Bad Boss: The Man Who Knew Ernest Borgnine

The movie Horrible Bosses opens this weekend. If you’re a dude who’s made it to your twenties or beyond, you’ve probably had a horrible boss once yourself and live to tell the tale. In honor of this common bond we all share, we’ve asked our contributing staff to share some bad boss nightmares of their own… We hope you revel in our unfortunate plights!

The Boss

I hate to name-drop. I really do. But I know someone… who knows Ernest Borgnine. Yes, that Ernest Borgnine. Impressed?

Yes, this blessing comes courtesy of a former horrible boss, who leapt upon at least three opportunities in as many months to inform me of his bromance with the McHale’s Navy actor. He and Ernie (“as I call him”) go way back. He’s a family friend. Possibly the only one, for as I see it, the only reason for being friends with someone who would namedrop Ernest Borgnine would be that you actually are Ernest Borgnine. There is no other adequate excuse.

He and Ernie (“as I call him”) go way back.

For those of you that don’t know or have blocked him from memory because he reminds you of a particular brown-van-driving great-uncle (you know the one), this is Ernest Borgnine, co-star of the movie Superfuzz, among other, lesser titles:

Pictured, left to right: Ernest Borgnine & Yet More Ernest Borgnine

I’m certain that he’s a fine human being. He seems funny and has a friendly (read: horrifying) smile and I’m sure I would be happy to call him a friend, but I have a hard time imagining myself desperately attempting to garner admiration from my subordinates by namedropping the sixth-billed actor from The Black Hole. And if I ever can imagine myself that way, it will be only for as long as it takes me to drive to a gun store.

Of course, when your entire family has entered into the cabalistic habitude of calling Ernest Borgnine a close friend, it’s best to keep the clan as nearby as possible. A good way to do this is to buy a thriving business (that you know nothing about) with your wife, and then systematically fire your qualified employees while gradually replacing them with your slow-witted children as they consecutively wash-out of the military. After suffering several months of working for Ernie’s friend, I was one of several talented and capable people fired, in part, for the crime of not slithering through the correct birth-canal. Which is fine with me. No job in the world is worth that particular fantastic voyage.

This hiring policy went strictly for his proud, Caucasian biological children, mind you.

This hiring policy went strictly for his proud, Caucasian biological children, mind you. But not the decidedly Asian girl in his family photos who was referred to, without fail, as his adopted daughter. I’m sure she appreciates that blinding distinction, as much as I’m sure she appreciates being saddled with an adopted family that possesses both the complexion and combined mental capacity of uncooked biscuits. I bet her time spent stacked three-high in a Chinese orphanage starts looking pretty good every time the family gets together to flounder through a game of Scattergories.

The matriarch of this clan and co-owner of the business could often be found sneaking behind one of her sons (and they weren’t hard to find, as they eventually accounted for roughly half of the work-force) for the purposes of administering comforting back rubs. Lingering, soothing back rubs that really belonged behind closed doors (and only in some states), especially once your child is old enough to tie his own shoes and/or address his own crayon-scrawled letters to Ernie Borgnine. So in this particular family’s case, around age 22.

Seeing this social grooming occur was stomach churning enough before one of my fellow employees let me in on the fact that the production department referred to the boss’ wife as Zira. Yes, that Zira.

Side-by-side Comparison

This is absolutely true: once I was introduced to this resemblance, I was never able to unsee it. It was all I could do to resist offering the woman a banana. I did, however, keep one handy to throw in the opposite direction of my own swift escape, should she mistake me for one of her sons and attempt to backrub me. I was taking a chance of course – she may loathe bananas for all I know.

I was standing next to the production table, and he smacked my ass.

The last thing I have to say about working with this busload of idiots, and only because my therapist tells me I should, is that the father, my boss, my leader, once smacked me on the ass. Let me clarify: this was not at a company football game. There was no biting or stinging insect attacking my lower-rear quadrant. I was not being hazed for a fraternity. I was standing next to the production table, and he smacked my ass. It was no accident. Flattering? Yes (finally, those lunges were paying off). Work appropriate? Nope. My only guess is that when the family is feeling amorous at home, she takes high and he takes low. I would theorize further, but I am already nauseous.

Was he the most horrible boss? Well, I have heard of horrible-er, for certain. Was he an alarmingly dense, pathological nepotist who couldn’t perform simple math and almost ran the once-strong company he bought into the ground? Undoubtedly. But I’m one of the lucky ones. I got away.

The real victim here, the more I think about it, is Ernest Borgnine.