To My Former Employer:

Fuck…uh…thank you, very much.

I waited a while before writing this as I wanted to see if I had a shot at getting rehired by you nimrods. Yeah, I’m talkin’ to you, Epsilon.

After all, when I was laid off due to no wrongdoing on my part, I was repeatedly told I was “eligible for rehire.” Repeatedly. As in several times. Do you remember that? Ask your grandfathered-in nitwit of a “Human Resources” professional. She, after all, is the one who shared the good news, while shit-canning me over the phone.

It was really decent of you, by the way, to send, via UPS, my huge collection of office detritus, packed in boxes that were falling apart, as opposed to allowing me to collect them in person. Were you perhaps expecting untoward behavior, on my part?

Make no mistake: I get it. People lose their jobs all the time. Even as I write this, someone is getting his or her walking papers. That said, I believed your lying asses and applied for at least five positions that I would have slain. Even though they were of a less senior level than what I was accustomed to. I was okay with that. More than okay.

After every go, the beleaguered recruiter, or “Talent Acquisition Specialist,” would tell me, “Um…they said you’re not a good fit.”

Instead of vague responses like that, why can’t you just tell the truth? “Sherry, you’re old as dirt, and you’ve had breast cancer.”

Yeah. I certainly did have breast cancer and, if you’ll recall, came into the office every morning after my four weeks of radiation therapy. Rarely dropped a ball, if ever. But you don’t give a damn about that, do you?

For fifteen years, as a senior copywriter, then, Associate Creative Director, I conceived fresh, out-of-the-box ideas for shitty clients and then, executed my hiney off. Couldn’t you, just once, acquire a new account that had nothing to do with “poops and pipes,” (HVAC), pest control, or aluminum siding? How about health and beauty products? Pet food? Dental implants-in-a-day? How about anything but the crap the creative department had to deal with on a daily basis. Talk about polishing turds!

Of course, considering the collective brainpower of your account staff, is it any wonder that your clientele is bottom of the barrel? Has anyone taught these people how to read? Or interact on an intelligent level? Or even, crack a smile on occasion? How is it, that, in all my time with you, I can’t recall even one account wonk who “had a clue?”

Account people: Maybe if you dragged your lazy asses into the office more than two days a week, you’d accomplish something remotely positive. As it is, you suck. Side note: We used to refer to you as “Account Service Specialists.”

Sample dialogue amongst our cubes: “Have you seen my ASS?”

Let’s set the record straight, Company X. You are an exceptionally well-compensated purveyor of junk. Junk mail and, on an even greater level, junk emails. Otherwise known as “digital shit.”

You expend an enormous amount of time and firepower on work that will either end up in the recycle bin (if the recipient is of a greener nature), or the email trash folder.

Before we saved all of our work samples digitally, we creatives would receive “hard copies” of our crap. I have several bags in our garage stuffed with direct mail packages. Well-thought-out, expertly executed caca.

One of these days, when I need cheering up, I think I’ll have a cocktail or three and set fire to them. Depending upon my state of mind, chanting may or may not be involved. Along with with weird-ass attire, or no attire, at all.

Even though I got off to a rough start, here, I wasn’t intending this to be a full-on rant, even though you deserve nothing less. In fact, as I think about it, perhaps I should be thanking you for “letting me go.” (Go? Where?)

No. I won’t thank you for the loss of my income, health insurance, and 401k contributions. I can’t hop on the gratitude train for that. Instead, take a look at what I can say “mucho gracias” for:

Thank you for freeing me from having to attend any more of the CEO’s “roadshows,” where he bloviated, on stage, about the company, his daughter, his farts and anything else that came to mind. I especially enjoyed the manufactured facade that, “Hey, even though I’m a multi-millionaire, I’m just like you.”

The dried up bags of popcorn on each of our seats (for breakfast, mind you), were especially well-thought-out.

Interesting side-note: I hear that since you guys were sold to another company, an advertising behemoth, “David Letterman” is no longer with you. Pity.

Thank you, for my no longer having to pretend that your $ 700-holiday bonus (before taxes), was better than a “poke in the eye.” No. It wasn’t. In fact, it was a kick in the ass to people like me who went above and beyond. Why bother when the clueless schlub on the other side of the room — the yutz who never said a word in meetings — got the exact same bonus as the over-achievers?

Thank you, for my no longer having to see pictures of my car parked in the “pregnancy parking spaces” for the whole company to see. Hey, mofos, spend some money and expand the parking lot. And who said expectant mothers need a special parking spot? Isn’t exercise a good thing, for them?

An extra special thank you for my no longer having to endure the functional idiot who was my “supervisor” for three years. The one who held back work from me so she could fill up her own time sheet. I’m fairly certain I lost brain cells during that period. Of course, she finally got hers. My only question: What the hell took you so long?

Speaking of timesheets, I am so thankful that I no longer have to worry about accounting for every single minute of every single day. People go to the bathroom, okay? Sometimes they have gastrointestinal issues that take a good deal longer than the average purge. What the hell are we supposed to do about this? Shit ourselves? You simply cannot allott an entire day to “billable hours.” Especially when the client starts taking their work “in-house.”

I mentioned the ASS. A whopping thank you for cutting me loose from meetings where my eyes nearly rolled out of my head and onto the floor. How do you deal with someone who doesn’t know good writing from a Cinnabon? Who suddenly turns into a mouth-breather when you “present” copy that has words with more than one or two syllables? More on this, here:

Thank you for the “free pizza Fridays,” along with every manner of fried food one could hope for. I know I sound ungrateful, and this was a nice gesture, but some of us are trying to avoid cardiac arrest. Think of the insurance hits! Offering up healthier fare every now and then would have been most welcome. (Those wings were pretty damn good, though.)

Gosh, you know — I’m getting kind of worked up, writing this. Because even though I’m thanking you, I still think you’re despicable as shit. JUST TELL THE TRUTH. Is that so friggin’ hard? Don’t tell people you’ve fired that they can be rehired when you know that ain’t gonna happen.

One more “thank you.” And here’s the biggie:

Thank you for freeing me. Freeing me to be a true writer, again. Someone who is no longer expected to “create” boring, predictable, trash.

Paid, or not, I’m writing what I want to write. And it has nothing to do with poops and pipes.

Now that I’m done, you know what you can do.

Sherry McGuinn is a slightly-twisted, longtime Chicago-area writer and award-winning screenwriter. Her work has appeared in The Chicago Tribune, Chicago Sun-Times, and numerous other publications. Sherry’s manager is currently pitching her newest screenplay, a drama with dark, comedic overtones and inspired by a true story.

I hope you enjoyed this piece. If so, please read on.