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But I'M NOT BITTER...
The Goddess of battle, strife, and destruction explains it all for you
by

May 16, 2003

Well, I seem to have struck a chord with my May 1st column judging from all the emails I've received.

Turns out the situation was a lot grimmer than I originally believed - the monstrous office manager (let's call her, oh, Grisly Gina) has apparently been the subject of a top-secret human cloning experiment and her evil doppelgangers are peopling offices all over the world. Who knew?

If you've got one in your workplace, you're more or less screwed. You can try fumigating with Bitch-B-Gone, but these creatures are superbly equipped for survival and can quickly adapt or mutate depending on the political climate of the office.

But where was I. . . . .

The office vacation rota is normally settled months in advance and while most employees look forward to their time off with anticipation, the whole office is thrust into a state of trembling eagerness when Gina's holidays are posted. Prior to her departure, she lumbers through the office like a malevolent shade, spreading her corrosive aura and enduring aroma from reception to copy room. Although her usual practice is to fire someone while they are away on vacation, she makes a point of terminating at least one or two people immediately before she leaves for her own. Because she enjoys the process so much, she generally makes an effort to deliver the news in person (preferably before an audience), though she has been known to deliver the coup de grace by email or by way of a post-it note. (As you may recall, I was liquidated in a crowded elevator on my first day back from vacation. Having had my innocence brutally ripped from me by my second week on the job, I sought and received assurances from this woman regarding the safety of my job prior to my departure.)

Once she leaves, it usually takes a few days for the blood pressure levels of the rest of the staff to return to normal. Instead of the furtive skulking that has become the office norm, employees skip giddily through the corridors, actually making eye contact with their coworkers. Smiles are not uncommon. Prozac consumption plummets.

Until her return.

Those with strong stomachs are always eager to see her ever-memorable holiday snaps, though the first time I saw photos of Gina standing beside a waterfall in a bikini I thought I was looking at stills from Gorillas in the Mist. Apparently, during her last vacation she was offered a free makeover. The "before" picture featured Gina sans makeup and was quite sufficient to test the sangfroid of even the most hardened medical examiner or combat zone surgeon. That being said, it was the "after" photo that caused the most comment.

Her western-themed ensemble (complete with cowboy hat and string tie) was a veritable hymn to the trailer park and showed off her rolls of fat to their best advantage. The red gingham halter did little to aid her shriveled dugs in their desperate battle with gravity and her disturbingly snug shorts encompassed burly thighs so massive that the friction caused by the merest jog down the beach would result in a brush fire.

Clearly dazzled by her moment in the spotlight, Gina glared balefully into the camera under layers of concealer, crack filler and corrective eye shadow, the cosmetics skillfully applied in an attempt to make the most of her porcine allure. Her normally lush moustache was barely visible, though not much could be done about her late middle-aged acne. Her shoulders and chest were festooned with angry red pustules so large and plentiful, she looked as if she could be read by the blind.

Although she is looking straight into the lens, you get the sense that her mind is elsewhere - perhaps pondering the line dancing thrills that awaited her later that evening. All things considered, it was a remarkable transformation - and we must always remember that even though science has made great strides lately, there is a limit to what amateur taxidermy can achieve.

Unlike the rest of us, Gina wastes no time in blissed out holiday flashbacks. With the zeal of a 14th century flagellant, she slithers through the office with renewed resolve the moment she crosses the threshold. By around 10:30 a.m. on her first day back from vacation, everyone has forgotten that she had ever been away and the entire office embraces the countdown to her next holiday as the only sensible alternative to mass suicide.

Ah, memories.

Till next time,

Morrigan

Copyright© the Morrigan & Heartless Bitches International (heartless-bitches.com) 2003
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