I made our coffee table and tv unit. Thank God Linzi doesn’t demand fine craftsmanship. Taking orders now for the Winter 2006 collection.
As I said to Laurie this evening, in a completely unrelated discussion: “I’m gonna sell these muthafuckas for $59.95”.
Here are some little-known facts I came across in the course of my education. These are all true, and your GP and friendly neighbourhood pharmacy (not to mention the multi-billion dollar pharmaceutical industry I used to work in) are as guilty of perpetrating the myths as much as any lay person is. Well, except #4.
Myth #1: Drinking alcohol while on antibiotics makes you get drunker, faster.
Truth: OK, everyone knows the one about antibiotics having no effect on viruses. And if you don’t, you do now – for Christ’s sake don’t let your doc prescribe you antibiotics for a cold or anything else viral.
Anyway, alcohol and antibiotics can be taken together with no adverse side-effects. The reason you got drunk so quickly is more likely to be because your immune system is already compromised in some way if you’re taking the damn antibiotics, and you’re exhausted from trying to fight off the infection. Therefore, drinking alcohol’s going to have a greater effect than normal on you. But don’t use the fucking antibiotics as an excuse for why you sucked off the dorky IT guy who’s now obsessed with you. The responsibility is yours, fucker.
Myth #2: People who complain that they’re dying of the flu in the middle of the summer.
Truth: First, if you’ve got the flu, you would not be out and about to complain about it. You’d be in bed, or at the very least, wrapped up in front of a fire at home. Influenza is a seriously debilitating illness that takes about a fortnight to recover from. Second, in the Northern Hemisphere, the influenza virus is prevalent almost exclusively between January and March. There are rare exceptions, but these exceptions usually mean a flu pandemic, which means hundreds of thousands of people will be suffering and possibly die because a mutant strain of the virus has run amok. So, what I’m saying is: it’s just a fucking cold, you pussy. You’re not even close to death. Quit whining about it.
Myth #3: Stomach ulcers/acid indigestion are caused by excess stomach acid.
Truth: This is a cause and effect issue. In a sense, it’s true to say that excess acid is what irritates the stomach lining and causes an ulcer, however, this does not deal with the root cause of the problem, which, in a huge number of cases, is actually a little family of bacteria called Helicobacter. These acid-resistant bacteria are what cause the stomach lining to be irritated in the first place, thus prompting more acid to be created, which irritates the stomach lining even more, and then out pops your agonising ulcer.
The myth that all you need to do is pop a couple of Rennie is of course a hugely profitable one for all the pharma companies, so obviously they’re not going to tell you that, rather than taking these antacids for the rest of your life, all you need is a two-week course of antibiotics to get rid of your ulcers/indigestion. But, believe it or not, this is true in a very large number of cases.
Moral of the story is, if you’re suffering from acid indigestion or ulcers, go see your GP. Pressurise them, because they won’t be forthcoming about it, but make sure you ask them about the use of antibiotics to kill off the root cause. Doctors are at the mercy of the drug companies as much as we are, and it’s always easier to prescribe a bottle of antacid. However, your GP can schedule a very simple test that can detect the presence of these nasty bacteria, and give you an answer one way or the other on whether or not they are the cause of your discomfort. Don’t stop pressuring them until you get an answer. It might even put an end to your misery.
These bacteria are prevalent in domestic animals, and they can infect humans by zoonosis. Therefore if you’ve got a dog or cat and you also suffer from stomach ulcers, there’s a possibility that Rex or Felix has passed it on to you when you’ve accidentally let him lick your mouth. See, knowing this shit is what makes me wary of letting dogs slobber all over me.
If you’d like further info, you could try reading my thesis “Serological and Biochemical Characterisation of Antigens on the Lipopolysaccharide of the Human Intestinal Pathogen Helicobacter heilmannii”. It’s a truly riveting read, honest.
Myth #4: Drug companies carry out testing on animals because they enjoy hurting them.
Truth: Don’t get me fucking started. Yes, I am well aware that this is a controversial issue. I worked in this field for three years but got out of it because the pay was shit.
What drives me crazy is activists who think that the use of animals in the development of a drug is unnecessary. We are fucking years away from any sort of reliable testing using genetic engineering to model a human metabolic response.
