Let’s face it, Schlomo is a twat. I’ve known it for a while, perhaps I was even in denial about Schlomo being a twat. I’ve written about it a few times using a different name, a different term but I think Schlomo is the way to go.

I’ve already changed the name again since I did work with a good guy in the nineties at Right Track Recording with the same name and I did not want to denigrate him. And just checking on a previous post I noticed I used Schlomo since he isn’t a friend to Semites, just to add some sand under the foreskin.

I get hung up on names in this blog thing. Re-reading some entries from the cigar shack days or even Wanker Banker I have no idea who I was writing about. So Schlomo is Schlomo. Schlomo loves reggae music and is fond of mentioning that he loves reggae and has never gotten high.

Like he’s looking for a pat on the back or a medal. “Isn’t Schlomo special?” was never said by anyone, even when he was a child getting on the short bus in Suriname. I’ve had to listen to his bullshit for over a year now and it’s been reduced considerably since I no longer sit by his office listening to him fart all day.

The whole coat rack fiasco was the tip off and I got it then and had to deal with it. And I dealt with it admirably. Today was just awful dealing with Schlomo. Once again I was in early and set about my day. I printed out all the pdf’s. Hundreds of pages, sorted, stapled, and tabbed, with corresponding FedEx labels (yellow card).

I did it all and was finished with that task before noon. Schlomo used to set those pdf’s up and it would take forever. Now I do it, before I leave for the night, setting it up for my morning task. And if more pdf’s arrive, then Schlomo can use his sausage fingers to make those things.

In the afternoon I work on requests from various administrators. Those have gotten easy to do but one of the last ones was a request for over 200 pages. Much too much for the envelopes and I sent him an email. I sent him a text. And received no response.

About 20 minutes later Schlomo appears. I tell him the situation, that a box would be needed and I know there are boxes in the area where he sits. Not really coming out and saying it, but I am saying that this would be better off done by the Giraffe working in that area, usually the last to leave.

About a half hour later he sent the Giraffe to me with a torn, yet slightly larger envelope. I laugh as the Giraffe hands it to me and say to myself, fine. I will stuff 230 pages into this envelope and I will send it off to be mailed. And I did just that, stapled, rubber banded, and sent off with the best intentions.

I did think about running around the block to the courier store but I couldn’t really do that. And the envelopes that I do work on, are weighed as one pound. Even if it is one piece of paper, it gets registered as one pound.

These pages were more than one pound so it may be rejected or it may be charged at a higher rate than the rate Schlomo worked so hard to attain for the company (no kickbacks I am so sure). But all I can do is work with the tools they give me.

There is Sméagol who works alongside Schlomo who does most of the mail runs to the courier or the post office. He collects mail from everywhere in the office except my desk. Walks right by it and even if there is a pile of items ready to go, he will not ask about it. Sméagol doesn’t like me and I do not like stray flea-bitten dogs.

So Sméagol now has the package that I made and will more than likely complain about the lousy job that I did with the inferior, torn tools that had given me to work with. It created a manic high of sorts for me. I am entertaining Costanza-like thoughts about marching in and quitting. But I can’t do that. They have to get rid of me.