Horrible Bosses #1: The Yawning Mouth Of A Ginger Donkey

To celebrate the release of Horrible Bosses we’ve asked our Saboteurs to regale us of tales of wankers they’ve worked under. In the case of the 6ft horny battleaxe almost literally...
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To celebrate the release of Horrible Bosses we’ve asked our Saboteurs to regale us of tales of wankers they’ve worked under. In the case of the 6ft horny battleaxe almost literally...

My first furniture design job was with a company based near Nottingham. I was employed to design pieces that would then be manufactured in the factory downstairs. I didn’t realise when I took the job that my direct boss was not the design director, but the sales manager. She was a corporate monster, a dictatorial Fuckpig. She made Hitler look like Play School presenter. The most masculine woman (or man) I have ever encountered.

Visually, imagine the fully grown mutant offspring of The Lion from Wizard of Oz and Brian Blessed produced after an amphetamine fuelled hate-fuck. Standing well over six feet tall in her pricey high heels. Massive ginger bouffant hairdo. Her bloated mass squeezed into a Pink suit, the skirt a few inches too short for a 50-year-old woman. Loads of foundation, blue eye make-up and ice-pink lipstick made her face look like a portrait of an Oompa-Loompa completed by an infant psychopath. Her perfume smelt like a mixture of piss and gin. She used her ubiquitous squawky Brummie foghorn voice and noxious attitude toward any other human as an intimidation. She was truly fucking vile.

One day she’d bagged a big contract with a high street bank. Her commission for that single win was over twice my yearly pay. She bought me a shit cheese sandwich at the local boozer for lunch, her way of showing appreciation for allowing my creativity to be molested for her gains. Thanks. I went back to work, she stayed in there, drinking with her sales muppets.

She returned pie-eyed close to 5 o’clock with a determined look on her sweaty face. She sat her lumpy arse down close to me, parted her legs, pressed her hands on the seat between her knees, forcing her fat tits to form a massive lardy cleavage, leaned in and asked “You busy tonoooiiight?”…. a bit of sick rose in my throat. I had no idea from what her advances had stemmed, other than booze and abject desperation. I’m sure I wasn’t the first she’d approached. For a second I pitied her, but all my mind pictured was her no doubt stinking growler, resembling the yawning mouth of a ginger donkey, being pushed into my face. I managed to think up an excuse and saved myself from being further traumatised by the pathetic trollop.

The following week she tried to get me sacked.

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