A few, few minutes ago in an agency not so far, far away, lived a disgruntled young capitalistic serf, minding his own business, oogling and Google-ing his woes away when a waft of the winds of fate made him gag in a most foreshadowy way. Something was awry, askewed and screwed and it was most likely him. After a lungful of crap and a mouthful of regurgitation, agitation reeked its head as the whistle of a clenched jaw signaled the tea kettle explosion that the infamous El Cheezo donned for a head.
El Cheezo was not by anyways related to any type of dairy products and his mood was far from soft and fromaggie. His stench had the potency of cheese, but the tar and nic level of the Marlboro Man’s kidney juice. Seriously, if a fart had a thought pattern and a say in this, it would have at least wept at the stench. Stomp, stomp, STOMP STOMPPP… there charged El Cheezo, bloodshot veins in his cockeye, barely discernible gums, teeth sporting the latest yellow motif and a manila envelope in hand.
In his path? The ever calm Soppy Copy. Chewing Cherry Cola gum and downing his second cup of tea, even though one shouldn’t ever under any circumstance eat at one’s desk; regardless of the lettuce traces betraying some former owner from the floor.
“Soppy.” Gargled a most Mike Wattish voice as a blast of onion, ass, old meat and a hint of Viceroy cigarettes teared the eyes of the still in the dark copywriter. “Where’s my ad?”
“What ad Mr. Cheezo?” responded Soppy in a hesitant voice. Hesitant only because of the gag factor although the great Cheezo in his cock flailing ways probably thought it was his mucho macho bravado that had people cowering. Somehow smoking too much, eating poorly, disregarding genuine hygiene and bathing in Drakkar provoked the same reaction. Actually, the Drakkar is enough, but when doesn’t a prick higher up love to perform overkill.
“The one that had to come with this job?” Said Cheezo as Soppy ignored the flying debris being dislodged at point blank.
“Mr. Cheezo? This job asks for only a concept. No ad, no due date, not much of anything else.” Replied Soppy.
“Dammit Soppy!!!!” Roared the Nico-Troll. “What do I pay you for? I need an ad to present today! You have to read in between the lines!!!”
“Well I would sir, but it’s kind of hard to read between the lines?” Responded Soppy as he prepped for his real delivery.
“And why’s that Soppy?” questioned the Head Account Supervisor.
“Well for starters, the job only has one line, so I can’t very well do as you request.” … Booyakasha.
The tension could have popped a coke can, but lucky for Soppy, labor laws exist and a lawsuit is the last thing our stinky divorcé needs just now.
“Listen Soppy.” Said Cheezo as he dropped his guard, unfortunately his stench prevailed. “I need this ad before 12 because I have a meeting with the client and she’s expecting an ad, unless you want Beatrix to sit beside you for another ad.”
Checkmate. Soppy was not about to let the geriatrically promiscuous Beatrix back within reach of him. For those who don’t know, Beatrix Blowfellows (AKA Bitchy Beatrix) was a most unprized client of the vilest kind. Her company was small and annoying paying $10 in advance and the rest when she got her allowance from her trophy loving ex husband who had paid for her twenty five operations during their marriage and who now prayed for a malpractice with each of her additional twenty procedures post divorce. In reality, she's Tupperware with tits, fake tits at that and her 71 advances to Soppy had gone noticed and rejected by the young professional although his recently memoed art director had no problems in risking the papercuts and VD’s when he banged her in the broom closet …at a company party… with no condom… and no ideas that crabs could feed of collagen pussy lips and be such a pain… especially when they spread to his quasi beard … and later fall on the Creative Directors Chicken Caesar salad… while he was eating it.
“Fine. Let me see which art director is free to see if I can help you out.” He’d yielded for anything was better than being near Bitchy Beatrix.
“That’s the spirit Soppy.“
“But it might be done a little later than 12, just so you know.”
The Velveeta smile turned to a scowl as the midlife crisissed smoke shack had heard a but, and not the type he enjoyed ogling at.
“I need it by 12.” Growled the bossy buccaneer.
“It’s 11.” Responded Soppy. “Plus, what’s going to be in the ad?”
“Soppy, don’t be difficult, I need this ad done by 12.” Belched that tobacco loving cromagnon.
“Not being difficult, we don’t know what has to go in the copy, what has to go in the visual plus I don’t have an art director to help me out. Remember, I’m a copy writer, not an artist.”
“Oh yeah?” Spat big Cheezo. “Then what about those ads you did a few weeks ago? You did the artwork.”
“Wrong again sir. I revised the layouts. I didn’t do anything from scratch.”
“So what’s the difference?”
“Hmmm… how do I put this so you can understand… Ok, you know how a coloring book already has the lines traced? It’s the same. I filled in the blanks with different colors. That’s it. I wrote my copy, changed the font and tada: that’s the wonderful art I did.”
“Exactly.” Retardedly retorted the rheumatic ringer.
“So you can do it. I’ll be waiting at my office. Before 12 pm ok.”
“Huh? What part of it might not be done for 12 don’t you understand?”
“I’ll call you in fifteen to see how you’re going with the artwork.”
And with an about face El Cheezo was gone.... When had Soppy consented or even agreed to anything? When had there been a genuine dialogue? When exactly had the knife been buried in his back? Hmmph.... So it seems that as long as an exec or higher up convinces his or herself of hearing something, that’s exactly what reality is. Go figure. And here we are trying to make sense of it all when schizophrenics truly get their way by bitching and whining enough.
“I think I need a vacation.” Sobbed Soppy.
A crash of the door later and the smell of old battery acid and goat cheese enters.
“What’d I miss?” Says the mangy creature known as Siam Copycat.
