Let the passive-aggressive games begin!



Once again, more attacks on the fact that I'm right. The inimitable proof stands before us, but there are only sheepish remarks.



The battle for the day after Christmas began in earnest yet again. We have lost one employee (no surprise there, his own boss is leaving) who was covering for that day. Once again, I was asked to cave in. Once again, I said NO. I am spending that day off with my mother and later with Pengy. It is her birthday, and we are going to celebrate it happily. Black Friday will be insane with shoppers punting each other like footballs. This is all the more reason to kick back, have cake, and watch the stupid folly of ribbons, scotch tape, and wrapping paper at 50% off. She has had a particularly trying time with hospitals, assholes, and annoying emails from pseudo-friends, so this is just the time to celebrate.



Now I will enjoy sitting back and watching Princess Brat fall on her face. Let me explain: my father called one of our cats, Taffy, Princess Bitch. And oh, lord, she was! This cat firmly believed that she was Maria Callas and waited to be pampered every minute of every day. She regularly sat and watched her own reflection when we turned off the tv. She routinely smacked the butter dish to the floor for paw-licking when I baked, boiled potatoes, or ate toast. She took our turkey hostage one year when it was defrosting in the sink--I mean actually SAT ON IT and chewed away one side of the breast while the ice drained down the sink. We served the bird after boiling it and saying our turkey was deformed. She chewed, bit, and scratched the couch into shreds, and for all this we put up with her fussiness, her beautiful green eyes, and her sonorous meows at 2 am. She charmed us into submission, hence the term "bitch". Brats, by definition, aspire to be bitches, but bitches themselves know and take complete control of facts and utter weaknesses, thereby winning every time. Therefore, brats are wannabes by nature. They piss, moan, and act like children, but do not win. They cannot win, because they fear actual power plays. What you get is drowned, half-sopped attempts at mind games. All that's left is pure, unadulterated passive aggression. Princess Brat, Ghetto Cow's successor, suffers from this. What's truly amusing is that she thinks I don't know this. It's always good to be one step ahead, kiddies. Your ass is covered and it saves mucho moolah on Excedrin.



Examples: today, we are having computer problems. I say this person can help us. She says this person cannot. I send an email (did you email? insecurity), and a phone call (are you gonna call? just did, duhhh) and who comes down to reset the system? Precisely the person I was told (by her) doesn't work here anymore. Once again, I'm right.



All of this is pissy messiness over the fact that I'm getting that day off. I love to watch people who sneer down their nose at me fall on their faces. It's truly heart-warming and inspiring. And, like I've said before: all the nail tips, perfume, leather purses, Gucci boots, Prada pants, and Chanel pocket planners CAN'T help you when you don't know what you're doing. In the office or in life.



I'd love to know what Taffy would do. I clearly visualize a shredded coat or a peed-on purse. I'll bet anything she's sitting on my dad's lap right now, purring with vicious delight.