Let me put it into perspective: a drug takes about 12 years from initial discovery to actually landing on your pharmacy shelf. For every 100,000 drugs that are researched and assessed, one makes it to market. That’s right. One for every hundred thousand. This is why so much money is invested in R&D in the pharma industry. The average lifespan of a drug is 12-17 years, so the pharmaceutical company spends millions and millions trying to get an appropriate drug out into the marketplace so they can make as much money as possible, fast. They spend these millions on carrying out various pharmacological tests to assess the safety and efficacy of a drug, and toxicological and pharmacokinetic tests to assess its physiological and metabolic effects. Once a huge amount of evidence has been collected to back up a drug’s safety, it goes to clinical trials (ie testing in people). Once it gets through four phases of clinical trials, it goes to the FDA, where it may or may not be approved for release. If anything fucks up along the way, they lose a fuckload of money. If it gets released, they make billions.
I’m not denying the pharma companies are in it for the money; of course they are. It’s a hugely profitable industry. However, it’s worth noting that it’s the industry which drives advances in medicine. It’s the industry whose progress these fuckwit protesters have undoubtedly taken advantage of several times over the course of their lifetimes; every time they’ve taken a headache tablet, some antacids, blood pressure regulators, whatever.
For the industry to remain viable, the tests needed to allow the drugs to get to clinical trials must be carried out on animals first. At the moment, there is just no way around this fact. It’s also worth pointing out that the animals are subject to some of the strictest legislation in the world, and they are looked after better than most animals you see in animal shelters (or in friends’ and neighbours’ houses) up and down the country. It’s true, they die (peacefully, in most cases), but if their death can help to one day save my child, I can sleep easy at night.
If you refuse to see sense on this topic, I am not going to argue with you. I’ve done enough of that, and sometimes people just will not see sense no matter how much you explain things.
Just ask yourself this though: Next time I get sick, or when my father, brother, wife, mother, sister, husband, or baby is at death’s door, and the only hope for saving their life is through the use of drugs developed by the pharmaceutical industry, will I have the spine to stand up for what I believe in and refuse any treatment because it compromises my principles?
Somehow, I don’t think you will. So shut the fuck up, hypocrite.
Wow. This is the first time since I graduated six years ago that I feel like I’ve put my degree to some use.
Nice surprise for us yesterday evening. One of the lads I work with has a mate who works backstage at the King’s Theatre in Glasgow, and he occasionally gets free tickets for whatever’s on. He approached me yesterday afternoon, said “I know it’s short notice, but any chance you’d be able to get a babysitter tonight? I’ve got a couple of spare tickets for a show.”
At first I was refusing, but then he told me it was for the Buddy Holly musical, which Linzi has wanted to see since last year after her brother raved about it. She even emailed me the other day telling me it was on at the moment, asking if we could maybe go.
If I had been more cunning, I could’ve pretended I forked out £50 for the tickets and it was a secret birthday treat for her. I’m too honest sometimes. Bah.
Anyway, L pressured her mother into coming over to babysit, and out we went, for a thoroughly enjoyable night. Much better than sitting watching bullshit television, and it was nice to escape the babies for a short while.
I felt really bad for this large lady sitting in front of me. She was out with three of her mates, and during the show, she pulls out this bag of grapes. Her friends looked at her, all sympathetic, and said “Oh hon, how’s the weight watchers going?”. She’s contemplating her grapes, looking all forlorn, and you know she’s thinking “I wish this was a bowl of chocolate-covered strawberries washed down with some Cookies and Cream Häagen-Daz”, but she responds quite cheerily, saying it’s not going too badly, she lost 3 pounds last week, etc etc. Her friends nod supportively, then pull out these huge boxes of chocolates (when I say huge, I mean, they weren’t just your regular petrol-station-size boxes of chocs, these were like the big tins of sweets most people only buy at Christmas), and start munching away. Right in front of this poor girl. She was salivating like that rabid bitch that Laurie shanked the other day.
I felt bad for her, because you just knew she was going to cave.
On the way home last night, the wipers on the car broke. In the pelting cunting rain. This is the third thing in the past six weeks to go wrong with this fucking heap of shit. First I had to fork out £160 for a new key, then the mysterious car-won’t-start-right-now-but-when-I-try-it-tomorrow-it’s-fine problem that’s plagued me recently, and now these bastard wipers.
