Two months ago we had the displeasure of meeting a brand new station manager. It stood beside our previous boss, and was dwarfed by him. In every sense of the word.
It was standing there, trying to look down at us rabble, but not quite managing it due to its, let´s say scarce height. Best next thing was not to make eye contact. When the supervisors were introduced to him its bulging eyes goggled at the ceiling, at the floor, at the walls, at his flies. Everywhere but us.
Shaking hands was out of the question; it would be demeaning to shake hands with so inferior a human race as supervisors. A little man full of its own importance, stuffed with mediocrity, standing as straight and upright as if it had swallowed a fishing cane, reeking of conceit, mean power and cheap lotion.
Its name is Mr. Silley, but it is known among us as “that one with his teenage son´s shirts”. A thing who despises its staff shouldn´t be surprised when its staff despise it in return. But the description is accurate; the pink checked shirt it wears day in, day out, seems to be bursting over its bulging stomach.
We knew we were in trouble; its first measure was to try to demote a handicapped supervisor. It failed miserably. The thing couldn´t touch her or her status.
But he could touch mine. I was demoted fast as lighting.
I didn´t look at it as if it was a Dog, and oh dear, I didn´t pay attention when it delivered the new Gospel.
“Blessed are the arse-lickers, for they shall inherit the supervision.”
Oh dear, oh dear. I have the most terrible fault that such a man can find in an employee. I am not, I have never been, and I will never be, an arse-licker.
It cannot fire me; but it can make my life impossible, and it will.
I won´t wish it good luck; a son of a bitch always has a bitch of a luck.