By now, it should be obvious that I take my job as an opinionated jerk very seriously. For the past few weeks, the editors at The Cheers
have given me ample space to partake in what my father calls "a little
R and R" (Ranting and Raving). I am eternally grateful. Whether you
know it or not – whether anyone really cares is something entirely
different – this isn't always easy. Sure, we all have our viewpoints.
Sure, we all voice them to friends and co-workers. But not all opinions
are created equally; sometimes it's better to leave perspectives in the
dark corners of our minds, the crevices usually reserved for ideas to
wither and die well out of earshot.
In that mass of gray
matter that is my brain, those dark places do not exist, and because I
lack the needed social filters most people possess, I rarely have a
thought that goes unspoken. I used to tell friends I had a sickness,
that God cursed me to walk the earth as an incurable smartass. Okay,
maybe not as smart as an ass but I didn't coin the phrase.
Leading a life of
sarcasm has been a mixed bag, to say the least. A quick wit makes me
the life of any party where surly malcontents have taken up residence
near the most secluded corner of the room. Any time you have someone
willing to make scathing comments about innocent bystanders, you've got
yourself a Good Time Charlie.
At the same time, though, I've plowed through two marriages faster than many
celebrities have. My mouthiness hasn't exactly helped me get any
employee-of-the-month awards. But those are just the breaks, kid, and
to be completely honest I don't fancy myself the marrying type anyway.
As for the work history … let's just say it's not easy finding a boss
who values candor.
Which brings me to my point: bosses.
I know I'm not the
first person to complain about a supervisor, but I do believe I'm the
only human being alive to have had the pleasure of working for some of
the most insane people since man began earning a living through manual
labor. Put a complete psychotic in charge of a company and I'm sure to
find myself on their payroll and under their command. I'm not just
talking about demanding individuals either. Take Hitler, Pol Pot and
Ted Bundy, then place those personalities in the body of a black woman
with an affinity for red hair dye and you have my last employer.
I don't mention this
because I'm a bitter little worker bee. There's probably some universal
company policy stating bosses have to surrender compassion and common
sense before they can occupy the corner office. Hey, if they can do
that and still look in the mirror in the morning, then I tip my hat to
them. It's when those same heartless souls do something ludicrous such
as firing a woman over the size of her breasts that I get somewhat bent
out of the frame.
Consider
the case of Alice Alyse, a 29-year-old dancer who was recently fired
from a Broadway musical because she apparently gained a full cup size
while recovering from an injury that kept her off stage for a year.
According to a Washington Post article, Alyse claims
the anatomically specific weight gain was the result of not dancing
during that time. Once she healed and reclaimed her spot as an ensemble
dancer for the musical Movin' Out, the producers reportedly took issue with her new figure and fired Alyse. She's since filed a $100 million lawsuit.
Because the producers of Movin' Out have
declined to comment, there's no way of knowing their side of this
tawdry tale. My issue with that, however, is this: does it really
matter whether we hear their side? Who cares if this woman was a "team
player" or not, if she was late or on time for rehearsals, if she wore
the same leotard three days in a row? The fact remains that her bosses
laid her off over matters beyond her control.
I hope Alyse wins her
lawsuit. If I were the judge I'd not only award her the $100 million,
I'd put her in charge of these producers. She couldn't fire them, but
she could make their lives absolute hell until she finds satisfaction.
One of their first jobs as her lackeys: wash all of her bras by hand.
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