A meeting with management

I haven't written anything in a month. As such, my boss, Martin Coley, has been less than pleased with my performance. Being a spite-filled sack of vitriol, he invited me (demanded, really) to meet with him last Sunday. As such, I was also less than pleased. It went a little something like this:

Martin: What the fuck, Harvey!

Marty likes to start with exploratory questions. He also likes to emphasize each word in a sentence, as though his query's chance of resolution was directly proportional to the volume of his voice. He was and is a loud, angry motherfucker.

Harvey: Look, I know what you're going to say and--
Martin: Where is your FUCKING copy? You have spent a whole month fucking the dog you dog fucker.

It stands to reason that dog fuckers fuck the dog.

Martin: Fuck. The last time you wrote something was a month ago. And it was contemplative HORSE SHIT. What is the fucking matter with you? I asked for funny! You shit fuck.

He paused, searching for the perfect word.

Martin: Fuck! Just-- I want something funny and I want it fucking yesterday!

Martin's brand of abuse is truly exquisite. I wish I could meet with him more often.

Harvey: Right. Look, Martin, I have been working on stuff. I have a few ideas that--
Martin: You're working on shit, you shit-faced fuck. I'm not paying you to come up with ideas! I want production! Do you hear me?
Harvey: Uh, you're actually not paying me--
Martin: Always fucking excuses! Fuck! How hard is it to fucking write something? Jesus fucking Christ! Get off your fucking ass, and fucking write! What's the fucking problem? Christ almighty. This is why I beat my fucking wife.

I didn't know how to respond to this.

Harvey: Right.

Martin did not appreciate my lacklustre response.

Martin: You shit stain. You fucking cum-guzzling... fuck, I'll beat... you've been wasting my--

Anticipating the steam building up behind his dark eyes, and predicting an explosion of Vesuvian proportions, I interrupted him.

Harvey: No, no, listen. Marty. I have have been working on some ideas. Here.

At this point, I produced a stack of loose graph paper from my bag. It was mostly half-written stories, some abstracts, ideas -- lots of ideas -- for things to write. I handed him the wrinkled stack, and some casual advice.

Harvey: Also, have you considered some relaxation therapy? Maybe light some scented candles in here?

Martin ignores my facetious query and rifles through my notes. I'm usually loathe to give someone access to my undigested thoughts and ideas, but Martin was about four seconds from complete melt-down. I thought this might help prevent an aneurysm. I was wrong.

Martin spent a few moments (four seconds) reviewing the sheets in his fat, angry fists. His knuckles turned white. Nuclear winter was upon us.

Martin: What the fuck. What the fuck is this shit?

He began to read out the titles from my sheets with a voice so heavy with disgust, you would have thought he just ate a brick of shit.

Martin: "The problem with pogroms"? "Ships, passing"? "I'm so hungry for a hot tranny"? What is this shit?
Harvey: Actually, that last one is an epistolary--
Martin: I don't even know what that means, Harvey; that means it's shit. I hate this. I can't publish this! The "Aroma of Neutrogena"? Is this fucking poetry?
Harvey: Well, I'm not sure if you're familiar with Haiku but--
Martin: I don't give a rusty fuck, you fucking hack. I've shit out better ideas than this --on holiday.

Is this a figure of speech somewhere? He threw the sheets of rumpled graph paper across his desk in my direction.

Martin: You are going to fucking write something tonight, you fucking fuck of a fuck. I want to hear a good idea. Now.

I paused briefly to appreciate the glorious redundancy and rhythm of "fucking fuck of a fuck". But Martin really wasn't digging my lack of progress. I had to think quickly.

Harvey: Uh, I'm working on a sitcom about a gangster robot.

Martin froze when he heard this. I knew he liked robots. I think, just for a second, his molten fury subsided.

Martin: Go on.

Having called my bluff, I continued to improvise.

Harvey: Well, it's about this robot, who looks exactly human, except the scientist making him accidentally...

I pause, and think.

Harvey:...pops a tape of some BET shows into... his language programming... er, program...

I'm sweating at this point. This idea and its associated explanation sucked so bad.

Harvey:...and repeated exposure to Comic View starts to make the robot... "gangstalicious".

(It was either that or "ghetto fabulous". I stand by my choice.) I struggled to conclude:

Harvey: It's fun for the whole family!

I felt sick. Martin paused briefly and seemed to consider my proposal; shitty though it was. The office was quiet except for his hypertension breathing, and my finger tapping on the arms of the office chair. I was actually slightly relieved when he spoke.

Martin: Get the fuck out of my office. And write something you piece of shit. Fucking Christ on a pogo stick. You're a motherfuckin--

Before he could finish, I stood up, got the hell out of his office, ran back home, and wrote something. A meeting with management is always inspiring.