By now you should know that compulsively hoarding "cat ladies" and most "volunteer" pet rescue kooks are totally fucking nuts, because they use animals for their own selfish healthcare needs instead of going to see a doctor regularly, and these bitches can definitely afford to see a rich white psychiatrist any day of the week. Ya read me? My own particular obstacle course of "fucked-up white person" dysfunction came in the form of an unstable Jewish/WASP from Connecticut who had insane parents with money to spoil her rotten, just so they could avoid icky things like "parenting" on the daily, which is a big "no-no" in demented, wealthy, corrupt, country circles that worship money and extreme dieting as a panacea to manic-depression and suburban alcoholism, best done indoors and away from legitimate authority figures who don't have help on the payroll as the ticket price to their admission to a better life for their families.
Lisa was a typical selfish bitch working unnecessarily in publishing, is what I'm sayin' to you. Much like our Napoleonic publisher's bitch of a wife, she told me early on that she didn't need to work for money, she just didn't like being bored. Right....same! We had nothing in common and she knew it, so, just to fuck with me as a better-looking genius, she pretended she didn't know I was working in the same room as her, choosing to signify her utter distaste for the genuine working class ethnics of native New York like me by shutting the office lights to the studio room while I still sat in it, because she was threatened by my superior work ethic, too, in addition to my good looks. You know: a total fucking bitch among many.
She was also one of the worst book designers I'd ever met, though as an average white Baby Boomer, that wasn't especially exceptional to me, either. I knew a lot of dumb rich fucks from publishing. When I finally told her that I noticed she was shutting the lights on purpose, she giggled and blushed like a crazy toddler caught stealing cookies from the cupboard before dinnertime, and then she quickly walked away embarrassed, down the short hallway and out the door without saying a word to anyone. Like any other asshole in business, she pretended she couldn't "hear" me, even though she had the money to buy two hearing aids for herself and I didn't, which didn't give her quite the edge she hoped for, because she's also stupid and slow.
In addition to nursing her long list of deliberately untreated disorders and serious health conditions as leverage and the occasional workplace weapon (where it's completely inappropriate to do so because, like, we work with books as objects), she had absolutely no conversation skills whatsoever. So, within record time, I pushed through my obligatory "too low" job title that was used as a justification to underpay me my true worth (as yet another sign of disdain telegraphed to me that was glaringly obvious), to take command of an imprint without a real leader that became a big money-maker for the largest book retailer in the country, because Lisa was too incompetent to lead effectively. Within my first week on the job, every freelance designer, on-the-job contractor, pre-press artist, printer, typesetter, service provider, ex-employee, as well as all of their current employees, told me the exact same thing.
Oh....great. Plus, Marie, she hid her deafness from us on purpose! That was my first "work lunch" with the young Millennials working there. Their treat. Gee, kids, thanks for cluing me in! They wanted to tell me that they didn't know about it, because they didn't hire her. The publisher did! Okey dokey! Yeah, I got that. Thanks. Every dick move you could think of, they threw at me, which I expertly dodged just as quickly. Lisa continued to avoid me passively-aggressively through a thick haze of Valium and anti-depressants, only moving about the office in a creaky, stiff, robotic way when she needed more coffee from the office kitchen. She ignored everybody like it was part of her job. That was their big "Art Director" on-site, when I got there: a bitch too crazy to speak normally in "human". Some communication expert.
It wasn't exactly a "hostile" takeover on my part, in the wake of her almost complete mental and physical absence within the company, but crazy bitches do what they do anyway, regardless of my active participation or bodily presence. That didn't stop her from trying to hang her hat on my hook as part of her poor work survival skills, and she told me that every few weeks, too. "You know, I'm trying to get you fired", she'd say to me with a half-lidded death-stare frozen onto her angry face. Yeah, bitch? How? You fucking suck. The only time she spoke to me was to try and give me orders, but like I mentioned, I'd already locked myself down tight with the other imprint in the house that she demeaned as, yep, too "lowbrow" for her to work on as a bargain book line. 'Kay, bitch.
