Last night when I left work, I walked away with possible terrible, horrible news! Peacock Patrick the Annoying isn’t working out so well on the overnight so they’re moving him to my shift — What the fuck! I can’t escape that idiot!
Reference our last conversation: Black American Patrick told me he preferred dating white women because we are so docile and submissive.
“Let me stop that rumor right away, because that’s all that belief is. I grew up thinking black women were the docile and submissive ones and when I went to a vocational school where white is the minority I spent a lot of time involved in late-night dorm room girl talks with girls of every color. We all learned every race comes in equal shares of dominant bitch and submissive take-it-alls.”
He rebutted, “But you have to admit, if I told a wife my dream is to move to Canada and next week we’re leaving, it’d be the white wife who’d do it without complaint.”
“I’m the whitest white woman I know and if I was told I’m being shipped off to Canada, I’d prove I could cuss in three languages. Four, if you count the bird I flip as American Sign!”
“You only say that because you have been influenced by black women.”
I ran out of words in that moment. I’d actually achieved heights of pisstivity so high, I was struck speechless. I got on my bike and pedaled until I was too tired to physically smack him down.
The BILF gave me the rumored news while I stuffed the special paper he needed to print his reports in the printer.
“I know you are my ‘at-work’ man. Yes, you have given me a job that puts food on my table and a good gatehouse to live in for eight hours a day, but I AM NOT putting this paper in the printer because I’m a submissive white woman!”
The rumble of laughter he tried his best to contain shook his musclebound shoulders. “You mean to tell me even though I taught you everything I know about inspecting peaches and sign your time cards, you’re going to make me put my own paper in the printer. Damn, woman!”
That poor paper almost never made it. I couldn’t quit laughing long enough to line it up.
Patrick is the type, if you give him an inch, he’ll take three feet and there’s no boundaries he won’t cross if he can stay awake his entire shift. The BILF is, uncontested, the most easy-going of all the bosses. You get away with so much more than you will with any other, as long as your work gets done before the end of shift. My first thought, “It’s not gonna be pretty. He’s going to break the BILF and we’ll all loose privileges.”
Last week late night co-worker Jessica told me Patrick went to sleep in the passenger seat of the inspector’s truck with The Boss sitting next to him. Clocked him at forty minutes just to see how long he dared. I joked with the BILF, “As cool as you are, I still wouldn’t go to sleep with you sitting right next to me. Patrick’s balls are way far bigger than mine.”
The BILF replied, “Sleep on my shift and I’ll lay a write-up next to your head that you can sign when you wake up. I’ll even make a copy in case you drool in your sleep and it becomes soggy-illegible.”
As laid back as my beloved BILF is, he’s got a sarcastic bite. (It’s hot. I like it.) I think once the newness and the polite political correctness fade with time, life at work won’t be boring. Sit back, throw some popcorn in the microwave. No, it’s not gonna be pretty, but it’s gonna be funny as hell!