That gig is over.
Replace Ted Danson with an evangelical, lazy-eyed mother of six and you had this morning's last episode of OTC Cheers. It was a tearjerker. There wasn't a dry google-eye in the place.
I was fired at some point over the weekend. This gave my she-mulleted pseudo-boss ample time to patch together some discreet bureaucratic way of telling me to buzz off, e.g. "You have reached the end of your temporary assignment at OTC. Don't tell anyone about the child slaves." I don't care if the person is a hollow, Bon Jovi-loving husk of 1987 fashion sensibilities; being told you are not needed always hurts. Against my better judgment, I found myself lingering about with my fellow copywriters, making desperate last-ditch stabs at camaraderie, reminiscing about the good times that we never shared. Just ten minutes before, I was sitting in my car shivering, hissing steam from clenched teeth, squinting, fuming, trying to telekinetically burn the OTC factory to the ground so I'd get the day off.
Julie returned my mustachioed plush snowman mascot and curtseyed at my feet. Kathy made a typically insensitive remark about "the Moslems." Mary complimented me on my shitty beard and referenced some 17th century author. I stared at her. You never think you'll cry, but you always do.
I drained the rest of the OTC House Coffee jug into my stainless steel Thermos and stuffed my pockets full of Fun Size Milk Duds. Then, I walked out to my car. There was a buzzing in my pocket. Murray.
"Hey," he said, "that gig is done. Sorry, man."
"Naw, it's alright," I said. "The place burned me out, really."
"I hear you, dude. Say, I think I've got another assignment."
"What?"
"Same shit. But 150 words a pop instead of ten. You work at home. Ten bucks an hour. I can fix you up by noon."
"Where do I sign?"
"You don't."
Murray, you've done it again!
I was fired at some point over the weekend. This gave my she-mulleted pseudo-boss ample time to patch together some discreet bureaucratic way of telling me to buzz off, e.g. "You have reached the end of your temporary assignment at OTC. Don't tell anyone about the child slaves." I don't care if the person is a hollow, Bon Jovi-loving husk of 1987 fashion sensibilities; being told you are not needed always hurts. Against my better judgment, I found myself lingering about with my fellow copywriters, making desperate last-ditch stabs at camaraderie, reminiscing about the good times that we never shared. Just ten minutes before, I was sitting in my car shivering, hissing steam from clenched teeth, squinting, fuming, trying to telekinetically burn the OTC factory to the ground so I'd get the day off.
Julie returned my mustachioed plush snowman mascot and curtseyed at my feet. Kathy made a typically insensitive remark about "the Moslems." Mary complimented me on my shitty beard and referenced some 17th century author. I stared at her. You never think you'll cry, but you always do.
I drained the rest of the OTC House Coffee jug into my stainless steel Thermos and stuffed my pockets full of Fun Size Milk Duds. Then, I walked out to my car. There was a buzzing in my pocket. Murray.
"Hey," he said, "that gig is done. Sorry, man."
"Naw, it's alright," I said. "The place burned me out, really."
"I hear you, dude. Say, I think I've got another assignment."
"What?"
"Same shit. But 150 words a pop instead of ten. You work at home. Ten bucks an hour. I can fix you up by noon."
"Where do I sign?"
"You don't."
Murray, you've done it again!