Sometimes I included my great-grandboss, for a total of 54 dicks.

Here is a fantasy I used to run in my head at least twice a day for the last -- oh, probably the last 15 months of my eight-year tenure at the HQ of the San Francisco-based global apparel retailer: I'd be in a meeting with my boss, my grandboss, and some other people. Boss and grandboss would be their usual awful garbage person selves, undermining me, backhand-complimenting me, praising other "team" members, etc., and I'd finally at long last have had Enough of This Shit.

They'd address me directly on some bullshit matter or other, and as all eyes turned to me, I'd sit there with a clip-art "serious contemplative businessperson face" on, nodding agreeably before I replied, calmly and thoughtfully, "You know, I tell you what -- I would like to invite you both" -- indicating boss and grandboss with ironic finger-guns -- "to eat eighteen dicks." I'd give a businessperson half-smile (the kind you see in commercials for financial advice services), with a nod + sincere eye contact, to each of the two of them individually. I'd close the notebook I'd been doodling in, and in the shocked silence that ensued, I'd stand up, give a little half-wave to the room in general, and exit as if I'd just said I was going to Starbucks to get us all some lattes.

I'd walk a few yards down the hallway, then act like "Ooops, forgot my best pen in there," and turn around and go back. They'd all have just started sputtering and blarfgling and there'd be mutters of "calling security right now" and "what kind of a ..." and "think this is an HR matter" and that, and I'd poke my head in with another serious businessperson smile and say, "Sorry, guys, sorry, hate to interrupt, but I realized I might have made a mistake just now, and wanted to be completely clear: I meant that you guys should each eat eighteen dicks, for a total of thirty-six dicks -- not split it up and eat nine each. Sorry if there was any confusion on that!" And I'd wave bye-bye, duck back out, pick up my pre-packed duffel of personal items, and stroll unconcernedly away from the building, buoyed on waves of righteous justice and sweet self-satisfaction, the scent of a rotting bridge well burnt the only perfume I need wear forevermore.

Racist bullshit in action: Auto finance division

If there's a way to feel like a bigger asshole than one does when watching one's housekeeper clean around your new $2500 TV right after she's just told you that her car is about to be repossessed -- the one her deceased husband bought, and which she's been making payments on (at an already abusive 10% interest) since his death at age 36 two years ago, but which she's not on the title of, which fact the bank just found out and thus the repo unless she's able to pay off the remaining $10K immediately or refinance at fucking 19% -- well, I'm not sure I'd care to find out what that level of assholery feels like. I think this is pretty much Olympic-level to begin with.

You can take your daylight and go right to hell with it

Everybody keeps bitching about Daylight Saving Time ending, but I LOVE it. I'm sick to death of this blaring fucking sun (it's really my main beef with California -- this neverending goddamn sunshine -- and I'm fucking serious) and so the getting-dark-at-like-4:00 is fine by me, plus! I can put the kids to bed earlier without them calling BS on account of it's only 6:30. Also the day it happened, and the kids woke me up at bullshit-o'clock, my idea of going out to breakfast was a good one (that didn't end up working out all that well, but that was for logistical and interpersonal reasons, not lack of validity). Thanksgiving -- the best holiday -- is coming, I'm already ordering Christmas presents, and the season of baking has begun. November: The Awesomest Month!