Dear Boss (Ending)

Dear Boss,

Now let’s get back to our conversation, shall we? Before that, I really had to ask if you somehow managed to stumble upon my blog. That should explain why you wasted no time to send me out to Kampung Baru Changloon. Holy shit boss. Kampung Baru Changloon. Have I heard about Changloon before in my life? Sure, I did have a classmate named Chiang Loon a long time ago. He used to eat his boogers, but that’s beside the point. Apart from the fact that you sent me out to the middle of nowhere (again), I'm still fairly impressed by how the hell you could secure a project somewhere in between no mans land and hills with eyes. It's as abandoned as the spot in between your anus and testicles. Why in the world would anyone build anything there!?

Did you know I had plain fried noodles three times a day for almost the entire week? I swear my shit were starting to come out in strands by the end of it. But you were very successful in stopping me from blogging. Because nevermind computers, there wasn’t even sufficient electricity from the generator to let us keep our lights on long enough. The Bangladeshi perverts could’ve been masturbating to my face every night and I wouldn’t even know. Come to think of it, maybe that's why my eye was kinda stuck together that one morning.

But nevermind that. Let’s get back to topic. Now where was I, boss? Oh right.

Yes, boss. I, FUCKED in your office room. And by that I did not mean the street expression of fuck as in “fuck you bitch!” or “man, that shit is really fucked” or “why do you have to go and fuck it up”. Whereas, boss, I meant to say that I had sex in your room. With a girl. No, not with my hands as you think I often do (although I will not deny that). Rather it was with a cute girl that you fantasize about whenever you pleasure your missus. Speaking of which, I believe, is rare.

It wasn’t just your regular wham-bam-thankyou-m’am, boss. It was loads and loads of sex. Like the smell of jasmine on the first day of spring. Or the deep stench of a passing garbage truck. Overwhelming. In fact, if you stare hard at your desk, it almost feels like its about to blurt out “Holy shit there was a lot of sex going on here last night!” Such is the aura of the great after-sex. And all those loads and loads of sex compressed into a single night. And then further compressed into a single hour.

Ahh, how I recall the short passionate moment on your mahogany carved desk,

a little banging against your double-pane fully tinted glass,

a little rub-a-dub on that contemporary glass coffee table,

and a whole lot of no-no-oh-shit-yes on your prime Italian sofa.

Dear boss, I could not however, for the life of me, find the remote for the air-conditioning in your room. I paid for that with a hell load of sweating. The genius of where you hid it confounded me, although I can never understand how you must’ve predicted this moment and wanted to save on the air-conditioning electricity bill. You’re always efficiently economical like that. Like how you always returned all the scented napkins to the restaurants on our company dinners and then demand them for a discount.

Or how the rest of the office staff uses furniture that comes embedded with termites as our office pets, or tables and desks that look suspiciously like the ones they throw out from the primary school next door. Truth be told, you’re a genius in cost-saving. They should call you, Costco, Walmart, Econsave, or something.

Remember the one single time you promoted me over the 4 years I worked for you, you said to me “You know what, I think you’re doing a great job. You deserve a promotion and I’m going to give you one today”. It was the happiest day of my life.

It was one small step for a job title (executive to managerial), and one giant leap for salary increment. Remember boss? Eighty eight fucking ringgit.

In an instant I officially became the lowest paid manager in Malaysia. I wanted to call up my mom and scream to her “MOM I FINALLY MADE IT!!” but my phone had no more credits. Oh I’m sorry boss, I meant the beautiful hi-tech COMPANY phone that YOU proudly issued to me.

Now really, at least an increment was better than none. And I supposed the number eighty eight is your own special way of expressing your kind of humor. Way to go boss. If you had added 88 cents to make it RM88.88, I wouldve thought you're the funniest man on Earth.

