By On the occasion of our 20th anniversary
By Gustavo Arellano
By R. Scott Moxley
By Alfonso Delgado
By Courtney Hamilton
By Joel Beers
By Peter Maguire
By Charles Lam
Here's to you, and your demise.
I used to hate you, and believe me, sometimes it's still hard not to, but I'm starting to see things differently now. I almost feel sorry for you more than anything. You think people revere, respect and admire you. In fact, they loathe, despise and revile you. Most who know you believe the world would be a much better place without you; they cringe at the sight of you. Ordinary, honorable people that would wish harm to no one pray for catastrophe to strike you.
You are white trash of the worst kind, the kind who thinks money can buy him class and reverence. With all of your money (which my co-workers and I make for you), you still have neither—and you never will. You don't have the business sense that God gave a rock, and your senile, egotistical decisions are running your business into the ground—along with my salary. You are truly pathetic. How is that you are so unaware of this? Or are you? I think you secretly know but you are too ashamed to admit it to yourself.
These qualities in and of themselves are not unique to you, nor are they uncommon. I can accept that you are a condescending, arrogant bastard of immeasurable scale, but it is inexcusable how you mistreat and berate others to further inflate your already-gargantuan ego and pompous attitude, especially those unfortunate enough to work for you.
You will get what's coming to you—or maybe you already have. You are a miserable, bitter and unhappy scrooge, and perhaps just having to be you is punishment worthy of someone like you. All the same, know that we raise our glasses—of your wine—and toast to your exit.
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