I can tell within two weeks whether a new job will work for me or not.
Shitzen Unt Kiggles Inc. was a world wide instrumentation company that I went to work for back at the turn of the century. As you might imagine it had German ancestry and it follows that it manifested itself in the work culture. You always 'Zieg Hiel'ed' after you took a dump, any thing that wasn't against company policy and regulations was prohibited, and you didn't sneeze without authorization forms filled out in triplicate. One of the fucks in management even made a point of bragging about it. Like Hitler, he was a loud, sawed off runt with a big mouth and one ball, HAR HAR HAR! Back then I was more professional and courteous than I am now and ignored the Gestapo and the SS with imperious disdain.
For you see, they needed me a helluva lot more than I needed them. I could ignore all that bullshit because I had my own duties and my own turf and total control of it - silly as that sounds. The second Alberta oil boom had just begun, and the projects going out for bid were a veritable avalanche of potential wealth with juicy contracts just waiting for us to grab and take off the street. I started working 7 day weeks, 12 hours (or more) a day - but I was young, I was in charge and I liked what I did - which was prepping bid proposals, coordinating production with orders and shooting the shit with customers and contractors. The Gruppenfurher (in a civilized company, he would have been a branch manager) - wisely left me alone to rock n' roll. Soon business expanded to the point where I couldn't handle it and we had to hire someone.
Ever hear that tune from the Northern Pikes, "She Ain't Pretty, She Just Looks That Way"? When Jessie (names changed to protect the guilty) walked in the office on her starting day - the office staff went quiet as a tomb. She sauntered in with the litheness and confidence of a cat - a slender but chesty woman, dressed with understated elegance that complimented the way she moved. The guys melted with one sultry look. Even I was smitten to begin with - when I finally got my eyeballs back in their sockets and recovered my wits, Leisure Suit Mary was screaming at me to answer the bloody phone - which I had just noticed was ringing off the hook. Within minutes I was back in the groove, submerged in the urgency, minutia and details of my job.
To begin with she was a sorceress. She would ask me to do stuff and I would do them without even realizing it. So would the other guys. She was good at her job too, no bones about it. She had the tats that young people were just beginning to get in those days. She spoke well and charmed us guys and we went along in a daze. Jessie wasn't a slutty hottie - she was a classy young woman that projected an air of warmth and trust that just made you want to protect her and help her out. I did my best to train her and bring her along.
Two months later she was my boss. She became the Office Manager. And everything changed.
Jessie started slacking off - which meant more work on my plate. She got away with it by batting her eyes at the Gruppenfurher - and anything she wanted, she got! If I needed anything, unless Jessie agreed the Gruppenfurher told me to FOAD. I began to ask myself - who, exactly is running this shit show? The Gruppenfurher? His dink? Jessie? GAH.
One day after a great steak sammich I shat my pants for three minutes straight. It was such an epic fart that it was a life achievement: the windows rattled in the panes, the dead flies in the light fixtures danced around in the diffusers like dice in a cup - and I swear I hit 9.9 on the Rectum Scale. The boys down at NASA in Florida heard it and wrote me fan letters complimenting me on my controlled burn. The fellas at Ground Zero that weren't retching gave me a standing ovation - and then rushed to revive Leisure Suit Mary who had feinted from methane poisoning. I've heard that S+K is still trying to scrub the chit off the office walls to this day!
That afternoon I got a formal written reprimand from Jessie. It was signed by the Gruppenfurher and The Furher Himself from the Canadian head office in Montreal! I had to sign a form promising not to ever shit my pants again, or do anything else that would offend my coworkers or make them uncomfortable.
It was a declaration of war, and I was up against a satanic witch.
Stay tuned for the next exciting episode!