I no longer work for a millionaire. My time at the ten million dollar home was not necessarily that dreadful, but it did end horrifically. The dismal, life draining period that taught me a lot about…well, nothing really; except, how it does not make much sense, working for cents. Now, it can be said that any work is better than no work, but seeing as I don’t put up with douchebaggery, I think I’ll just pick up more shifts at my other job. If there did happen to be any good that came from this, it’s that I have the experience of dealing with someone like Mr. Millionaire, as he will henceforth be called. Since I want you on my side of “The Dilemma”, I’m going to make everything about him sound absolutely terrible…which is true. Who is this guy? We’ll get to him after me, naturally—it is my damn blog.
This all started with answering a job post on (none other than) Craigslist. “Looking for a smart, self-starting, and organized person to take care of ten million dollar home. Duties include gardening, light plumbing, trimming trees, mowing and other miscellaneous jobs. Must be able to work long hours in the sun, carry fifty (plus) pounds, etc. Rate $8/hour.” Basically, he wanted a Mexican, but when it comes to work, I’m pretty much a White-Mexican. (Say, that sounds like a movie: The Great White-Mexican. Before Joe Gringer, can marry the beautiful Isabella, he must earn the respect of her people, including her brother, Manuel: a protective, and hard-working farmer whose crops match his personality—dead. It’s not until “Joe Gringo” (as the chauvinistic Mexicans call him) proves his worth by producing a bountiful harvest, which Manuel sees as a symbol Joe’s unyielding love; he whole heartedly approves their marriage, and the two live happily ever after. Sorry to give away the ending, but it will be predictable, anyway…unless I threw in a plot twist that Joe is actually a DEA agent, and he just turned a farm of hash into a crop of cash! Now, he’s fighting between keeping his alliance to a job that he’s worked toward his entire life, and a love, that if he lost, he would have no life! Wow, that’s a movie!) To cut to the chase, I took the job. Now, let’s get to my (former) boss.
He is an ass whole, meaning that his whole entirety (everything from his attitude, all the way down to his stupid door mats embroidered with the first letter to his last name) is an ass. I mentioned that he’s rich, so I’ll tell you about that; Mr. Millionaire got his start on Wall Street, and now lives on an extremely wealthy estate. I know I skipped a lot in there, but who really cares about that mumbo-jumbo? He is also a cheap son of a bitch; he once asked me to bring him leftover food from restaurant’s family meal, where they prepare a meal for the closing employees, not for penny-pinching millionaireheads. (Good play on words, huh? No? Piss off, I tried.)
When it comes to women, I’ve not known anyone to be more of a braggart than Mr. Millionaire. First off, he’s single, if any of your “hoes” (as he always refers to women) are interested. Secondly, unless it’s an incredible story, I don’t much care to hear how you hooked-up…I’ve seen and heard it all. Typically, those who don’t shut the hell up about their swag, and the tail they pull are not the best of players; but, when you throw money into the mix, it changes the game. Finally, he hates American girls, because “They’re too self-centered, and don’t realize that I’m the catch, not them!” This offends me, because I love American girls; in fact, I’m dating a great American girl. In my time, I’ve noticed that those who always resorts to foreign girls, have never really had much luck with women in the first place, but with an attitude like his, the ladies seem to be flocking.
Never work for someone who you believe has serious problems; I’m talking obsessive compulsive and attention deficit topped off with bipolar disorder, as well as having a great sense of mistrust and paranoia: sounds like the ingredients to a soup, or a bomb. He doesn’t just hate American women, but he seems to have a general disdain for all Americans; I would like you to know that he is an American, yet has an uppity feeling of superiority because he has traveled the world, and come to the conclusion that we (Americans) are all idiots. Yes, 99% of America is stupid, and he just so happens to fit into the 1% that’s not; go figure.
I was working at the property on the day of his return from a business trip, when he found his home just as he left it: the usual, orderly condition. Anger then filled his bones, because it was supposed to look better than that! He sent me home early, worried that he might say something regretful, and wanted to think about whether I should come back, saying he would call the next morning with his decision. No call, but either way, I was not about to wait at his mercy; I have a scrotum, and that scrotum does not allow me to be a bitch. So, a few days went by before I decided to call him and make it official. This led to the soon to be infamous emails concerning my last check for 59.5 hours of work, or $476. Once again, I need to back-track a little to set the stage.
Before that, let’s have a little quiz:
When you want a professional job, whom do you hire?
A.) A professional.
B.) Some 23-year-old guy who is learning as he goes.
That’s what I figured; professionals know what they’re doing, and don’t make mistakes. To preface the job I’m about to explain, I’ll have you know that Mr. Millionaire does not understand the concept that a cheap laborer might end up being more expensive than someone who will charge more, but will also know exactly what they’re doing. At one point, I was asked to remove his pool lining; it took six, or eight workers using high-powered air tools three long days of non-stop work to remove the old tile. He wanted me to do this?! How absurd can one be? Now to the work I’m paying for: refinishing his 15 foot, bronze French doors.
The process involved removing the tarnish, and getting down to the original bronze, so that it can be stained with a metal oxidizer to give the (15 foot!) French doors an “antique look”. In stripping away the dirty, outer layer, I happened to lightly scratch one of the door windows. My slip up is costing me my check: he’s withholding it to cover the window repair fee. Yes, I made a mistake, but did he not make one as well, by having me do a job that a skilled metal worker could have performed flawlessly? Please, click and read the images (below) to decide, but first: (setting the stage, like usual) he asked how we figure out the glass repair cost, so I responded, “I’m not exactly sure; it’s really up to you. How would it be handled if a professional bronze worker was hired for the job?” The following emails were then exchanged, and for the first time released to the public, you can read them:
Since then, I have not responded, because I will not argue frivolously with a man-child who gets his off on this type of drama. In my time there, he kicked a number of people off of his property, including a couple of photographers, a pool crew, and even one of his best friends who came from Georgia to visit. I must be the fourth employee he has gone through since the beginning of the year. Mr. Millionaire likes to make people pay for their insolence; he’s like Emperor Palpatine from Star Wars: an old, decrepit man who banishes those who do not comply to his rules. Well, Palpatine electrocutes people using the force, but you get the idea. He’s a rich man, with an inflated ego, which he thinks hides his deep troubling issues. Sorry, Mr. Millionaire, but we all see right through your unhappiness.
No matter who you are, there is always someone bigger, better, and richer than you; therefore, don’t be an asshole to those “under” you, because someone can just as easily shit from higher up. Or, someone will just put you in your place; after all, Vader did thwart Palpatine. As far as I’m concerned, he can take his damn money, shove it up his gaping rectal orifice; maybe it will help keep him company, because as far as I know, I will never be as wealthy as Mr. Millionaire, but I will never be as lonely as him. It truly pains me to say that today I could not find a reason why Dan Ray Sucks, nor a reason why you suck, too. Feel good about yourself, because this time, and forever, Mr. Millionaire Sucks.
Tips to suck less:
-Leave a comment.
-fb/tweet/just tell your friends, friends’ friends, random bums–I don’t care, just do it.
-Finally, don’t burn bridges…crap.