The guy wearing clean clothes who has very soft, smooth hands and a slick haircut and tells you to get the hell home before you get any overtime. The company's representative who is responsible for harassing, intimidating, disciplining and strong-arming employees in the name of better business practices. The cocky, overblown prick whose desk at work is stacked higher with grievance papers than his desk at home is piled high with overdue car and mortgage payments. That smarmy cocksucker in the VIP lounge at the club who orders bottles of top shelf vodka for the underage rich girls he picks up nightly at the strip joint. A man whose insecurities and self-doubts provide ample fuel for his currupt machinations in the workplace. The blue nosed white collared red cheeked scum-of-the-earth driveshaft of america's sputtering corporate engine. Collectively, managers are the scum that rises to the top of the pond in which we all must daily swim, and the company's ethics hotline is the vast barge that pushes this slime to shore to be beached and shriveled in the white-hot scorching sun of accountability.
Manager Jimbob had to change his underwear after I whipped out my contract book and asked him if he was harassing me. His panic sweat reeked of booze and almonds.