“Your mother’s asshole when you were unfortunately conceived. Plus I have to work.”
Scratch, scratch, scratch.
“I think my fabric softener was expired.”
“No numnuts, that would just be your taste in women or the Crab Cream for your nutsack.”
“What the hell got into you?” Retorted the pubically disheveled artist.
“El Cheezo came by and fisted me with a job that has to be done in less than an hour; that’s what.” Complained Soppy.
“Oh that…” Hesitated Siam.
“That?” contested Soppy. “What’s that? What’s so as-a-matter-o-fuckly that?”
“I’d spoken to Cheezo and told him I’d have that ready for today.” Spindled the nitwit.
“Ok so where is it?” Soppy raged on.
“Ummm… haven’t had time to do it?” Said Siam.
“You mean you haven’t spoken to an artist yet?”
“Lovely. And now I’m the one who gets shafted?” Don’t even tell me when you spoke with Cheezo because I know that it was at least two days ago when I handed the job in early.“ Said Soppy as he held his head in his arms.
“Seriously, there’s a few things I’d like you to get in touch with dipshit.” Instructed Soppy. “First. Never ever make any decisions. If you can’t decide over Vanilla or Fudge, call me because you can’t even use your brain for that. Second off, next time anyone wants to discuss business with you? Don’t. You’re an idiot and your mere existence is the crutch 90% of the executives use to fuck me over. Third, stop fucking the VD ridden disgusting old hoe, Venereal Vinnie has been doing her and I'm scared you'll breathe and get me infected. Fourth, maintain a distance of two meters from me. Meaning that if I’m working here, you can take your laptop someplace else.”
Silence ensued and Soppy was hard at work trying to make a design work when it really didn’t. Make the logo bigger, put the tagline. Big logo. A swirl here. “Fuck off Siam”. A retouch here. Drag this file onto the Illustrator doc… and … and… oh no… please don’t… no don’t… don’t crash… please don’t crash. YOU PIECE OF SHITTTTTTTTTT……………………………………………… start over.
Click, click, clickety click, click, click.
“Fuckit! It’s a bad ad, but it’s an ad.”
Soppy runs up three flights of stairs, three lefts, one right, straight away and to the corner office this shithead does not deserve.
‘Be back in five minutes, bathroom break’.
Ok to not be at your desk when you’ve rushed someone is bad enough. When you’ve done it because you had to take a shit break, that’s understandable. But letting everyone know about it? Priceless. Soppy sits, and waits… and waits… and waits… and waits… and waits some more. Twenty five minutes pass and disgruntled is little for what he’s feeling. He storms out of the office and lo and behold, there he is. El Cheezo in full blown harassment mode as he is trying to convince a sweet young intern to let him guide her to success.. more like Suck-cess (cess being the poorly written acronym Mr. Cheezo the Copy god came up with: Cock Erect Sliming Semen). This time Soppy stomps towards his nicotinic assailer and hands him over the two options of artwork.
“Oh Soppy.” Said Cheezo as he patted Soppy on the shoulder with the unwashed hands of someone who is not that good at keeping shit out of his nails after wiping, surely a delicious snack in between meetings. “This is Julie, our media intern. I was just talking about showing her the ropes.”
Cheezo said this while winking his eye, no doubt signaling his desire for screwing her quite virgin third eye. She had to be like nineteen, surely a fetish for the powerfully rich. His cool guy tone indicated he was trying to smooth talk the poor gal, who was already looking green from the combination of ass, Drakkar, aged bratwurst, more ass and the ever present nicotine stench. Soppy felt sorry for her. He hated his position but he much preferred it to hers.
“Hi.” She said in a defeated manner.
“Nice to meet you Julie, glad to have you with us and hope you enjoy your stay in stress central, lord knows my Colon isn’t.”
She giggled as Soppy always took it upon himself to try and cheer up the helpless. Now looking to Cheezo.
“Here’s your ad.” He almost spat as he thrust the artwork over.
“Oh I’m not going to need this anymore.” He said nonchalantly as he threw the papers away.
“What?” said Soppy as the proverbial fly buzzed in and out of his stupefied mouth.
“I talked to the client, said that again our team hadn’t delivered and she canceled the ad.”
The variety of things to scream at the prick was mind boggling. He wouldn’t even know where to begin. He wanted to scream and cry and rip the diplomatically untouchable fuckface a new asshole. He wanted to go postal yet he maintained his composure if not for staying out of jail but for taking the high road in front of the young intern that was expecting fireworks any second now. But he didn’t blow up, he just turned around and walked away about ten paces until he heard the prick once more.
“See? That’s how you have to treat creatives. Keep them in line.” He said while massive dollops of pheromones were crashing against the young interns face.
Soppy turned heel, headed back to Cheezo and stood three inches from him while maintaining his voice calm.
“I’m going to have lunch. Next time you talk to Siam, shaft him with the work you won’t show, won't even look at, won't explain, won't defend, or much less comprehend. A word to the wise though: karma’s a bitch. And a request from the wiser than thou: wash your hands after going to the bathroom, if the smell isn’t enough to give you away, your fingernails are evidence enough that wiping cleanly is not a talent you posess.”
And he stormed off, blood pressure 160/100 but satisfied with having put his job in peril to stick up for himself. Cheezo was blubbering at the outburst, caught in the spotlight as the young lass had managed to notice a sesame seed or two lodged in his ring finger nail… his favorite to chew on post shits.
“and don’t play it off as if you ate Indian food. We know better.” Screamed Soppy as the stair doors slammed behind him and another piece of archive worthy moments had just been logged in the not so wonderful world of Job-job.