Just relax and take it in an inch at a time . . . .

Probably the only high point of working Saturday – other than the worthless, incompetent, favorite-playing Limey supervisor that Great Britain was smart enough to chase from their shores to Southwest Virginia and my workplace – was the fat, stupid bastard who embarassed himself in front of about 50 fellow call representatives.

No, not me. I’m a fat, hateful bastard.

The fat, stupid bastard I’m referring to already has a Nero and movie-character ‘Fat Bastard’ reputation. Back in January, when management saw fit in their infinite wisdom to hold a cookout right at the time we get our Alberta clipper, FSB (not to be confused with moi, FHB) terrorized four of us as we were waiting in line inside for a tray of burnt offerings to be grilled and brought to the buffet line. As we stood polite and drone-like, the ‘chef’ brought in the burgers and placed them at the serving table.

Two seconds later, Jabba the Hutt with a crewcut burst in, yelled ‘FOOD!’ and cut in front of us. Thankfully, no one had limbs within a foot of the tray, but we all agreed later that about 8 to 10 patties disappeared in his wake.

Fast forward to Sept. 1, 2007: FSB and two other women are discussing whether or not to order pizza delivery (I doubted that there was enough Teamster and sealift capacity around to serve him, but I digress.)

One of the women suggests – without giggling – that they order a large pizza. FSB asks how big it is. She replies ‘Sixteen inches.’

FSB blurts out “SIXTEEN INCHES? THAT’S TOO BIG FOR MEEEE!!!”

I know that at least 10 people laughed their asses off within three seconds of his remark. I was one.

If I ever get wind that he’s ordered a pizza, I’m going to wait out front for the delivery guy and slip him $10 to include a tube of KY or Astroglide in the box.