I told my boss I quit on Tuesday. I didn't exactly use those words though. Because though it is my dream to someday walk out of a job all "Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you, you're cool, fuck you. I'm out." This isn't the time. Though I can think of four people I would like to say fuck you to.
I even typed up a little letter of resignation and sent it to him over e-mail. But I printed a copy out for my scrapbook. Which I don't actually have, but if I did, it would be full of shit like the e-mail where my boss threatened to fire me. And the photo I printed off of Bono and Jean Chretien standing together and Jean is wearing Bono's sunglasses and I drew a thought bubble coming from Bono that says "Could I love him more?"
The best thing about leaving will be taking all my shit out in a big box and having a rubber chicken hanging off the top.
Ooooh yeah. Doin' the rubber chicken dance. Feelin' the chicken groove. I do indeed have a rubber chicken. You know the sad shit you get on your desk after awhile? Well my shit is truly cool. Entertainment reporters get all the best shit. Everywhere. When I went for my interview at the Sun, all the entertainment reporters had life-size real looking plastic rats on their computers. Because "We did a photo shoot for survivor or something, you know how they ate rats? And, you know. They stayed." Sister, I feel you.
Right now, besides the rubber chicken, I have a really cool Todd McFarlane-esque figurine of an Iron Maiden dude holding a ripped british flag and a sword. Plus, there's a big IRON MAIDEN sign on top. I love that my desk is the first one in the newsroom, so everybody has to walk past my desk, past this zombified Iron Maiden guy who is OBVIOUSLY some sort of heavy metal homage and should I really be listening to that? After all, this is bible country. I also have a little Jack-Jack figure from the Incredibles which I bought after our Advertising supervisor totally unfairly would not give me his cool "I got it free with some Tide" Incredibles touque. The jerk.
And don't even get me started on my Thrilla in Vanilla poster from the Daily Show book. Nor will I go on about my faux man-harem of jowly politicians I have claimed at various times, to love just to freak out my other editor. She thinks I'm mentally unbalanced. It saddens me that the only thing tacked up to desks here that's actually funny will be the lame replies Pretentious Unfunny Bald Guy tapes to his desk because he is Pretentious and Unfunny.
It will be good to leave. I was starting to think I was cool there for a minute.
tunes: Ian Tyson
tube: Buffy, Season 5
text: White Teeth by Zadie Smith
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