the fact that the store had been managerless for three months. A smart, professional manager would have worked with that and learned the attitude of the store. Not you, oh no. You talk shit about everyone, you can’t get a single order right, we’re always out of shit, you try to crack down on the most senseless things, you get your friends to fucking spy on us (you too cheap for a security camera?), and you are totally ignorant of both the students at the university and the students you have working for you.
I tell you what, you drooling excuse for a fisherman’s verruca. We know everything you do. We know that when employee J asked for a day off to go to a funeral, you had employee G call her house to make sure she was really at the funeral. We know the smack you talk. We know that when you take off early every other shift because “something came up,” you’re just going to have dinner with your mom (jeebus, woman, you make the schedule yourself). We know the store is making more profit than you’re letting on, and we know that you could easily afford more staffing hours.
In short, we know that you are an unprofessional, two-faced, stupid, petty, untrustworthy person who is not a manager in any way but on paper. And we may smile when we work with you, but we’re rooting to get you fired, and we’ll cheer when it happens. Remember that. Because that’s the only thing that gets us employees through grueling, understaffed 8-hour shifts from hell.
Your verbosely disgruntled employee,
Dragonblink.
