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So I got drunk and started a business. And let me tell you, the hassles are everyday. Why, just today, my secretary Ethel—Ethel is an older woman, I can’t hire the young American white women—my secretary Ethel burst into my office, shouting, “Mr. Goddman, Mr. Goddman, we have a serious problem with inventory at the warehouse!”

The de Neige Group: Professional, Compassionate Monsters

“Damn the bejesus out of that warehouse!” I yelled, at her, but she knew my feelings. “What’s the problem now?”

“Mr. Goddman, it’s overstock and shortage! The ERP system still orders an eight-month inventory of AAAAGGH MR. GODDMAN YOU’RE HURTING ME . Ahm. Ahm. Should we call the IT guys?”

“Ethel, I will not listen to this sprechen zie nacht about the warehouse one more time. And I will never again sit there and let those hideous, fat consultants talk at me about ‘the new diagonal integration’ like I’m some kind of thirteen-year-old European who spends her days reading Star Wars novels instead of running her business. No. Call the boys. Tell them do what we talked about. The sales force. Say it was the Crispy Crames I brought them every morning when I came to ask about work and they lied to me. Leave one alive to tell the tale to his blond but otherwise unattractive wife.”

“Y--yes, sir.”

“And Ethel? Get me some delicious breakfast pastries from Starbucks.”

“Yes, sir. And sir? Permission to speak freely.”

“Ethel. Always.”

“You’re looking very well today, sir. Have you been lifting weights?”

In fact I had not. I was Schliebel again today for my performance as CEO, but I’ll let it slip to you, my beautiful readers, that I did bulk him up. It’s fascinating to see which office women can be convinced to sleep with Schliebel over a much more attractive man who works the mail room. Damning to see, you might say. Tango and cash, my boy, and you’ll be knocking over her bookshelf in no time. I’m rambling again, aren’t I.

And that’s how I solved the human resources mystery of “what happened to the warehouse and how do we fix it.” Moral of the story? Burn the f**ker. Let me weave a few more tales of corporate Canadia for you.

I sign on from the office but sigh in disgust, because there’s no one on except Deathfox and William Munky, who ‘compliments’ me for being ‘less chubby’ than, I guess, the last time he saw me. The fat f**k. Ever since I got into the private sector my personal contacts have dried up and given way to cyber-babies and self-important dairy queens. In a way, I’ve hit rock bottom. (Rock Candy Bottom, Anya would say. God, I miss her. I mean, God, I hate her.) I’ve been saving up to pay my Siberian snow-troops, but my company is losing money by the truckload because of overhead, incompetence, and a non-integrated information system, according to the Indian tech consultant whose services I imported and whose body I devoured earlier this morning. (True to the fighting spirit of the new aspiring Eastern worker, he is not staying down.) More consultants, to make this damnable server work the way I want it to, will just cost more money we don’t have, since no one wants our product: tiny live birds with clipped wings at wholesale prices. WHY NOT, GOD?!—hold on. McHatred00769 is IMing me.

McHatred007 69: I hate your daughter.
AaronBurr1813: You’re a saint. Look, I’m very busy. Is she giving you any real trouble?
McHatred007 69: She almost killed a kid at school today.
McHatred007 69: She spit water into his face for being stupid, and he almost drowned. I wish you’d stop trying to teach her that ice beam. She can’t do it.
AaronBurr1813: Looks like she was on the money. She’s my little decision scientist.
McHatred007 69: You twopenny trick. Stop teaching her your horrible, murderous Tae Kwon bullsh*t.
AaronBurr1813: The point is, she tries. I’m more proud of her than anything. I command that you take her for an ice-cream and a matinee, cur.
McHatred007 69: What she deserves is a spanking, but I knew you’d say that, so it’s already done. The one she wanted to see.
AaronBurr1813: Perfect. How was My Little Pony XLR?
McHatred007 69: Full of horsesh*t.
AaronBurr1813: I’m sorry you don’t enjoy parts of your job. You’re lucky to be employed at all. Everyone hates you. Everyone and everything.
McHatred007 69: That was her assessment of the movie, actually.
AaronBurr1813: Oh. I don’t suppose you taught her how to talk like that.
McHatred007 69: No-no, Snowman, the smart money’s on your freakin’ awesome parenting style. But since you brought it up, the phrase “parts of my job” is actually an interesting—a fascinating way to put it. Because I haven’t seen a blessed nickel.
AaronBurr1813: We’ve had the conversation about my company and liquid assets right now.
McHatred007 69: We’ve also done the one about how I don’t give a rat’s @$$ because it’s your problem. Shall we run through that one again? Because I do rather fancy it.
AaronBurr1813: I’m keeping strict accounts, with interest—have you been reading about how rates are on the rise, by the way?—and accounting for inflation. When I gut this bastard b*tch and run, you’ll have all the compensation you ever dreamed of, if dogs do have greedy dreams, for doing—and I quote—the most rewarding job you’ve ever taken on. Besides, you said you’d accept payment in food on days you get to choose. Come on by, the gourmet dining is fine and free on the roof, for executives. And their best friends.
McHatred007 69: You son of a BITCH. If you remember the exact quote, you’ll also recall that at the time I did know the promised salary of the job, and was not discounting it, despite how “cute” your kid is.
AaronBurr1813: Sarcastic humor gets old, there, Janeane Garofalo. You throw insults like a girl.
McHatred007 69: You’re not my best friend.
McHatred007 69: When will that be, by the way, that the money starts rolling in?
AaronBurr1813 has signed off.

Whew. The pressures of balancing family and career. I can see why so many business magazines run filler articles on it. But I know what I need to do now.