My first summer of law school I was excited to work in the “real world” and found a job in a small firm managed by “H”. I took the job despite warnings from classmates he was an asshole, but by the end of the first week I realized their opinions of him were tame in comparison.

My first day he asked if I was “fucking stupid” when I professed ignorance on a relatively rare type of legal pleading. On my third day, he and an associate got into an argument which ended in him stabbing a pen through his computer screen. Sadly, that wasn’t the last of the histrionics and the next six months saw the death of two more monitors, one laptop, (which met its end after an attempt at being the first frisbee/laptop hybrid) at least three coffee mugs and my soul.*

Most of these tantrums occurred during daily meetings where he would criticize each clerk, paralegal, and associate on their billable hours from the day before. (Billable hours are hours that can be billed to a client, they are not hours worked). Although important to review, his rants on the length of our restroom and lunch breaks would stretch well into the morning, gobbling up workable hours. Of course this led to anger the next day for not billing enough hours (and down the spiral we go).

He rarely used deodorant and rarely changed clothes, even for meetings with clients or opposing counsel. Never without a big plug of brown tobacco stuffed in his lip, his spit cups were left everywhere. Rounding it out was his habit of urinating in the bushes outside the building and images of him spitting brown ropes of tobacco juice while peeing in the pyracanthas are seared into my retinas. Not surprisingly, his digestive system was also off. Although housebroken for this issue, he would spend quite a bit of time in the bathroom adjacent to my work station. Apparently a modest man while perched on the potty, he would sing country western songs to (unsuccessfully) mask him doing his “business”.

The last straw was the Christmas party. Ten minutes before the party, he had another tantrum, and chucked an incense burner full of lit (cone) incense across the room. The sparks were pretty but showered down on a set of completed exhibits for The Big Trial. After ensuring the Judge wouldn’t get a singed copy of Exhibit A, we dutifully stayed for lame games and forced cheer. I managed a little excitement when he pressed a small but thick envelope into my hand. Unfortunately, the card contained no cash, no words of thanks, but a $5.00 gift card to Carl’s Junior.** I quit shortly after the new year. The sad thing is he honestly seemed surprised when I gave my two weeks notice.

* Who am I kidding, I sold my soul when I entered law school. As well as the soul of my first born, but that’s to the Federal Gov’t for student loans and is better covered on MyVeryWorstDebt.com.

** I was hoping to use a Christmas bonus to buy back part of my soul but I was informed the devil doesn’t take gift cards.

My evil boss attended the annual global sales meeting held in Spain at some beach resort. Even before my boss got back – I had received numerous emails and phone calls about her.  When the sales force returned to the office first–they could not stop making snide remarks about my “Dumb Barbie Boss”.

Apparently while in Spain, she took the term “pool-side mixer” quite literally and decided to show up at the mixer–hosted by our chairman and the board of directors and attended by managers from around the world—wearing 5-inch heels and an itsy bitsy bikini. She was the vice president for the company’s America operations. Everyone else was wearing shorts with tees or polos.

The story goes that she pranced around the mixer and then even got drunk. Now don’t get me wrong–the evil thing had a fab shape–so I am sure that she looked amazing in a bikini. But that is the point. When a bunch of horny sales guys complain about a chick in a bikini, you know that really means some serious boundaries were crossed.

They called her “Bimbo Boss” until she finally got fired.