Pharma-do or Pharma-don’t?

Most of the time hiring a woman for anything other than prostitution is merely a dumb idea. Let me rephrase that for newcomers. Hiring a woman for anything other than using her sex appeal is a dumb idea — that’s what any job comes down to as a woman: being a prostitute.

And why not? While using her natural and only abilities, a woman can only fuck up badly enough to get fired. The fuckup is self-contained.

But what about when lives hang in the balance? Do women have any sense of obligation?

No. It turns out that they definitely do not.

Take what happened to me this weekend. Apparently, Saturdays are the slow days at a pharmacy and they use this down time to give their C-list staffers a chance. By that I mean women were manning the pharmacy. In some cases the last stop between yourself and a terminal fucking disease — women were in charge of that.

There were all kinds of women too. Fat Asian women, fat white women, a fat woman of indeterminable heritage. It looked like the studio audience from The View had shanghaied a drug emporium and the joke was on me.

“Great,” I said, stepping up to the counter and preparing to get fucked. It went a little something like this.

“I need this prescription filled. I don’t have my health insurance card, but I’m on Blue Cross. I’m sure you could get the information by using a phone or a computing machine.”

The woman gave me a confused and hungry look.

“You need your card though.”

This employee needed to be fired instantly, and as a man I should have had the power to do so. It would have taken only the simple call she wasn’t willing to make to report the behemoth on her third strike. After which I could have informed her that her services were no longer required and that the Krispy Creme down the street was having a two for one sale. She could feel free to cart her fat ass on down there.

Strike one and two were obviously being a woman and being a fat woman respectively.

“I’m sure you can ring up Blue Cross and get my information,” I said. “I mean I’m sure that’s possible. I can see the phone from here.”

She drummed her obese, sausage fingers on the counter and thought about it.

She tried to — or at least she put a phone to her head, which in hindsight is as much as I could have expected. I think it all worked out for the best anyway, as in most cases with women it’s best to simply sit them in the corner and let a man manhandle everything. That way they don’t get their incompetent fingers all over everything and end up sticking you with a bottle of prescription Chia Pet seeds.

It’s not because women lazy or dumb either. It’s because they’re all vindictive cows who want to be the chewy, gooey centers of great black holes of failure. If you come to them with a need for anything: affection, sex, histamine blockers — they want to throw it back into your face like thick jeweled tornados.

Fuck you, ladies.

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