Special Sauce

A mish-mash of twisted thoughts from a fevered ego. Updated when the spirit moves me, contents vary and may have settled during shipping. Do not open towards eyes. Caution: Ingestion of Special Sauce may cause hair loss, halitosis, and a burning sensation while urinating.



I drafted two resignation letters today. One I'll give to my Benevolent Dictator, one I'll merely savor. I'll let you guess which one I've posted. (FYI- the one I'll savor takes directly from the actual resignation, which explains some of the slightly odd syntax.)

October 24, 2004

Dear Benevolent Dictator,

I am elated to inform you that I have accepted a position at another organization, and if you think I'm telling you which one it is you're even loonier than I had first believed. My last day with the Little Nonprofit That Could (still haunt my darkest hours) will be Friday, October 29 and that can't come soon enough, I assure you. I relish the inconvenient timing of my departure, and probably should have emailed you my resignation and never entered the office again, but I really do want to see the look of horror on your face when you realize you're going to be stuck in the office alone. My new employer wishes me to begin November 1, and actually probably wants me there sooner, but some masochistic part of me couldn't leave you completely in the lurch, so I'll put up with your bleating and whining for four more godawful days.

I've fantasized about leaving this flaming pit of suck for months, because you're quite possibly the most batshit insane person I've ever had the displeasure of knowing--and I've worked with dementia patients. What the organization has accomplished thus far is nothing short of a miracle, especially in light of the fact that you sabotage everything you do, because you can't stand to see anyone happy except yourself. And quite frankly, the only thing that makes you happy is acting the part of the martyr, so I'm sure this little letter should do the trick nicely. It is difficult to believe that G. Monkey put up with your bullshit as long as she did, truly a testament to the fact that she should be nominated for sainthood. I am astonished I lasted as long as I did with this organization, and have learned many things from my time here. Namely, precisely what not to do when it comes to starting and maintaining my own business, how not to treat employees, and how to recognize the seven signs of mental illness.

Because I really want to keep your bitching and moaning to a minimum, I've decided to be somewhat kind to the next person who takes my spot. I am developing a manual of the office procedures I handle on a daily basis, which are actually so fucking simple that a brain-damaged weasel could do them-although for all you know, I sit at this desk and practice witchcraft to get things done. This will be an excellent resource for the individual(s) who replace me and I'll be sure to include a coded message, warning them they should leave as quickly as they can, lest they get sucked into your deranged vortex. If feasible, (although I wouldn't hold my breath if I were you) I can be available to train my replacement on a Saturday when you are nowhere around. Additionally I can make myself available for freelance assignments, which we can negotiate on an individual project basis. For your edification, "Freelance" does not mean, "I work for free". I will not assume any project for less than $16.00/hour, with a 2-hour minimum rate. Anything that requires me to leave my house starts at $20.00/hour. Good luck, skinflint.

Again, I thank you for giving me the opportunity to work with you and the Little Nonprofit That Could (suck the life out of everyone it touches). It has truly been an unforgettable experience, and I assure you that I have tried. I certainly do hope that you have fresh goats to slaughter to the dark lord of Office Staffing, otherwise- good luck finding some other jackass to jump through hoops for you for $8.00/hour. It's no coincidence that the only long-term secretary you were able to keep, had massive head trauma. Perhaps you should troll the 8th floor at LGH for new staff, I hear psychotics can smell their own kind.

I'm sure you'll immediately take this letter and have it engraved on a gigantic concrete cross, perfect for dragging around and inspiring pity from everyone who doesn't know you. Anything to avoid actually changing your ways, doing some legitimate work or taking responsibility for the fact that you are a manipulative, obsessive control-freak who has no grasp of reality. I know I'll be a convenient scapegoat for you, someone to blame things on when you inevitably fuck up so badly that you will have no choice but to close up shop. Luckily, everyone in town that counts knows exactly how utterly insane you are. Reality check, Bosslady- you're not paranoid; they really do talk about you behind your back. Most of them also roll their eyes, marvel at the fact that you can even tie your shoes and would rather have a hot Clorox enema than actually talk to you.

See you in Hell,

Special Sauce


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