Cunning Stunts - The Lazy Douchebag (Work Type I)

Okay, so there's this chick at work. She's there on a temporary basis while the senior member of our little mailroom is on the west coast for a month, helping her daughter who just had a child. This chick (and I use the word advisedly) is the daughter of someone who work's in J's department, is in her early 20s and has a young child of her own. She is also one of the stupidest, laziest twunts I've ever met.

She does not converse so much as she rambles on relentlessly, usually about celebrities (she admires Britney Spears's persistence in the face of such adversity), food (the list of shit she won't eat is long and exhaustive, but she talks about it non-stop) or her various neuroses (she doesn't do anything by herself, not even go to the store, because she doesn't trust people). All of this incessant rambling is expressed with a rising inflection at the end of each phrase--you know? Like she's always asking a question? Even when she's made a statement?--and a typical sentence will contain the word "like" several times.

She's been working in our office for two weeks. In those two weeks, she has called in sick once, left early once, taken a half-day off for a doctor's appointment and is taking tomorrow off because her crotch fruit is returning from the east coast where she was visiting relatives. While she is at work, her sole responsibilities are to process the mail (which involves opening, sorting and date-stamping), pulling claims (as requested by other departments) and filing.

I perform these tasks myself on a daily basis, and I can assure you, it isn't rocket science. Yet, somehow, it all manages to elude Princess PeaBrain. I have heard her say shit such as, "Okay, if the name on this file starts with DEV, I can't just stick it in with the other DEVs? I hafta put it in the right place?" While standing in the area of the files where the end of the alphabet occurs, she has asked, "Where are the Bs?" (The answer, of course, is "After the As at the other end of the room, you loopy cunt".)

Alas, the lazy gash doesn't like filing. According to her, it's hard work. That's not true. It's tedious and time-consuming, but it's not physically difficult (although it occurs to me, she may find it mentally challenging, as no doubt she finds blinking). Therefore, she spends her entire day fucking the dog with the mail (it took her a full day to not quite complete three bins, a job which should take even a brand newbie only four or five hours) so that she can avoid the other tasks she's been assigned.

She spends so much energy avoiding the work that I swear it would be easier to just do it and get it over with. But instead, she sits crosslegged and shoeless on her office chair ("Omigawd, this chair won't stop spinning!"), reading through the claims to see what the various medical conditions are, scratches her body parts, and adjusts her mp3 player. Today, I covertly watched her process five medical claims in fifteen minutes. Her speed, both physical and intellectual, is glacial.

It makes me mental, but I could even get past this, knowing that it's only another couple of weeks before she's gone. I would just grit my teeth and do my work and half of hers.

What I cannot ignore is her vast ignorance, her paralyzing stupidity, her crippling fucktardedness. Trained as an aesthetician, her every conversation is carried on as if she was applying acrylic nails. It's trivial, it's inane, it's vapid. It is largely inarticulate and finally, it is juvenile.

Last week, she was thrilled to get tickets to see the New Bumboys On the Block concert here in town. The next day, she was gushing about Donnie Wahlberg and how he came so close to where she and her bff were sitting, and omg, at intermission they went out and bought shirts? and then when they came back? they did this song she loves? and it was, like, so awesome.

The girl with who she was speaking asked, "Did you get the shirt with all four of their faces on it?" and Twatski replied (apparently oblivious to my presence in the room), "No, I'm not that gay."

I was so stunned that I didn't say anything at the time. I was completely gobsmacked, although why I should have been, I can't imagine. Given the relative stupidity of her conversations, I might have expected such a dumb remark. And really, going to a New Kids On the Block concert (and being excited, rather than embarrassed about it) is pretty "gay", if you ask me. Nevertheless, I vowed that I would not let it pass should it occur again.

And today, it did.

Out of the blue, Lazy Douchebag asked, "Do you need a permit to have a garage sale?"

My co-worker, S., and I assured her that one does.

"That kinda sucks, eh?" observed Lazy Douchebag. "I mean, what's wrong with just opening up your garage door and letting people buy stuff? I mean, once you buy the permit, you don't have much profit. That's so gay."

My head snapped in her direction so fast, I'm sure my vertebrae made a sound like popcorn exploding.

"That's so what?" I said.

"Oh, sorry," she mumbled.

"What the fuck does that even mean?" I demanded. "How can that be 'gay'?"

"Sorry," she repeated, and I left the room, since it was time for my break anyway. I had to leave the room because I was on the verge of saying things like, "Where do you get off, using the word 'gay' like that? Would you ever say 'nigger'? Would you ever describe how you got 'jewed' out of something? Because it's the same fucking thing, you stupid cunt. Now get cracking on that mail, or I'll pound it all up your ass, envelope by envelope, until the paper cuts are so numerous and deep that your organs will drop out of your gaping hole, and your torso will be as empty as your skull evidently is."

(Of course, J.'s comment on all this is, "Except that her hole is so gaping anyway, it would take the three bins of mail to fill it up", which, for those of you who haven't figured it out yet, is proof-positive that J. is much nastier than I. I just have a mean mouth.)

Anyway, my boss (who rocks the universe) is well aware of the situation and will be having a(nother) little chat with Douchebag when she's back on Wednesday morning. Me, I've got my eyes focused on a date two weeks hence, when she's gone.

On the plus side, she's excellent copy for a character in my novel.