Well Thank God

14 Sep

I’m getting fired.  I know it, but my boss hasn’t told me yet.  But I know it.  I can’t say how, because the way I found out was (REDACTED), and people who know me through work read this web site.    You people will soon not know me through work.  Maybe you will know me as a human being.

Anyway, I’m getting fired.  I got tipped off when the H.R. lady for the  large corporation– fuck it, I’ll just say it, who cares now.  I work for a production company that has what’s called a “term deal” at (REDACTED), the studio, not the network that you’ve actually heard of and is what any sane person would assume you mean when you say “(REDACTED)”– this is why I fucking hate show business, having to explain this god damn shit to people at parties– anyway, my boss gets a chunk of money to have an office at (REDACTED) and in return all the TV shows we make have to get underwritten by (REDACTED), the studio.

I knew when the lady from (REDACTED) corporate H.R. was calling for my boss.  And he didn’t want to take the call when I was there.  A couple times she called, meaning, he had called her back.  There is no other call he would ever make himself, when I wasn’t around. It means he’s firing me.  He shut his door and was talking to her.  He is an idiot, which means, he does not know that everyone in the entire building can hear every word of every call he’s on when both doors of his office are closed.  It causes maybe a ten per cent reduction in the noise he’s making, closing these hollow-core doors that resonate like tympanis.   I would have brought it up to him but then he would have made me get into a long involved struggle to get the doors replaced with soundproof vault doors but without him paying for it; I would have had to convince people whose entire jobs are to ensure that (REDACTED) Corporation does not spend money, to spend a ton of money replacing the doors in the building so that he wouldn’t need to speak slightly more softly, and bringing it up would have made him forever vigilant about the acoustics of the free doors and etc., so fuck it. There is no winning. Bringing up a problem means it is yours to solve, and it is ultimately unsolvable, and any problem with the solution is going to be blamed on you. So fuck it.  Anyway, obviously, I am going to eavesdrop on this call.  I can’t not eavesdrop in any of his calls; I constantly have to hear his voice. When I go to hell it will be piped in.   But this is the one time I desperately wanted to. I had to know.

But it was the girl upstairs’ birthday. Her boss, who is not a cruel lizard-eyed demon, got her a birthday card.  It was an audio card with a realistic and loud recording of cats meowing to the tune of “Happy Birthday.” Like the dogs singing “Jingle Bells.”  Cute, right?  This is the kind of thing these two do for each other, this young woman and her boss.  And the other girl who works for the other company upstairs, all laughing and chattering over this card. The opening of the card for the first time coincided exactly with the beginning of the call which would tell me definitively whether or not I would remain employed.  The call lasted maybe three minutes. They played the card fifteen fucking times. Meow meow meow meow MEEEEEOOOOOWW meeeowww.  Fifteen times.  I was terrified of getting fired, even though I hate my job.  I am eight grand in credit card debt and my checking account has seventeen dollars in it.  I hate my job, but I need it.  I had to know.  Meow meow meow meow MEEEOOOW meooowww….

When the fuck did the audio cards get so good?  Used to be the tune from a music box played in the tone of a smoke alarm telling you it was running out of batteries.  I guess it’s to be expected; there would be a Moore’s Law for fucking birthday cards, and someday it would be real audio of cats actually meowing, autotuned to “Happy Birthday” and “When I’m 64.”  But why did they also have to crank it up to the volume level of a motherfucking air raid siren and why did one of these hyperrealistic singing cat cards have to be presented to the bubbly girl upstairs who actually likes her boss and never does any work whatsoever at the exact moment when a phone conversation was being had that will determine whether I can pay my rent and feed my cat and not move back in with my motherfucking parents at age 36.

They all came downstairs, finally.  They were walking from their office to the office of the show where the nice lady boss works, as a writer, a comedy writer– she is really very funny and sweet; whoever the guy who married her is, he scored like motherfucking Harry Potter with the sneetch– and they were laughing and giggling about this cat card still, and they offered me a piece of cake.  I felt like I had just emerged from Tower 2 moments before it pancaked, like I had walked over the body of my coworker who had jumped out of an eighty sixth floor window to get away from the kerosene smoke and just run like hell with half my scalp flapping off– they were giggling and said have a piece of cake.  They showed me the cake.  It was one of those fancy ones.  In L.A. they have crazy fancy boutique bakeries and shit, this cake was like– if Hailee Steinfeld’s virgin pussy were a cake, it would be this cake.  I had had a light lunch.  I was desperately hungry for this cake.  But I couldn’t communicate with them.  I just told them no. They kept insisting.  I told them I was sick.  I tried to be funny about it.  I try to be on top of my game, especially with the comedy writer, to show her that if I wanted to be a comedy writer, I could be a comedy writer too.  It’s not true, I’m sure.  But they were in such good moods.  Come on and laugh, have a piece of cake.  Leave me alone and shove your fucking cake up your ass, is what I was thinking.  They wouldn’t leave me alone about the cake and the fucking cat card while I was getting fired.  It figures it would be something like this.

