Today, I handed in my resignation. Resigned my ass right out of there. Yee. Frickin'. Haw. &c &c.
The perfect opportunity - maybe once in a lifetime - to resign in style, with impunity, perhaps even a dash of acerbic wit. You see, my current boss - to whose management style I object in the strongest of terms - has only been around for a month or so. Long enough for me to have decided exactly how much I like him (about this much -> . ), but, crucially, not long enough for him to be callable upon for references.
Hell, Director-man, I don't need your goddamn reference. Does that hurt? Does that hurt?
Beaut, eh? Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the perfect end-of-Act-4 pre-denouement. This fellow is the reason I'm leaving - cause of woe and heartache aplenty (ie. is an insulting sod) - and now I (the hero, natch) have the perfect opportunity to tell him that the trouble I am about to cause him is entirely as a result of his own rudeness and social inadequacy. Heck, Shakespeare'd've milked this one.
As you may imagine, then, I handed in my letter of resignation with quite a flourish. Magna Carta stylee.
"This ---" [dramatic pause] "--- is my letter of resignation."
Damn right. For about a millisecond, the guy seemed surprised. Then (with characteristically bluntness), replied:
"Reason for leaving?"
The perfect set up, right? If this were a tennis match, that question would've been a slow, bumbling lob straight to my forehand smash ... And boy did I crack it one ...:
"Um ... lots of reasons ..." [trails off]