Bosslady: Have a seat.
Me: Thanks. Jesus…you look great.
Bosslady: Thank you. But that is extremely inappropriate.
Me: No seriously. My God: you really are attractive.
Bosslady: Even more inappropriate, and you are not getting a raise, so you can stop.
Me: Fair enough. You’ve got shit in your teeth.
Bosslady: As you know, we asked you to comment on and annotate a selection of our students’ papers.
Me: Yes ma’am.
Bosslady: In last week’s summary you compared our students’ collective writing ability to that of monkeys.
Me: Well, not exactly.
Bosslady: And I quote: “Your students’ dearth of writing ability yields worse than results than what would likely happen if you could convince the masturbating simians down at the zoo to let go of their weird little wangs and bang on a keyboard for a few minutes.”
Me: Yes, that sounds like a much more specific summary of what you underpaid me to read last week.
Bosslady: I’ve been reading along as you’ve made your annotations for today.
Me: You can do that?
Bosslady: Bet your ass.
Bosslady: Indeed. Again, I quote: “The student has achieved nothing by this writing except the arousal of deep contempt in the heart of any poor soul unfortunate enough to set eyes on this turd of an essay.”
Me: What remarkable prose. Damn I’m good. Too harsh, though, is what you’re saying here?
Bosslady: [flipping pages] As commentary on this paper, you opted out of actual words and simply used the poop emoji.
Me: Well, if the poo fits, which, in this case, if you’re honest, you simply have to admit that it does. Like a glove. A big shitty glove. Made of shit. Like the essay itself. My commentary was perfect.
Bosslady: [flipping pages] Ah…here we go: “This student has a very bright and promising future in the composition of ransom notes.”
Me: Did you see that “essay?” Absolute pablum.
Bosslady: [flipping pages perniciously] “One gets the impression that this poor student is laboring away under the unfortunate misconception that he or she will be charged allowance money for each punctuation mark used and has thus decided against using any of it. At all. Whatsoever.”
Me: That was my honest opinion.
Bosslady: These are 7-year-old children, Mr. Gallaway.
Me: Don’t try to make excuses for them, Bosslady. I had the 5-paragraph essay dialed by the time I was 6. But okay…maybe I was a little harsh. But these were before lunch. Some pretty ghastly things were going on with my physiology, blood-sugar-wise, so I may have been a tad harsh.
Bosslady: Here. “This three-sentence abortion of an essay is a most rancid example of the defects and shortcomings presently plaguing the entire educational system of the United States and its evidently dismally illiterate youth.”
Me: Again, in fairness, pre-lunch.
Bosslady: [picking up a paper she had evidently already set aside for special attention] On this paper, which, granted, seems to be just three unpunctuated sentences, you actually wrote, in writing, the following commentary: “Much like the student who wrote it, this essay is completely underdeveloped and has yet to even have its first period.”
Me: That is absolute genius. Do you know what you’re paying me? And I’m giving you that? My god, woman, you must be out of your tree.
Bosslady: And you, sir, are out of a job.
Me: You smell like butter. Like, all the time. Everybody talks about it. You smell exactly like stale movie popcorn butter.
Bosslady: Get out.
Me: And you still got shit in your teeth. Looks like spinach. Probably from that salad you were grazing on at lunch.
Bosslady: Get out.