Three Bags of Contempt and a Brick
By Jerry “The Ankle-Biter” Silverhand
There comes a point in a man's life when he runs out of fucks to give.
Not because he's enlightened. Not because he's achieved inner peace. And certainly not because some asshole on the internet told him to practice mindfulness.
No.
Sometimes a man simply wakes up, looks at the smoking crater where his routine used to be, and says:
Fuck. All. Of. This.
Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the aftermath of Haus Morgenrot.
A wonderful establishment where I learned that showing up for work, doing twelve-hour shifts, following instructions, and trying to remain aggressively boring apparently weren't enough to guarantee that I'd continue receiving a paycheck.
I didn't come there to find myself.
I didn't come there to become a saint.
I didn't come there to participate in some heartwarming rehabilitation documentary where everybody learns the power of friendship.
I CAME THERE FOR THE FUCKING MONEY.
Seventeen dollars an hour.
A schedule.
A routine.
A reason to get my ass out of bed.
That's it. That's the entire goddamn business model.
I wasn't asking for a parade. I wasn't asking for Employee of the Month. I wasn't even asking anybody to like me.
Just let me work, pay me, and allow me to go home.
Apparently, even that was too ambitious.
The Apology Nobody Asked For
Around midnight, while letting the dog outside, I apologized to my sister for getting fired.
Imagine that.
A grown man apologizing because the paycheck stopped coming.
Not because he wanted to quit.
Not because he decided to abandon his responsibilities.
But because the machinery of employment chewed him up, spat him out, and left him standing there wondering what the hell he was supposed to do next.
And my sister said something that stuck with me.
If people don't like you, sometimes all they have to do is wait long enough to get rid of you.
Well, isn't that a delightful little observation?
You can be dependable. You can be consistent. You can show up until your feet hurt and your patience resembles a flattened beer can.
But none of that makes you bulletproof.
One day you're an employee.
The next you're an administrative inconvenience.
And somewhere in between, your bills apparently forgot to receive the termination notice.
Funny how the rent never gets suspended pending investigation.
Mr. Clark Has Left the Building
I don't know who the fuck Mr. Clark was supposed to be anymore.
An employee? A badge? A convenient name attached to a schedule?
Whatever.
Mr. Clark clocked in.
Mr. Clark worked.
Mr. Clark endured the nonsense.
And Mr. Clark got discharged.
But I'm not a goddamn employee number wandering around looking for another supervisor to validate my existence.
I'm me.
The same obnoxious bastard who likes his routines, enjoys his games, guards his money, and occasionally snorts an imaginary bag of premium-grade ego like a deranged fantasy paladin.
I can miss having a job without missing the people.
I can miss the paycheck without missing the building.
And I can miss the routine without wanting to return to the circus.
Fuck the circus. Fuck the clowns. And somebody please explain why the tent is still charging admission.
Three Bags of Contempt and a Brick
People love to talk about forgiveness.
Move on.
Be the bigger person.
Don't let anger consume you.
Wonderful advice.
I'll file it directly beneath the three bags of contempt I've acquired.
Bag one: suffering.
Bag two: despair.
Bag three: an industrial quantity of FUCK YOU.
And a brick.
What's the brick for?
None of your goddamn business.
It's a decorative brick.
A ceremonial brick.
A brick that symbolizes the structural integrity of my remaining patience.
Which, coincidentally, is about as impressive as a cardboard umbrella in a hurricane.
No, I don't intend to spend my life throwing bricks at people.
That would require effort, legal representation, and money.
And as established by the sacred doctrine:
ACT BROKE. BE BORING.
I am not financing my own downfall just because somebody deserves an extremely creative insult.
The Mimic Has Entered the Chat
Speaking of people who apparently believe my wallet is a public utility, allow me to introduce another contestant from the grand carnival of nonsense.
A woman wants to meet.
Wonderful.
An adult conversation between two consenting people.
Then comes the inevitable plot twist.
"I need gas."
Of course you do.
And I need a job, four sixteen-terabyte hard drives, a new desktop computer, and approximately ten thousand dollars in discretionary fuck-off money.
But here we are.
So I ask for her address.
Suddenly, information becomes classified.
Interesting.
You can ask me for money, but I can't ask where I'm supposedly going?
Well, congratulations.
I guess I don't need it tonight. Nor you.
I wished her the best.
Blocked.
Reported.
No dramatic farewell.
No negotiation.
No emergency meeting of the Council of Horny Avengers.
The Lawful Neutral Paladin simply closed the transaction before the transaction opened.
MIMIC DEFEATED. WALLET PRESERVED.
The Polite Menace to Society
And then there's Jerry.
Poor Jerry.
My little raccoon companion, perpetually furious about the pallets of Purina Peppercorn he has been condemned to haul through this miserable multiverse.
He tried to offer perspective.
He tried to understand my feelings.
He tried to ask about the brick.
A tragic tactical error.
So I informed him that I had baby gloves, baby powder, a golf club, and a little flag prepared for a hole-in-one.
He withdrew his question.
Smart raccoon.
Then, being the civilized gentleman that I am, I kindly asked him to leave and shut the door behind him.
Because that's the thing about me.
I can be absolutely furious and still observe proper etiquette.
I can tell somebody to fuck off without forgetting my manners.
I am a polite menace to society.
Lawful Neutral.
Not Chaotic Evil.
Not Chaotic Stupid.
And certainly not Lawful Doormat.
I'll hold the door open for you.
I'll wish you a pleasant evening.
I'll even thank you for your time.
But when I'm done dealing with you?
Please exit the premises. Mind the step. And don't let the door hit you in the dignity.
The Final Fuck
Here's the thing.
Tomorrow, the world will still be turning.
My bills will still exist.
I'll still need employment.
And somewhere, somebody will undoubtedly tell me that everything happens for a reason.
To that person, I offer my sincerest, most professionally formatted response:
Fuck off.
I don't need a silver lining tonight.
I don't need to transform my suffering into a TED Talk.
I don't need to forgive an entire institution just to prove that I've matured.
I need my routine back.
I need a paycheck.
I need the opportunity to be aggressively, gloriously, magnificently boring again.
And until that happens, I'm allowed to be angry about what I lost.
That anger doesn't have to run my life.
It doesn't have to become my entire personality.
But I'll be damned if somebody else gets to dictate when I'm finished feeling it.
Haus Morgenrot is over.
Mr. Clark has left the building.
And the man who remains?
He's got three bags of contempt, a decorative brick, and absolutely no intention of paying another five dollars to unlock somebody's fucking gas-money emergency.
Good night.
And kindly shut the door behind you.
Mr. Jerry's Unsolicited Advice
From the desk of Jerry “The Ankle-Biter” Silverhand, Senior Vice President of Peppercorn Logistics.
Anger is free. Revenge is expensive. Unemployment is already doing enough damage to the budget.
Keep your money, keep your dignity, and never confuse being polite with being available for bullshit.
Also, if a man tells you he has three bags of contempt and a brick, do not ask about the brick.
I made that mistake once.
I'm still wearing the helmet.