In fairness, it’s about six months overdue for a service, and I’m fully aware of how dangerous it is – the rear tyres are bald, the brakes are fucked, and now I can’t see out my windscreen in this beshitted Scottish weather.
This month is a total bastard. It’s my grandparent’s 50th wedding anniversary, and I am absolutely gutted that we can’t get home for it. It’s such a big occasion for the family, and what a wonderful surprise it would be for them if their great-grandchildren were to be there to celebrate it with them. They haven’t even seen Jack yet – I’d love if that weekend were their first time. However, try as we might, we just don’t have the money to spare. It’s also Linzi’s 30th birthday, so I need a bit of money for that. Plus, our camcorder got repaired and that’s costing £143 to get fixed. I also promised I would do the garden for L, as part of her birthday. And now these various car things, which I’m estimating will cost between £300 and £500 to sort out.
I swear, no matter how much money I’m earning, it never seems to be enough. I got a 25% payrise only two months ago, and I’m still a full £1070 (that’s over $2000 US) short for everything I need to get done this month. Linzi and I sometimes joke that we wish we had a rich relative who’d die or something, because we just never seem to get a break when it comes to money. I could ask my Dad for some help, but I’m reluctant to do so for a variety of reasons.
Of course, I know there are tons of people in a similar situation, but it’s my fucking blog, fucker. I’m allowed to moan here if I want to.
Any advice on how to make any additional income without compromising on the time I spend with my family? And no, dealing heroin’s not an option.
Steph was talking about sleazy behaviour, and it reminded me of this sleazy bastard of a sausage dog an ex used to have.
This lovable little doggy by the name of Tico stole my innocence with a yelp and a whimper.
She and I (the girl, not the dog) were, for want of a better cliché, getting down to business in her living room, when I felt little Tico the lovable sausage dog sniffing at my ankles. I didn’t really think much of it because he was always climbing up on us while we sat watching tv or whatever. Obviously, the intrusion was not so welcome when I was trying to get my rocks off, but you’ll have that in small towns with fast cars.
I tried my hardest to ignore him, but the little bastard kept rubbing his nose on my leg and panting heavily. I had no choice but to look down and try to push him away…
I looked down just in time to see the little fucker ejaculate doggy-jizz all over my trousers. He had been humping my leg the entire time. He must’ve smelt the pheromones from our semi-sexual activity, and got himself a little bone he needed to bury.
I had to cycle home that night with dog-spunk all over my trousers. Our relationship was doomed to failure after that. It was too embarrassing trying to play it cool in front of the dog. The bastard kept winking at me and giving me a knowing grin any time I called over.
EDIT: Is anyone else getting this bullshit?:
I did one of those things where you write loads of crap that nobody knows about you.
If you’re bored, it’s here.
Check my shit. I know, I look like Tim Westwood’s retarded stepbrother – I’m just fucking around with the “gang” signs. I realise that I would be immediately killed upon entering American airspace with that bullshit going on. My W’s are for Wanker, not Westside.
Anyway, what do you think of the top I’m wearing?
Check out this shit:
God, I can feel the jealousy of a million nerds around the world seeping through my computer screen.
That’s right, geeky bastards: Microsoft paid us a visit to show us “the future for integrated operating systems”. We got a demo of Vista, among some other shit, and I got given this top for asking an “interesting question”. You don’t even want to know what the question was, but I’ll tell you one thing: it wasn’t interesting. They were just desperate for some input.
I’m thinking of auctioning it on eBay. I’m convinced that some nerdy bastard somewhere would pay top dollar for clothing with the Microsoft logo embroidered on it.
I think I’ll start the bidding at….
One MILLION dollars.
Yo, yo, major shout-out to my homies Debbie, drm2b, duckie, and Steph, kickin it out there in Bloglizzand, who managed to get through my very long rant from Friday and even offer some mothafuckin words of encouragement on the situation. I appreciate it, mothafuckas. Word, homie, etc.
