Mr. Boose Eats a Dick

Mr. Boose is driving me mad.

This is an odd situation. It’s been years since I’ve hated anyone, much less a co-worker. I’ve had a few who’ve annoyed me—they were bad at their jobs—but they were fine people, just soft in their heads. Mr. Boose is another matter. Mr. Boose eats a dick. Here are the reasons he bites it, ranked from mildly obnoxious to fuck me in the goat ass.

• Talking to Mr. Boose is like “hey, Boose. Where’s the Wite-Out?”, but he’s all “here’s the thing about Wite-Out: only dummies use that. You need to think what you want to say, then you say it, not say it, think about it, and wite it out. You know why they invented that? It’s from when there were typewriters, and the cartridges would stick, and you’d get one letter on top of another. It’s not for mistakes, painting out your mistakes. Winston Churchill did his crosswords with a pen.”
  
  …but, like…where is the Wite-Out?
  
  
• Mr. Boose’s condescension rises in proportion to how wrong he is. The more indefensible his position, the higher his horse. I try to leave him alone, but his work informs mine. There are times I can’t go on without knowing what he wants. It’s hard to know what he wants when he’s described three mutually exclusive scenarios.
  
  I don’t know why he’s like this. Does he hate us all that much? Can’t he just check his work?
  
  
• There are times when Mr. Boose is right, and he’s perceptive. At those times, I want to like him. I want to work with him like I do with everyone else. But then he goes back to being wrong.
  
  
• Mr. Boose shifts the blame for his fuckups. He’s a salaried employee and he does this to freelancers, and he does it where they can see. If there’s a mistake, and it was his job to catch it, he doesn’t take the oops. He bats it back, and that’s petty. That’s mean.
  
  Due to the nature of my job, I’ve had the opportunity to, ah, review Mr. Boose’s past projects. He lets some weird shit get by. Some weird shit, indeed, like Donald Duck at the end of Der Führer’s Face, when the warheads go flying all over.
  
  
• Mr. Boose is defensive, thin-skinned. I feel bad speaking up, all nervous and guilty. And there isn’t much point in it: he doesn’t care what I think. He tells me just leave it, just go do your job. I can feel him getting ready to blame me.
  
  
• Mr. Boose bites the root. He just does.

Anyway, these are my grievances. Man, fuck Mr. Boose. I don’t get how he thinks. I just don’t. It’s like

what sells a mirror’s the frame. Don’t believe me? Listen up. Every glass has your reflection. You can get that anywhere. But the frame, that’s the draw, how you make it stand out. You can’t argue, ’cause folks could steal hubcaps, nail those to their walls. But they don’t. You can see yourself in anything. It’s all about the frames,

and you can’t really argue. You can tell him a mirror’s utilitarian. People buy them without frames, y’know, those mirror panels, and you glue them to your walls. You can tell him that, but he’ll just bring it back to standing out, and in a way, he’s right. My parents spent thousands on a frame, this gilded baroque thing. The glass was all ripply, but what did they care? They didn’t get that to use it. They invested in it, a nice antique find.

(You don’t invest in dime store shit. Mr. Boose doesn’t get that part. Mr. Boose doesn’t care.)

It’s the way we do it. We do it this way. Just do it like us. Do it, don’t bug me. I’ll cut out your tongue.

I can’t find another job.

This is what trapped feels like (and also, not being able to go outside. That feels bad too, but I’m used to staying in. Mr. Boose is a harder sell. Home comes with comforts. Boose comes with complaints. Boose is giving me heartburn. Help me. Please.)

PS – I still can’t see.