But among all your greatness, your best display of cost-saving will definitely be the time when you promised me an office room in the main office. Boy, did I get one. Tune Hotel and Tony Fernandez himself would’ve been proud of you. I was only surprised that the activation button on the air-cond did not come with an ‘insert-coin’ slot.

You know boss, I’m always curious why my office room is laid with ceramic tiles, have huge pipes running overhead, comes with a ventilation fan on the grill and smells somewhat funky. Yes, no price for guessing what the room actually was. But hey, you said it wasn’t a toilet, boss. So I believe you. Like one douchebag used to say “It may look like it, sound like it, but is not it”.

But seriously boss, the thing that gave it away was probably the little sink pipe outlet on the north wall. I mean boss, what else could that be? Telegram vacuum tube? I don’t know boss. Perhaps it was just my wild imagination.

Just like whenever someone flushes on the toilet upstairs, (right above me, by the way), I sometimes hear these curious sounds of solid matter dropping into water. I’m not sure how to describe it, or if I even want to. What’s the word? Plonking? Like, plonk!...shhhh…. plonk! ‘stuffs’ swimming happily through the huge pipes above me. It does wonders for my lunchtime appetite.

Well that’s that in cost-saving. On the other end of the rainbow, I must say your investment talent is just as sharp. Your prime Italian sofa, for example, was indeed the best investment in your room. The ample bounce on the springs and the plush leather made me feel like I was getting BMW Auto-Bavaria servicing on my gigantic penis while being wrapped in soft and warm embrace of a milky cocoon with a whiff of Persian leather oil. That sentence doesn’t even make sense. That’s how good it is.

Your mahogany carved desk was a point worth noting as well. All the humping and pushing and never did it let out a squeak. But of course, my favorite will have to be your gigantic fish tank, boss. Your fishes now share a deep untold bond with me, after bearing witness to our holy union that night.

Boss, did you really spent RM500 on each of those little Nemos? I could not tell if their eyes always bulged like that or if they were just impressed with my penis. See, apart from Mc Donald’s fillet o’ fish, I have completely no knowledge on our aquatic friends. Now termites, that’s a different story.

Dear boss,

To express my deepest love and gratitude to you, I left a gift forever embedded into the sanctity of your throne room. When the moment of sexual enlightenment ‘came’ (pun intended), I gave it my all with a big thrust and some puckering up of the asshole and some sucking in of the butt-cheeks. Boy, if that was not an Olympic gold medal shot, I don’t know what is. Heck, my knees almost buckled.

Boss, the apple-shaped sweat stain on the sofa may have evaporated by morning, palm marks on the tinted glass windows may have dried up, but a little part of me will forever remain close to you. Trailing down the corner of one glass pane, like a river making way to the sea, was the one token of my memory to you. My own little army of barley soldiers, boss, that’s how much I love you. Sure, most of it must be dried up by now and soaked into the edge of the carpet, but boss, a pinch of love remains and you can always feel its aura. Love is everlasting afterall..

Yes boss. If you stare at it close enough, its there boss. Little spots of barley paradise staring back at you longingly. Like a virgin lover on the window pane of a mid September night.

So here is where I sign off boss, and I probably will not be writing you anymore for a long while. Well, that's what I hope. At least not until I collect enough wisdom from you again. If you really did stumble upon my blog, please, do not pop a vein. It is supposed to be therapeutic according to my hot therapist. Oh wait, I cannot afford a therapist. And please please do not send me to some site in between the testicles and anus again. Taking a shit in the jungle and fearing for snakes while your dick is hanging out is not very pleasant.

So remember boss, if you ever feel lonely, millions of dried up mini-mes are always there to accompany you. Just imagine them as persistent little tadpole buggers, roaming the strands of your carpet. Waiting for that one day when they can all do the butterfly strokes to the warm, wet and stinky gloryhole again. Crushed dreams and delusional ambitions, served just like life.

Take care now boss, and see you soon.

Yours truly,

The only monkey that stayed when you paid peanuts.