The only time she brightened up at work was after I pinned a large colorful photo of my dog Teddy smiling up at me while walking in Prospect Park, with his cutely-colored collar of rainbow smiley faces prominently displayed. Oh! Now, I was a human fit for her to talk to! You have a dog! Uh, yeah. She could care less about me and my dog, but it unfortunately opened up the door to the only subject she actually cared about, her stupid fucking terrier, Winston. He was as average as she was, but it helped me get actual work-related information out of her if I just unlocked her artificially-sealed mouth with some loose doggie talk. What a fucking weirdo! Within weeks, everyone in the office visibly groaned whenever Lisa lisped at me in her overly-loud deaf accent, because it was like a sitcom beer-drinking game: how many times will this daft bitch repeat the same story over and over again?
Oh, good. Winston, again, She was the dullest person I'd ever met, and her interior book layouts were as boring as she was, which is why we gave her old classics to re-design for the umpteenth time. Hard to screw that up, but she would, periodically, which caused Manufacturing to go ballistic and then ask me to prove her liability. Uh, what the fuck do yo do for me, exactly, besides ride my coat tails for a living? Fuck off! Pin her in a meeting on your own without my ammo, because you humps sure as shit don't give me anything to work with. You want a turn-coat, make your own, and don't you know, readers, without me they couldn't? It was so sad and pathetic, because she cost them so much fucking money with her errors, but the crazy old man still wouldn't fire her. He liked talking to an "older" woman! It was that fucked up, but who cared?
I was face-out on the shelves of every single B&N store in the world and online. I just didn't fucking need them. So, whenever we had to interact about work, I brought up her dip-shit dog, which got her talking to me, and then I waited for her to obsessively repeat the exact same story back to me. When there was an opening conversationally, I took it, as the leading creative adult working in the company. But not before she first told me the exact depths to her depravity, as a way to be colorful with her rather generic roots. First, her parents met in an insane asylum (OOO!) when her dad worked as the orderly helping her resident mom with the bigger mental patients needing subduing. Uh huh...that sounds like a good story...and then it would end.
Ditto with her "dog rescue" work. She knew I got badly hurt in a walking accident with my giant Mal. Did the bitch care? Nope! She reiterated to me that she once again wanted me fired. Anyway, she doesn't work with those kinds of animals. Ew! She was offended by the very suggestion, as well as the poor, ailing, elderly people who tried to give her other types of similar terriers to place in better homes. She didn't give a fuck. Not her job! Anyway, they had legal issues with "pet adoptions". But, that didn't stop her from giving a face-eating dog to a healthy young couple with small children! Did she tell them? "Oh, I don't have to do that. It wasn't his fault he was hungry!" You fucking cunt. Okay, so tell me about your dog. Was he a rescue dog? Oh, yes, and from a nice, rich, white gay couple of affluent men living in a beautiful downtown loft, too, which means he was treated really well.
Yay! That's some sort of pride in something, I guess. But, did I know that she only did it because she lacked affection as a child? Excuse me? What the fuck did you just say to me? I'd do that to her when I wanted her to speak even louder, so the whole office could hear, thus sharing complicity with her obvious dysfunctions. Yell it, Lisa! And then she would. Out loud, in front of anyone. "My parents didn't touch me as child!" OH! What else? "I use dogs for affection because I lacked intimacy as a child! My parents are cold and emotionally distant."
And there it was, my fellow excellent humans of Earth: an actual bitch-sized snare that caught me one very large, dumb, clueless kook in the wild office spaces of New York City. That's how you fight back without tricky employment lawsuits and illegal firings, with clearly documented cases of workplace harassment attached for good measure. Rainbow-colored and neatly packaged, too.
Dear crazy "cat ladies" and fellow "dog-whisperers" of the world, please take note: you will be phased out by real warriors in the near future, but we do accept cash, checks, and money orders. Just not you. Your homework for today is: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Humane_law_enforcement
