The Badge

Last night, still safely ensconced in the suburbs of Boston, I checked my voicemail. And was enraged to hear a message from my temp agency, asking about the return of my access badge to The Hedge Fund. It seems that someone (ahem, Pirates of the Caribbean, I'm looking at you) has been calling my temp agency, anxiously wondering where my badge is. And then this someone (still looking at you, your glass eye and your parrot) has the additional nerve to ask that I 'Fedex, as soon as possible' the badge back to them.

What do they fucking think I am going to do with the fucking badge? I mean, were I more financially savvy, I guess I could go in there and, I don't know, steal files or something and then make a killing in the stock market thus destroying The Hedge Fund and everyone associated with it. [That scenario is unlikely, given that I still don't know what a hedge fund is, exactly.]However, my revenge fantasies have been much less elaborate than that - something more along the olines of backing a cart up to the freight elevator and removing lunch from the kitchen, then watching the ensuing confusion ('We have to...leave the building? And buy food? How will we fend for ourselves?').

Or maybe they think I'm going to come into the building and demand justice. Have a fit in the lobby. Lunge for The Yammerer. I have news for you, folks - I have more pride than that. Not that much pride, but enough to prevent entertainment on that level.

But seriously? Enough with the badge already. I hate my picture on it anyway...