I love disguising myself as a white Irish guy whose only knowledge of the ‘hood comes from movies and music, when in reality I’m a mothafuckin G’d up hustla slangin rock down in LBC, reppin 213, straight up, beeeatch. G’s up, ho’s down, and bounce to this shit. I am drunker than a mothafucka.
This might be my last post for a few days, because I have a nightmare week ahead here at work. I really grudge doing overtime, because I don’t get paid for it, but I’m just gonna have to suck it up for now. It’ll pass, as it always does.
This morning, I had a mothafuckin meeting with my manager. A timely meeting, considering the enormous rant I had about him on Friday.
He played me. Played me like I was a damn gee-tar and he was muhfuckin Hendrix or some shit.
He told me:
- how much he appreciates me in general
- he knows how hard I work
- that I’m the most knowledgeable and experienced person on the mothafuckin team and he would be totally lost without me
- that I am an example to him and teach him lessons every day on how to manage his time and prioritising his workload
- that he looks up to me
- that he’s happy to just let me get on with things, because he trusts that I know what I’m doing
- that he is very grateful that I do all the additional shite he asks me to (read: his work) without complaining
- that he’s impressed that I always have time to help others out.
- that he wants to give me more opportunities because he doesn’t want to lose me (this after I told him I’d likely only be staying until March next year or so)
Basically, at this meeting, he systematically invalidated all my reasons for being annoyed with him. Which really fucking pissed me off.
Now, of course, it remains to be seen whether or not he follows through.
One thing that did annoy me in our meeting (I wouldn’t be me if something didn’t piss me the fuck off…) was that he kept saying things like “I mean, we’re mates as well as colleagues, so I want to see you do well…”.
Okay, on the surface, that seems fine, but frankly, I’d rather separate the whole friends/colleagues thing and not speak about the friendship part when we’re talking about assessing my career. I don’t need a mate putting in a good word to progress in my job – I want to be measured on my performance, not be subject to a fucking nepotism that I didn’t ask for. He thinks he was being nice, but really, it was a bit insulting.
Other than that, life’s great. My little boy was five weeks old yesterday. I’m conscious that I’ve blogged about him very little, but to be honest, he hasn’t done very much. He’s a beautiful little bundle of perfection, and I love him with all my heart, but at the moment, all he does is sleep, cry, eat, piss, shit, then sleep some more.
Five weeks. Fucking hell, time really does start passing faster and faster as you get older, eh?
Comment from Erin while I massaged lotion into her back (she’s my almost-two-year-old daughter, so shut it):
“Mmm…that’s nice and dangerous.”
Duckie’s right. They don’t know it, but kids are the funniest people around.
I’ve had it with my manager. I use the term manager loosely, because to be honest he couldn’t manage to order a cup of coffee without asking for someone’s advice.
What kind of coffee should I get? Will I put milk in it?
If our relationship was purely a work-based one, it would be fine – I’d have complained about him and cited all the things that piss me off about him to one of the top boys, and they’d have beat the bastard shit out of him. (Discipline is of the old school variety in my company.)
Well, they would’ve had a word, at least. Things are never simple though, are they? Follow me, children, as I journey into the recent past….
A year ago, Eeyore and I were in different teams, at roughly equivalent levels in the company, with him being slightly senior due to the way management was laid out. Now, bear with me, because I know that straight away you’re thinking “This is just a jealousy thing because he’s now Kav’s manager”. I swear to you, that is not the issue. Well, sort of. You’ll find out what the fuck I’m pissed off about in a couple of minutes.
Anyway, at this time, I had only been in the company for three months. As the new boy, I was flattered and chuffed that Eeyore asked my opinions on so many topics, even those that (I presumed) he was vastly more knowledgeable about.
We became friends – I enjoyed his humorous, highly cynical outlook on life, and he liked me because I talk loads of complete bullshit. I even became a bit of a handyman for him at his apartment, putting up coving, moving some sockets, and the like. We got on very well, had a great laugh, and therefore had a great relationship at work. The only aspect of his personality that bothered me was that he seemed incredibly indecisive, and sought advice from you on even the most basic issues.
For example: Joe Bloggs sends Eeyore an email saying that they need him to get Job X done by this evening. Eeyore starts freaking out, saying “Oh fuck, what am I going to do? I’m doing Job Y all day, and it has priority over Job X!” So I’m like “How about picking up the fucking phone and telling them that? What fucking use is it sitting there moaning about it?”.
