Victor Padula No, Fuck You: A Bon Vivant's Guide.

Dealing with rejection isn't easy for anybody. For those of us with a general proclivity towards fine wine and good times, it can be damn near akin to a public hanging. Have you ever tried explaining why there's a urine stain on a persian rug when your liver is swimming in six bottles of cheap red wine? I can tell you from experience that you won't allowed back in that particular rotating restaurant anytime soon.

What can I say? Some people just don't know how to party anymore; instead of responding to your degenerate antics with the appropriate air of bewildered astonishment and respect, the general public all too often backs away from the one person Mardi Gras that is your life. I know it can be tough, but this is the life you've chosen. You owe it to all the good time Charlies and Cirrhosis Susans out there to stand tall, wipe that vomit from your lips, and walk out of your niece's baptism with a little fucking dignity. Okay?

The important thing to remember is that when it's time to leave, you go out on your terms. That's why I've complied this short series of informative pieces on how to keep it classy when ‘the man’ decides to show you the a door.

The Workplace:

Let's face it: today's straight-laced, politically correct workplace just isn't on board with the office cocktail culture of yesteryear. This is especially true if you're a cashier-in-training at Gap Kids. Sooner or later your boss is going to notice the signs: the bloodshot eyes; the long lunch breaks; the fact that you just asked some MILF if she'd be interested in following you into the change room so you can "fall into the Gap."

If you’re anything like me, your manager will likely forgo the three written warnings and move directly to dismissal. Try to remember that it’s this shitty job that caused you to fall of the wagon and relapse in the first place. When you think about it, it’s really for the best— sure you don’t have rent for next month, but odds are that rich uncle of yours will fork out the cash for yet another round of rehab. That’ll keep you off the streets for awhile.

When it comes time to part ways, most people like to go the “you can’t fire me, I quit” route. I personally find it too difficult to complete the requisite storm off when I’m fighting the shakes of a vicious hangover, so I prefer to go the “crush the soul of your manager” route. I mean he deserves it, right? All that time he spent giving you shit for all of your completely inappropriate behavior— where does he get off? I usually find the obvious comments about his physical appearance to be a bit too pedestrian. Instead, I recommend taking a wild shot and speculating about some vague childhood trauma he may have experienced. If you’re wrong, you come off no worse than if you’d just packed your things and left. But if you happen to hit that sweet paydirt that is deep childhood insecurity, you’ll be able to leave your former place of employment with a unique feeling of accomplishment and self loathing that’s sure to help prolong your unsustainable, substance-abusing existence for at least another few years.

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