I’m scared about the money.  But also: fuck my job, fuck my boss, fuck my colleagues, fuck everyone I work with.  Fuck Hollywood, fuck movies, fuck television.  I fucking hate all of it, every god damn motherfucking second; my whole day is just waiting for the day to be over and I’ve wasted years and years of my life like this.  Thank you, my boss, for firing me.  It is the one right and merciful thing you’ve ever done, and the one smart decision I’ve ever seen you make.  Someone else will do a much better job.  Or they won’t; you are impossible to do a good job for because you suck and you are an incomprehensible idiot.  Literally the worst manager of employees I have ever seen, and I’ve worked in sewers. I’ve cleaned toilets; I did fucking scam telemarketing; I sold ads to whores out of the back of the free weekly paper– you are infinitely less skilled at being a boss than any of my bosses at any of these places ever were.  If I could wave a magic wand and see you dead I would do it; if I could see you on fire and hear you scream screams of unimaginable pain it would be the only time I have ever jerked off to a man.  A thousand deaths and a million hells are not enough for you, and your children, and your children’s children.  But thanks for employing me.


28 Responses to “Well Thank God”

  1. sylviasarah September 14, 2012 at 10:07 pm #

    It’s stupid and will probably annoy you and whatever readers you have that comment on commenters but, I hope there is some awesome reason for that call, even though you would know better, or that this is just a blown out of proportion but very well written story.

    • Anonymous December 12, 2012 at 8:06 pm #


      • sylviasarah December 12, 2012 at 8:10 pm #

        Oh jeez. I thought you were writing to me. I was freaking out you jerk! You know you don’t have to be on the top for DT to see your responses, right? And I’m sure the people who read comments go through the whole list because they’re usually pretty crazy.

  2. Chuck Groin Punch September 15, 2012 at 12:11 am #

    “Freedom isn’t free” is what I’m told. Welcome back to the world of the living, it’s much nicer here once you get used too it.

  3. fake girlfriend September 15, 2012 at 4:45 am #

    WTF? I wrote and posted a comment and it never appeared. Stupid German Internet.
    I’m homesick for LA and TimeWarner. How is that possible?
    I love you.
    You don’t need a job if you don’t have a job. All they are good for is paying for things you need to have one. I swear.
    It’s ok to be scared. Money is a terrifying theater. But I will help you.
    You can come to Truth or Consequences, New Mexico and stay with me.
    I will be there from December 1st through Decemvpber 31st.
    I have a small apartment, an art studio, and 24 hour access to hot springs on site. I van have guests stay with me and it is free. You could write. And soak. And let go. There won’t be any naive pussy around but it is a chance for some cold turkey re-invention.
    Maybe you won’t come and you won’t get fired after all. But honey, you need to know that I love you and that you are different than this trap you’ve been sustaining. I know.
    Miss you…

    • eric September 15, 2012 at 10:01 am #

      have you two ever actually met?

      • fake girlfriend September 15, 2012 at 10:34 am #

        Yes. We met in Cabot Cove.

      • sylviasarah September 15, 2012 at 3:34 pm #

        I hope someone from his office reads this and sees how ridiculously awesome his writing is. Man’s man, woman’s man, his character is attractive to everyone and instead of being some guy trying to split the world between men and women, rich and poor, educated or not, he is just himself and it comes together even though half the time we end up picking at a comment we think is stupid but only because of some tinge of jealousy.

  4. odds September 16, 2012 at 6:46 am #

    time to make that move out to a cabin in Idaho.

  5. nikolhasler September 16, 2012 at 8:12 am #

    I kind of wish you’d get fired so you can finally become a novelist. But, yeah, the money part is scary.

    • nikolhasler September 16, 2012 at 8:16 am #

      I just realized something, because I’m naked and drunk and in a hotel room in the south and then for some reason this thought came up. Someone in one of your threads once was like “You suck because you comment on DTs stuff and you are clearly just trying to get traffic to your own web site, because you link to your website.” And at the time I was confused, but I only just now realize what that genius meant. My name, when I comment, is a hyperlink. Only, it doesn’t lead to my website at all. Nope. I’ll be home soon, and I will bring you some grits if you want.

      • Anonymous September 18, 2012 at 8:05 am #

        Lol nikol, you are the ultimate grudge holder. Congrats on being the most trollable person on the internet.

      • Nikol September 18, 2012 at 9:31 am #

        Thank you.
        Once, someone in Ohio said that they hope I get cancer and that my kids die in a car wreck. I’m still a little mad at that guy, especially because he wrote it in ALL CAPS, which is the ultimate gypsy curse of a way to wish cancer upon a person.
        What does my trophy look like?

  6. Jake September 16, 2012 at 8:36 am #

    Max out your credit cards, buy yourself a ticket to SE Asia. Vietnam, Cambodia, somewhere. Find yourself a job teaching English to all sorts of cute things, get paid 10x what locals make, take some time to contemplate your existence.

    L.A. will always be there to go back to.

    • nikolhasler September 16, 2012 at 2:11 pm #

      That’s a fucking stupid idea.

      • Anonymous September 19, 2012 at 1:09 pm #

        From what you post on the internet, you are the last person one should take advice from re: “stupid ideas.”