But rather than do that, he’ll sit there for an hour worrying about it, therefore being completely unproductive, and pissing everyone else off with his huffing and puffing while he tries to figure out what to do. After half a day, and having consulted with some senior managers (who are wondering why the fuck he’s bothering them with such insignificant shit), he responds to Joe Bloggs and says he won’t be able to do it until tomorrow. Of course, Joe gets pissed off that Eeyore has taken so long to get back to him, and he says “Could you not have told me any sooner? This is now going to significantly delay the project, whereas if you had responded immediately, I could’ve had time to allocate another resource to get the work done.”
Our working environment is very fast-moving, so indecision like this affects everybody.
OK, digression over.
In November last year, after a major change in the company’s direction, the department was reorganised, and one of the top boys requested that our team report directly to him. This was obviously quite an honour – he wanted us as a direct report because our newly-established team had been performing so well, and he thought hmmm, I’ll have some of that glory. We knew we had made a name for ourselves as being reliable and good at our work, so it was nice to have a positive affirmation of this, even if it meant little in terms of our day-to-day duties.
What this meant was that Eeyore and I were now on level footing in terms of status. (If you know the corporate world, you’ll know how irritatingly hierarchical it is.) However, the work we did in no way overlapped, so we both plodded along happily for a few months.
Then, in March this year, my manager handed in her notice. Eeyore and myself (and one other guy in my team, but he was never a contender) went for the job. Eeyore got it, in spite of the fact that:
(a) he knows the bare minimum about the workings of what we do (which raised warning bells with me that I would have to carry him on alot of stuff, but more of that later)
(b) he is, literally, the most indecisive person I know. How they chose to cast him in a manager’s role is beyond me.
(c) I am far more efficient, productive, and knowledgeable about what I do, than he is. This may sound arrogant, but fuck it, it’s the truth. I hate slippage, and work fucking hard to ensure everything I deliver is on time.
The reason for Eeyore getting the role over me was, apparently, because he has previous management experience. Aside from the obvious issue of “Well, if nobody fucking gives me a chance, I’ll NEVER get any management experience”, I was extremely irritated by the fact that these guys who interviewed us are our managers – they know what he’s like! They know how pedantic, indecisive, short-tempered, and stress-prone he is, and they still gave it to him.
It’s all politics. You know how offices are. I’m pretty sure (though of course, this sounds arrogant, and besides, I can never prove it) that on paper, I was a better candidate, but the guys had to decide: Do we give it to Kav, who’s new, and young, and is making a good impression, or do we give it to Eeyore, who’s been here a while, puts in alot of effort (without necessarily achieving much), and is a little older? Basically, I think they weighed up which of the two of us would be more likely to leave if we ended up having to report to the other, and they decided that because I’m newer, I’d be more likely to be accepting of Eeyore as my manager than vice versa.
They were right. Me, I don’t bear grudges, water under the bridge, yadda yadda yadda. I was genuinely ok with the fact that they gave him the job – in all fairness, he has been working there for longer than me, and he does have some skills, otherwise he would’ve been let go a long time ago. It’s just that the skills he has, IMHO, are not those a manager needs.
It wasn’t long before cracks started appearing in the team. Our annual plan went to shit, timelines for all the carefully scheduled work prepared by me at the beginning of the year started to slip. The sighing increased. I started getting dumped with loads of shit because he didn’t have time. What he meant was, I can’t prioritise to save my fucking life, and I panic if I have more than three things to do.
It’s pathetic, but I was so pissed off, I started keeping a log of the things he did that got to me.
Things that no employee should do, let alone a fucking manager who is supposed to influence and motivate his staff.
Here’s an extract. I am not fucking joking, most of these things happen on a daily basis:
- He doesn’t remember what I’ve been doing, despite me giving him weekly updates. Talking about a critical piece of work that I’ve spent ages on, he says things like “You had a meeting with him last week to sort that out, or did you? I really can’t remember” even if I’ve briefed him in detail on the outcome of the meeting.
