Tim glared angrily at The Boy. It was no surprise really, Tim being the bastard he was. The Boy, even at his tender age of three feet high passionately disliked his father. It might have been something to do with his lazy cunt of a father actually naming him The Boy. It was just the latest in a long line of his guardians’ misuse of the Births Deaths and Marriages office, all seemingly designed to torture The Boy. The Boy and His Sister glowered back at the angry eyes of Tim The Bastard. Their plan would soon be complete, but even now, they realised they should have acted sooner. His Sister’s eyes drifted down to the fabric of Tims’ jeans. Collected around the still unbuttoned fly, feathers. Little soft downy feathers. Another innocent life lost to The Bastard, one more family parakeet buggered to death.
Today, thought The Boy, will be Tim The Bastards’ last day alive on this planet.
To be continued...
Recently, the Human Resources department moved into my building, and I have to say so far I'm not impressed. It's pretty much confirmed every thought I've ever entertained about them being totally incompetent, head up arse, perpetual wankers. Christ, they've been here a good couple of months, and they still haven't managed to plug in their fax machine. In this age of electronic everything, we actually have to fill stuff out on paper, then hand deliver it to them if we're to have any hope of receiving our overtime payments. Though, this has grown a lot more convenient with them actually residing in the same building.
What has not grown more convenient however, is using the lifts since their arrival. Every fucking day these tools crowd up the foyer, endlessly chatting away and sporting their knock off designer sunglasses, handbags and perfume, waving these items around like they're going out of style (which I suppose in all likelihood, probably are). But as annoying their mere presence may be, it's nowhere near as bad as their inability to actually walk down a single set of stairs to the foyer instead of catching the fucking lift down from their floor.
The previous tenants of that floor didn't do that. No. Once in awhile they'd do something a little retarded and manage to set off the fire alarms, but that was okay, because we'd all get to go for a little stroll and have some coffee and maybe even a cupcake. These silly bastards could never manage to accomplish something quite so considerate. In fact, I suspect they may be the antithesis of considerate. I wouldn't be surprised if the next time we have some sort of celebration the bastards managed to infiltrate our floor, then sit on, steal, or otherwise sully our cakes. But that wouldn't be enough for them. No. We'd all dejectedly wander back to our desks to find our papers all ruffled and shit in our shoes. Fucking monsters!
They manage to form this quite special type of annoying that not even your stock standard office-admin-fridge-nazi types muster. You know the type - the ones that decide that their children are their future (teach them well and let them lead the way, woooooo) and lose any sort of ambition in their jobs. Don't get me wrong - I too lack ambition in my particular form of wage slavery, but at least I don't expend all that extra energy on policing sink and dishwasher usage, or perhaps creating spreadsheets that precisely outline who has put what in the fridge and how long it may or may not have been there.
But that's a little beside the point, after all, we're meant to be focussing on the gutterslime HR staff here. Okay, sure. I suppose they're not all gutterslime, but you have to admit that if you think about your own HR deparment, that there are certainly some telling and universal signs across the industry.
I don't really know what to do about these unsavoury characters. I want to set traps, but they do control the pay run, which seems to be a tricky operation at the best of times in their remarkably incompetent hands. Perhaps some kind of trapapault (surely the term for the external delivery of a trap?) would do the trick? If so, I'd quite like to nominate Couch Boy for the task.
Couch Boy has a long history of being a madman, and placed in correct circumstance, can cause quite the stir. Would he eat all their cake? Why yes. Yes he would. Would he burrow into their fancypants handbags to nap, only to be discovered at a later, most inconvenient time, perhaps in the Ladies room? Perhaps with gnashing teeth? Most assuredly so! Would he lope around the office indiscriminately yelling ANOMMANOMNOMNOMNOMMANOM OORRRRRUMPH! ? Fuck, I can only hope so.
It's settled. Couch Boy is the secret weapon. He will bring punishment to HR departments when nothing else can. And what will the rest of us do? We will sit back and laugh the laugh of the righteous, for that is what we will surely be.
I like to think of them all in their horror, swatting at the duo-flacid-horned beast with their expensive coats, stopping only to spray whole litres of perfume in his face, only to realise the futility of it all as he rolls around in abject joy of his newly acquired smells and fabrics. They could never tame him; they could only hope to feed him donuts at regular enough intervals to make him sleepy.
Who ever knew that left handed, colour crippled, early onset coffee drinkers could be so useful? I suppose you learn something new every day!