As my level of content with the world in general continues to fluctuate between “moderately dischuffed” and “seriously fucked off,” I’ve begun to compose what I believe the numpties across the pond refer to as a Shit List. On the other hand I, being of sound mind and less than morbidly obese body, just about in the case of the latter, am going to refer to this as my Collection of Uniformally Nasty Things. This is essentially therapy for me, therefore any off-topic ramblings are mine and you’ll just have to put up with it. This may take the form of a series, depending on how irate I become.
1. Coldplay.
Really, I’ll have to come back to this later, it’s a big one.
2. Work.
It has become evident that my manager suffered extensive internal damage to his prefrontal cortex some months prior to Christmas, resulting in him having no idea what the hell he is doing, where he is, what time it is or how to use a telephone. On top of that, he also forgot entirely what his function within the company is and that he has several members of staff in his department who have not suffered a similar trauma and, because they are in possession of all/most of their faculties, WE KNOW THAT YOU KEEP DISAPPEARING AND THAT YOU ARE DOING FUCK ALL.
Sorry about the shouting, this train has gone from Intensely Annoying to Laughably Obvious, stopping at Fucking Outrageous, Desperately Inconvenient and Holy Fuck, How Long’s He Going To Get Away With This?
Full marks for lack of effort and sheer testicular fortitude though, I for one am not confident enough to flaunt the system so blatantly and make such an utter arse of myself in the eyes my own staff; in some perverse way I suppose that you should be nominated for the Brass Neck 2012 Award. Geoff, Paul, Paul, Nathan, Phillip and I will be voting for you. Twice, because you’re worth it. I even deleted the fucker from Facebook, another show of insubordination (there have been numerous others of a more obvious, up close and personal nature) which has passed without mention in a Debbie-shaped swirl of cuntitude. That’s his lady-friend, by the way, the new object of his affectation, sorry affection, to whom he must portray himself as the big boss, the head honcho, the top dog, the big cheese, the skipper, the commandant, the top banana, and so on and so forth.
Over the course of his 3 day break last week, we managed to get the shit storm of his creating under control. Less than 1 full working day (that’s roughly 3 hours for Keith) later and it’s all gone to hell in a handcart again. Seriously, wow, that’s how to fuck the fuck out of it spectacularly, dickhead.
Having left the office at 9:10 this morning to visit one of our larger customers, whose offices are a mere 10 minutes away, to fit some parts, he had still not arrived at 9:40 when they called to report a second fault. Then, at 10:40, he called to say that he had forgotten all of the parts which he had gone to fit, thus writing off the first 2½ hours of the day as a non-event.
Well, that’s points 1 and 2 covered, for now at least. There may be additions to the second due to the incompetence being a daily occurrence, plus I’ll have to set aside a fortnight’s leave to bang on and on about Coldplay’s utter shiteness.
So, in the words of Vincent Vega, to be continued…
I will leave you with this brand of utter stupidity from an Audi driver, the now infamously viral Sarah Duncan of the previously little-known Sarah Duncan Knitwear. This woman proves that not only is she arrogant, legally dim-witted and utterly vile, she is also the proud own of one weapons-grade cunt of a husband.
http://youtu.be/k8zqNe0ujwE
The people of Bath are just too lucky for words.
