When I was still in The Pit, enjoying the interactions I had with a handful of sane music business homies, I often entertained a scenario where a snorkel of voracious, pissed-off weasels methodically skinned her alive, leaving her ravaged, bleeding form to get all manner of unwanted attention by creatures in the forest, who take their janitorial duties quite seriously.  To be honest, that’s too good for her.  Some people who are reading this post, can attest to a lot of what I’ve been saying about her since 2002, and I will attempt to communicate my memories of that. Essentially, we were at war with one another, not just work-wise, but creatively, business savvy (she had it all over me on that), and every single worldview to which each of us clung up to this very day).

This is someone who used the collective office phone to have a raucous conversation with a sales rep about she would have no clue on how to live on a $20-30K yearly budget, where all of her employees who were managing just that, listened on in disgust.  This is someone who began threatening me with termination if, for the next 6 months, I had to drop out of work for even a half day.  Aunt Tudi's doc appointments were a mess to reschedule and find other transport if I couldn't figure out how to work around the situation.  On top of that, since my cube was right outside her office door, I was always the first one she'd come to each morning to say "G'mooooooorneeeeeeuuuunnn" and pretend civility.

And she loved to stand outside my cube and laud conservatives and everything they've ever done.  One of our bitchiest fights was one night, when we were working over on promo campaigns, news came on the radio that Ronald Reagan had finally dropped dead.  The Mistress had a sad.  I said, "Thank fucking god.  It's about time that piece of shit dropped dead.  The world suddenly seems lighter and happier."  She was scandalised, and began chanting all the good things he supposedly did for America.  I shut her arse down with no mercy when I interrupted her to state that I was part Jewish and to watch a POTUS lay wreaths on SS officers graves after doing a PR tour of Bergen Belsen.  "I was glad when I found out he was losing what little fucking mind he had, and I'm glad he's dead.  I hope he suffered before the end, and I hope he's rotting in hell now."

We didn't speak for a couple of days.

Then a few months later, she was complaining about all the immigrants to me and the lady behind me, Joanie, who is Laotian.  Being appropriate is a foreign concept to the Feudal Mistress.  I let her say her self-inflated piece, which she ended by saying:  "Besides, if they want to come into this country, they need to speak its language!"

To which I replied, "Oh, wow!  I didn't know you could speak Cherokee!  Let's hear you say something."

I was rewarded with two more days of peace and quiet. Before I left BMG, I purchased a special tee shirt I wanted to wear in a photograph with the Feudal Mistress. Politically, she may be a 9-volt battery, but she was pretty sharp when it came to passive-aggressive innuendo.The expression on our faces say it, don't you think?  What I want to try to write about regarding our ongoing war that ended with the day the tee shirt I bought specifically to have a farewell taken with the Feudal Mistress, leaving no doubt in her mind that the entire front of my body is screaming murderdeathkill in a mild-mannered public service announcement.  Whoever said that a picture speaks a thousand words should be honoured, or sainted, or given a So Good and True You Are, We Wish to Bestow upon Your Person, this Cliché Master's Medal of Honour.

"What is this all about?" You might ask.

Honestly, I haven't felt this Sithly in a way too long.  Maybe the Duggars are good for something after all.