An Open Letter...

Dear Guy with a very girly name,

I have a boss. That boss, believe it or not, isn't you. When I write something for public consumption, it must be approved by my boss. She makes the requisite changes, and we refine it before it leaves this office. That means the minutes and packets I mailed out after our most recent meeting? Those were approved by my boss.

Let me break those last two sentences down into concepts you'll understand.

Boss Said Everything I Wrote Was OK.

Therefore, the fact that you're not listed as a co-chair of the event? That's not an oversight. You're NOT a co-chair for this event. Want to know why? Because nobody likes you. And because the person who DID co-chair the event refused to do it, if you were allowed any semblance of power.

And the ticket prices? They're $150.00/person. Just like I wrote it. Just like it is in my notes. You want to know why you don't know this? Because you were too busy being a condescending little prick, with the woman who OWNS the property we're using. You remember, "What, do I have to ask your FATHER about this?" does that ring any bells?

So, when you call my office in an absolute tizzy on a Friday afternoon, and you leave me not one, not two, but THREE messages speaking to me not only as if I was a toddler, but a toddler who killed your dog, shat in your mother's mouth, and told you those pants make you look fat. I may be a peon, and you may be a drama queen, but that doesn't give you the right to treat me like shit. From here on, I will not be dealing with you. Take your whining straight to my Boss, or I will set you straight, and you're not going to enjoy it.

Fuck off,

Special Sauce