I spent yesterday at work avoiding my bald, ogrish boss, Steve, lest I be sent on more pointless and menial errands. I don't recall being hired as anyone's personal bitch, because, hell, they might've given me kneepads.
But in all seriousness -- and I'd love to tell the oaf this -- the difference between us extends only to the fact that he has the wits of a board with a nail in it, but the similarities are manyfold. Both of our jobs are extraneous: his, because the upper end of management in any business effectively does nothing, as lower managers exist in every department who attend to their own issues, and their superiors only get in the way by imposing restrictions on their authority; mine, because of the sloth of said management. He walks around the store and talks to people all day; I pick things up and put them down again. Really, both jobs could be performed equally well by a particularly vocal and athletic chimp, but we don't tell them that.
I like to image asking him the age-old question, "How do you sleep at night?" And I fantase the answer would be, "Snugly. I flay the skin off children and sew it into a quilt."
That's just the way the pillow fluffs, I guess.