Oldies But Goodies. Kinda.

I wrote this entry over a year ago and didn't post it because at the time I didn't think it was funny yet. However in light of my new found unemployment status I thought I'd share. For obvious reasons I don't want to disclose the department or any specific names. In any case, this way is more amusing and it feeds my need to insult people and be extremely vulgar. Enjoy!

This is most definitely the last type of meeting I would have expected to have today. I’m sitting in a conference room with my jail commander, whose paunchy, pale visage makes him look like a dry vagina. Next to him is my Lieutenant. This guy is probably about 45 and still parts his hair on the side a la Leave It To Beaver.

Both of them have just informed me that as of this minute I’ve been dismissed and am now no longer employed with the Sheriff’s Department, they are not required to tell me why and I am not allowed to ask. Captain Vagosaurus is looking at me with an idiotic grin like someone told a joke he doesn’t get but doesn’t want anyone to know he doesn’t get it because then everyone will know he’s a fucking idiot. This smile, more than anything, makes me sit silently, waiting for him to say, “just kidding!” and then snort-laugh and tell me why I’m really there, like maybe someone saw me doing 95 mph on the toll roads or they heard that I called a male inmate a bitch and now he wanted to sue me for slander because he’s the pitcher, not the catcher. Still smiling, Labia-Face slides a paper towards me with the Department letterhead. Printed on it is everything he just told me. It pretty much amounts to three sentences. He tells me where to sign and launches into a speech about where and when to hand in my equipment. It slowly dawns on me that I’m not being Punk’d and Ashton Kutcher isn’t going to jump out from under the table in one of his stupid trucker hats. My heart drops to my feet and all of a sudden my bones have turned to Jell-o. Seriously? I’ve just gone from sheriff’s deputy to the unemployment line in about 10 seconds. I'd really like to stand up and fiercely tell the fucktards that theirs mothers should have swallowed them instead. But I start blubbering like a girl.

Tears are streaming down my face; they bring me tissues but I can’t seem to reach over and take one. With my hands shaking, I sign where they ask me to and nod where I think I’m supposed to. They say something about when and where I can turn in my equipment. At this point I’m not listening anymore. What does it matter? I’m finished. A female corrections officer comes in and I realize they mean they want my equipment now. Like, I’m supposed to take it off and hand it over just like that. She walks with me to the locker room to collect what I have. I hand over everything as I take it off. I cry harder as I take my badge off my shirt. She looks at me sympathetically.

“What the hell is going on?” She whispers.

“I don’t know.” My voice sounds weak and defeated, yet completely incredulous to the entire situation.

“Did something happen? Were you in a PERS?” She presses.

“No,” I sniff. “I had no idea this was coming.”

The locker room door opens and we both fall silent. She sighs and shakes her head, looking at the floor. We begin going through my locker, separating everything that belongs to me and putting all the issued stuff in the box. Oddly enough, that box had appeared in the locker room about three weeks ago. Idly I wonder if it was placed there for this specific purpose. The deputy is delicately trying to hurry me along; as if the quicker I’m out of the building the better. Whatever the reason I sense her urgency and want to get away from this place as soon as possible. I change into what I came in wearing: my white t-shirt, a pair of black Bermuda shorts and flip-flops. I stare down at my feet, which are now wrinkled and pale from being in my boots all day. I wish I had worn shoes. Then at least I wouldn’t have to face Captain Vag with black lint on my toes.

I stuff everything I can into my purse and carry everything else. My fingers are tangled in the laces of my two pairs of boots but I won’t let anyone help me. Lt. Cowlick is outside the locker room with Smokey Joe, my now unloaded gun, magazines, and baton in his hands. Labia-Face is nowhere to be found. Without a word I take Smokey and the magazines and stick them in my purse, which is now so full and lumpy it looks like Wynona Ryder’s purse after a trip to Saks. I push past them both and head to the elevator, but they come with me. I cringe as I realize I’m being “walked out”, the phrase I’d heard before in hushed tones to describe another poor soul who’d been dismissed from this department. It dawns on me that this is a literal term. My face burns with humiliation as we walk into the lobby. Torres is working the front. Torres is in a PERS. His wife went to the captain when she found out her husband was screwing another deputy and when asked, Correctional Deputy Skank lied through her teeth but he sang like Ambiguously Gay Aiken on American Idol. He gets to stay and still have a job. I used to think he was a nice guy.

I hope he gets herpes.