"I don't see your name on it."
"Oh, it's actually right here," he turned around a little placard with his name and title printed on it.
Jesus, what an arrogant prick. Who actually writes their name on things? What is he, five?
After the absolute minimal amount of half-mumbled swears, we changed places.
"So," he said, thumbing through some papers, "as you know this is an open call mass-interview. Did you fill out our application?"
"Of course," I handed it over, "I think you'll find everything so in order it blows your mind out your dickhole."
He was starting to sweat, and he kept glancing at the hallway. He must be shy; worried that somebody would overhear him sounding like the total dipshit that he did indeed sound like.
"Nobody can hear us," I put him at ease, standing up to lock the door "not even if we screamed."
"It uh...yeah, okay. So down here under 'relevant work experience' you put 'I live and die by the sword.' Can you explain that?"
"Oh!" I laughed in embarrassment, "That's a mistake. I'm sorry. Those little boxes are so hard to read."
He smiled pleasantly.
"That's actually my address," I noted, pointing to the relevant box on the form.
"By the sw-? Oh. I guess that also explains why under 'address' you simply put the word 'pussy-slayer.'"
Exactly what I turned in when I got this job.
"Yep! I accidentally reversed the two. That's my place of employment. Although I spend so much time on the job, it starts to feel like I live there!