It turns out that Jamaicans do not understand English as well as Filipinos do. I don't like picking on those who do not speak a generic American dialect, but when you are getting paid to speak it, comprehend it.
Now if I want to walk that stereotype line, the language barrier isn't the issue, it's the relaxed culture. You would hope the Yanks who are reinventing the training program for my lame-duck position would be partaking, but they know that would prevent them from bitching at us because we cannot repair their fuck ups.
They got to go out of their way to treat us better. It is damn near intolerable. We are so understaffed, if I was management, I would have demanded better proof to get out of work to see my dying grandma than a text message. Even the dumbest cell phones have camera phones. If a boss demanded visual evidence, and you provided it to them, they should probably feel so shitty that they will give you a couple of extra bereavement days off.
Honestly, I'm just pissy because I think the employee in question will use this as an excuse not to comeback to the job. Of course, I never missed work unless it was wrestling related or I was locked up in the county jail. Only being in a personal hell kept me from making money.
Perhaps you can blame my parents who insisted I go to my class at ICC the day my dad had his heart attack. You had a few hours since driving him to the hospital, get back to the books. Fucking night classes to earn a web design certificate. Three years to earn a semester's worth of credits, and I wonder why my degree landed me a wretched employer like Secure First.
You are second shift. If you want to say your farewells, wake up to get their before your shift. Do you really need to see someone die? Maybe I'm blessed because the only death I dealt with was a grand pyrotechnics display, and over in minutes. Sorry mom and dad, my luck, you'll probably croak when I decide to get a Coke.
So the chronically depressed guy who wants to get my affairs together discovers that when I decide to cash in my chips and flip God off, I got to make it look spectacular. Further knowledge of God's cruel sense of humor. He gets his jollies by savoring the frustrations of a perfectionist who swears that if its going to be done, it has got to be done right.
Placing him in an uncaring work environment that leaves little time to do anything else but think of how pointless his existence makes me think that God is taking his satirical inspiration from "Saturday Night Live." The premise is no longer funny, get to the punchline.
So when I end it all, I better get some laughs out of it as well. I am destined to be Wile E. Coyote.
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