All right, here’s the thing. You’ve long made it clear that the editorial staff here at your magazine, the people responsible for producing the - you, know - product that you sell, are, in the company philosophy, lower than the bubble gum you scrape off your imitation leather shoes every morning. We know that on your list of things that are important in life, “The Health and Well Being of Your Employees” rank just below “Acquiring a Third Nipple.”
But I’m looking out my window, and all I can see is a fucking blank sheet of fucking white shit everywhere. There are already six solid inches of fucking snow on the ground, on the roads, on our cars, and it’s not expected to stop any time soon… we’re looking at 8-10 inches, minimum, and it’s the bad kind of snow, where it swirls around so visibility is minimal. Everything is closed… all the area schools, all the businesses in the nearby strip mall, have quietly shut their doors and gone home. Traffic reports are already broadcasting news of accident after accident after fucking accident. And the entire sales department here at your damned magazine has already gone home.
However, the editorial department is NOT PERMITTED TO GO HOME. Why not? “It’s not that bad,” according to you, you overtanned, illiterate, bug-eyed pigfucker. “Not that bad? NOT THAT BAD?” Well, I guess you wouldn’t think so, would you, given that you live five minutes from here. Some of us, though, have to drive more than an hour to get home on days when the weather is decent, and would really appreciate being given the chance to check out before the roads freeze and the white shit piles up even more. Especially given that your beloved sycophants in the sales department have all been freed to “work from home” for the day. That’s right… the sales department, whose job actually requires personal contact with clients, get to “work from home;” Editorial, whose job requires FREAKING WRITING AND EDITING THAT YOU CAN DO ON ANY FUCKING COMPUTER ON EARTH INCLUDING THE ONES IN OUR LIVING ROOMS, is not trusted to work at home. In spite of the fact that we’re ahead of deadlines.
None of this is the Dickensian touch. The Dickensian touch is that you have turned off the heat in our offices. I swear to God. Also, we can’t go get lunch, as all of the local dining establishments have closed their doors. So we’re cold, starving, worried about getting home safely, and pissed that others get benefits that we are denied.
You suck. I would come up with a lengthier, more descriptive, way to express my deep and utter contempt for you and your pathetic “management skills,” but since you TURNED THE FREAKING HEAT OFF ON THE COLDEST DAY OF THE YEAR my fingers are too stiff to type anymore.
Yours,
The Fucking People Who Create Your Product, Dipshit