      • nikolhasler September 19, 2012 at 2:08 pm #

        How’s that? Not disagreeing, just asking for clarification.

  7. dm September 16, 2012 at 8:00 pm #

    That kind of tactic never works and usually ends up with you getting arrested for fraud or something like that. Taking one day at a time before hunting another job that you feel would be less soul-crunching to you is the better idea. Of course, this would sound like hollow words but eh. I know how shitty bad bosses can be. And besides, I just started reading your blog and think you’re the man.

    Anyway, dude, get better.

  8. fake girlfriend September 17, 2012 at 5:54 am #

    I’m with Jake. Live a little. You have no dependents, own no legitimate property, and already have insurmountable debt. Try grad school loans and go live in a country with nature that is brand new to you. Write something. Spend some years inspired before you get sick and die.

  9. fake girlfriend September 17, 2012 at 6:04 am #

    I mean, * use* your imagination. Don’t sell it into slavery.

  10. pffffffftttsssssssiimmbllllllddddddnnnnnnnnn September 19, 2012 at 8:01 am #

    Okay, people, can we stop with the fucking new age “Eat Pray Love” bullshit? Please, it’s silly and ridiculous. He’s not gonna go live with Buddhist monks in some southeast Asian shithole trying to achieve nirvana. He’s not gonna be magically inspired to write groundbreaking novels by beautiful scenery and filthy peasant people. You know what it would be like if he went to Thailand? It would be like when Tom Cruise went to Mexico in “Born on the Fourth of July” only with a functioning penis and without the wheel chair. He would be sitting in a Pattaya bar getting shitfaced every day with the rest of the Westerners and fucking hookers at night. But, hey, he’d probably get some good stories out of it.

    Wherever you go, there you are.

    • FakeGirlfriend September 20, 2012 at 1:37 am #

      Wherever you go, you are *there*

      • pffffffftttsssssssiimmbllllllddddddnnnnnnnnn January 13, 2013 at 10:15 pm #

        I forgot, in NA/AA they call this the “geographical solution”. As in, “there’s no geographical solution for the human condition.” That’s what I meant by: wherever you go, there you are. That’s why I dismissed this idea that DT was going to reinvent himself in New Mexico as ridiculous and silly. People do this to try to get clean all the time, they think, if I just get the fuck out of Brooklyn, or Philly, or baltimore, or wherever, that they’ll be able to stay clean. So they move to fucking Butte, Montana and within two months they’re shooting meth in an abandoned grain elevator. Wherever you go, there you are.

        If DT is gonna write, he’s gonna write. He doesn’t have to travel the world to do it.

  11. pffffffftttsssssssiimmbllllllddddddnnnnnnnnn September 19, 2012 at 8:39 am #

    I always assumed that you wanted your boss to find this blog, if only unconsciously. Or, at least, you didn’t give a shit if he did. You did a shitty job covering your tracks online if you were trying to maintain your anonymity. And then Nikol goes and writes a post about you using your full name for some reason. Does she know that many (REDACTED)s that she has to write your first and last name? Past the point of no return, I guess. (REDACTED). What is that, (REDACTED)?

    Anyway, your boss is named after a fucking (REDACTED); that’s pretty funny. You should start calling him (REDACTED). Sounds like a (REDACTED) or something. Like he could’ve been the evil arch nemesis to the ambiguously gay duo. Remember that skit? That was back when SNL was still funny.

    In case (REDACTED) reads this – The views expressed in this comment are my own and do not necessarily represent the views of, and should not be attributed to, Delicious Tacos.

    (FROM THE EDITOR– can we fucking stop talking about how easy it is to find me? Maybe I leave my door unlocked, but I don’t put up signs around the neighborhood saying my door is unlocked.)

    • nikolhasler September 19, 2012 at 8:44 am #

      Well, dear, while our blogs link to each other, I have long been using his full name on my blog and in my videos. He doesn’t mention his name on this blog, nor does he mention details about his employers last name that might come up in a google search.

      If someone were a reader of my blog and gave a shit enough about it to go poking around, they’d find this. And, honestly, the stuff he reveals about my own life on this blog are far more damning than the stuff about himself.

      But, really, a person would have to be digging around on both blogs to figure stuff out. And if they’re that interested, who cares what they think.

      DT, were you going for complete anonymity? Did that ever matter? If it does, I have an edit post button same as anyone.

      • pffffffftttsssssssiimmbllllllddddddnnnnnnnnn September 19, 2012 at 9:58 am #

        You don’t have to dig around, that’s my point. It’s not like you have to be a genius super sleuth computer hacker; it takes two seconds to highlight the name, right click, and there you go.

        Anyway, sorry. I was just gonna say feel free to delete the comment if I crossed some sort of line.

      • sylviasarah September 19, 2012 at 11:12 am #

        Does his redacting everything not imply he’s looking for whatever anonymity he can get without having to worry about it every second? Also, I think looking at your page with your name just makes people think that if he wanted it to be (REDACTED).com he would have done it and since he didn’t, he might care.

        Anyway, I hope you removed it because DT asked you to and not because some tool on the internet cares too much about someone else’s life.


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