the tale of pervy magoo

Mandy asked for it so I’m going to share a little storytime across the ocean to her in Spain and to all of you wherever you are. 🙂

This is the tale of a man who was my boss for all of 3 months, aka the dirty old man, aka Pervy Magoo, aka blurp I just threw up a little in my mouth. For this storytime though we’ll refer to him as Mickey because, well, his name was Mickey and he was a dirty asshat and I have no interest in keeping his identity a secret because that would be no fun now would it?

Oh where to start….

I was living in my first city apartment by myself, working in a salon out in the ‘burbs and not nearly making enough money to support mine and Princess’s expensive habits of, you know, eating food and paying rent. So I approached my boss at the salon one day – we went and sat outside together, each lit a cigarette and sat on the curb and she asked me what was up, probably worrying that I was about to quit. I had planned on asking her for some way to make more money through the salon, which is actually kinda hard to do when you’re strictly making commission. I had gone into the conversation strong with my shoulders back and my chin held high knowing I wasn’t too proud to beg, but I ended up having one of those horribly embarrassing conversation where within seconds I was sobbing out big fat tears and had no idea where they came from or how ugly they were going to actually get until I was practically rolling around in the dirt in the fetal position. I hate when that happens. I was blurting out details about my dumb-as-a-box-of-rocks boyfriend and the high price of milk these days and how my puppy didn’t like being poor and how I could hear my landlord farting through the floor every morning and other various things that had nothing to do with my original point which was that I really just needed a slightly fatter wallet so I could stop asking my daddy for money at 28-years-old.

And with a deer in headlights look on her face, my boss mentioned that a long-time client of the salon’s was a self-made millionaire – he had his own company and she thought he might have been looking for an assistant so she said she would give him my info to see if he could help me out somehow.

Well that could certainly work.

So he called and I went to his office to meet him and discuss how I could help him help me kick-start Operation-Jaime-Needs-a-Bigger-Purse-for-Her-Wads-and-Wads-of-Monay. He was really old. He had long white eyebrows. He smelled like mothballs. He was a fast talker and he actually thought he was God’s gift to women. He wasn’t exactly sure what my role would be but his squeaky wheels were a spinning and he said he’d definitely be willing to help, there were things around the office that needed doing and I was just the person he was looking for. He was willing to pay me more money than I’d ever made in my life. And give me free health insurance. And pay off half of my ridiculously high debt. And…wait, why are you waving a red flag over there?

Eh, nevermind.

So I started the next week. The first job duty he gave me when I walked in that morning and every morning after that was to make him a cup of coffee…

  1. grab mug out of cabinet
  2. open big bottle of Bailey’s Irish Cream
  3. pour into mug and repeat after me – cawwww-feeeeee

Sha, I like an alcoholic beverage just as much as the next guy buddy though my 6am binges are usually reserved for the periodic Sunday morning hair of the dog moments when I feel like I’m going to vomit or die. But whatever, I don’t judge, especially when you’re paying me buttloads of money. So everyday I got him his coffee and he got tipsy. And after his coffee, my daily duties consisted of tracking cargo from China which I got really good at pretending to know how to do, picking up lunch on his dime, answering calls and bullshitting my way through phone conversations about foam planters and glazes and rail shipments. And no less than twice a day he’d call me into his office to show me the latest email he had been sent by one of his friends. The emails were always inappropriate and not my cup of tea but hey, I have a sense of humor, though they were usually stupid jokes, sometimes offensive or sexist and as long as he was the person signing my paychecks I pretended to find the emails funny while he laughed his drunk ass off and slapped me on the arm with his liver-spotted hand like I was one of his crusty old buds.

And after about a month of humoring the old guy in exchange for some free health insurance and a big fat paycheck, Princess and I had graduated from Michaelina’s $1 frozen meals to $5 Stouffer’s salisbury steaks and pudding and enjoyed not having to decide which utility company was going to be the lucky one to get a check from me that month. All in all it was all going pretty well.

And then gradually I found myself looking past more and more things that made me cringe or gag or want to roll my eyes, things I’d call my sister about on my way home and spew about; conversations that frequently started with “you won’t believe what he did today…” Things like the fact that while he was talking to me he’d pick at a spot on his balding flaky head with his super short nubby nails on his big fat fingers until the spot would bleed and then it would scab overnight and he’d do it again the next day and the next and he’d end up with all these disgusting little black scabs that would get stuck to the few thick wiry hairs he had left on his wrinkly noggin. Paints a lovely picture, doesn’t it? Or the fact that for some strange reason once in a while he’d be talking to me and his gums would start bleeding and he wouldn’t know it so I’d be sitting there mortified that his head was a big scab and his teeth were all bloody while he told some stupid story about the last time he visited the factory in China and got a happy ending from a masseuse and his wife had no idea and he’d start laughing and I’d shudder inside for the poor masseuse on the other end of that horrible deal and hope to God the encounter was enough to make her turn to a life of nunnery. Or the times he’d make inappropriate comments like that he wanted to meet my mom after she worked out because he really likes his women in sports bras all dirty and sweaty. And let’s not forget about the time we were leaving at the end of the day and he wished me a happy father’s day weekend because clearly I’m a father and he gave me a big hug and kissed my hair.

But then things got even more weird and uncomfortable. He was dead serious when he sat me down and told me I needed to break up with my boyfriend because I had no business being in a relationship with that guy, which was funny considering he had never met him. He was right but that’s completely beside the fact. And when my grandmother died, he yelled at me for asking to take a few days off to travel to Colorado for her funeral. And overtime I eventually found myself being called into his office so he could pull up nasty videos of women doing things that would basically make a prostitute blush, things that had me dreaming of chugging that bottle of Bailey’s in the kitchen instead of standing next to my 75-year-old boss while he had his scabby drool-covered face practically glued to the nakedness on his computer monitor.

The last straw, the kicker, the day I should have finally just slapped him hard across his withered ugly mug was the day he tried to get a little too close for my comfort. It wasn’t anything major but it was enough of an invasion of my circle of safety to walk out of that office for the last time, resign via email, and never see him again despite the fact that someone rang my doorbell later that night. While I know it was him trying to hunt me down to smooth things over, I didn’t bother to open the door. He called nonstop for a few days and I didn’t answer my phone. He tried to withhold my last paycheck and I threatened to sue him. He claimed I owed him for my health insurance premium and I had proof that I didn’t. He said he’d come after me for the money he put towards my debt and I told him I’d like to see him try. He showed up at the salon the next weekend looking for me and I hid around the corner listening to him trying to convince my boss that I had gone crazy and he was really worried about me because I had lost my damn mind. Luckily she knew me better than that.

And to this day, I have no idea what happened to him though since this is my story to tell….Pervy picked his face off and died.

The end.



Filed under ridiculousness

5 responses to “the tale of pervy magoo

  1. Dude. I’m sorry you had to live it, but that was a pretty hilarious story. What a creep!

  2. Ahhh! I love this story and thank you SO much for telling it for me. It reminds me of a time when I was a housemaid for a creepy old german man who happened to have handcuffs chained to his bed and pictures of naked penises all over his house. He wouldn’t pay me until I counted my cash out in German. Ah, memories!

    I think the thing I love most about odd jobs like this are all of the awesome stories that come out of them. They make us into better characters, don’t you think?

  3. Oh wow. I wouldn’t have slapped him, but shot him instead. But I live in Texas, and we do things like that. (Not that I murder people, but we’re big on defending ourselves via firearms. I like pistols, myself, but my dad wants me to start carrying a rifle in my car. :/ )

    I loved your ending though; maybe he did pick his face off, or he bled to death because of his gums……..

  4. Wow, just wow! Sounds like a horrible boss, and such a gross person. Eww, the bloody scabs and teeth would have make me quit right then!

    The ending was the best part though. 🙂

  5. Pingback: do what you love | rabit stew

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