- He moans constantly about the level of work and the pressure he’s under – in terms of our work, pressure this year is far less than last year. Last year we had to cram 12 months of work into 7. This year we’ve got a full year and he’s even managing to fuck that up.
- The moaning thing again – he spends far more time complaining than he does actually acting to resolve his problems. He does this in his personal life too. It’s distracting to everyone around.
- I get constant requests to “do him a favour”…they’re usually straightforward things, but that’s not the point. The point is: manage your own shit. I manage mine. An example of how stressed he gets is, recently, he asked me to review some files for him – he gave me half a day to do it. I had it done in 40 minutes. Not because I’m a genius, far from it. I just did the fucking job and then moved on to the next thing.
- He sighs heavily. All the bastard time.
- He seeks validation by asking questions on things he should alread know. This is linked to his inability to make a decision. I mean, he’s the manager, and he gets me to review his fucking work on an almost daily basis! It pisses me off so much that he’s been given the reponsibility, but can’t handle it, so he passes the burden on to me. Meanwhile, he claims all the credit for getting the job done, and I get fuck all. That’s why I started keeping the log. It’s one thing to just be annoying, but when you start to fuck me over, it gets serious. I’m ambitious, and I’ll be damned if some other cunt is getting credit for stuff I did.
- He rambles. He’ll interrupt you and say “Have you got a minute? I need to ask your advice on (*insert whateverthefuck today’s problem is*)”. Fair enough…what irritates me is that he spends the next five minutes telling you the entire history of the fucking world before he gets to the fucking point. Usually it’s just a yes/no answer and I didn’t need to hear any of the other bastarding shite, but try telling him that.
- The other morning, he asked me to review a document in my own time. For me, that would’ve meant “at some point today”. Twenty minutes later, he’s asking me for my fucking comments! I wanted to kick his fucking arse up and down the fucking corridor.
- To add insult to injury, the above document states “Reviewed by: Eeyore” in it. Just another example of my graft and effort being stolen and zero fucking recognition given to me.
- I know this is a long post, and probably nobody will read this far, but if you are here, you may remember up at the top, that I mentioned that I used to feel flattered when he asked for my advice and comments. Now I know better. On more than one occasion, I have sent him emails saying exactly what an issue is, what’s needed to remediate it and so on. One day, when he was off, his manager forwarded me a mail asking me if I would have sufficient knowledge to deal with this issue. I opened the mail to find my recommendation, copied word for bastard word into this mail from Eeyore to his manager, giving the unmistakeable impression that he had come up with all this shit on his own. I was fucking RAGING that day. I don’t know how many other times he has done this, but I’m retaining that mail as evidence for my year-end review. If I get any shit, I’m going to fuck him up.
- He stresses about everything, and gets headaches because he can’t handle even an ounce of pressure. Then he moans about his headaches. All day.
- His reviews of work that took my former manager 2 hours take WEEKS. I am not exaggerating for the sake of making this more entertaining. He takes weeks. That’s why our annual plan is so fucked up.
- He is completely inappropriate in a professional environment. Here’s an example comment from some kickass clients he was meeting with last week:
Client: Have you got our business card?
Eeyore: No, but give me one, they’re brilliant for picking your teeth.
He also brings sexual innuendo into almost every conversation. It sometimes makes me laugh, but it creeps out almost all the women I work with.
- He has no confidence in me, even though I know my work better than he does. He always feels like he has to review it. I submitted two reports for him to review last week, and yesterday he still had not touched them. I told him I couldn’t leave them any longer, and I just sent them out to the customer. He was like “Well, i suppose I can trust you, haha”, which just pissed me off even more. I had to send an apology to the customer for the delay, when what I wanted to write was “It’s not my fucking fault! I had them ready on time but my fucking manager couldn’t organise a piss-up in a brewery and the reports were sitting on his desk for a WEEK doing nothing before I decided enough was enough, because if I didn’t send them now, who the fuck knows when you’d have got them?!?”
So, I’ve ranted. But here’s the kicker: I like him. I like Eeyore a lot. And that’s what’s stopped me from complaining so far.
I think my head’s gonna explode soon if I don’t do something about this situation.
I wish I hadn’t signed up to the beta version of the new improved Blogger. Coming from a systems validation background, I ought to have known there would be annoying bugs everywhere.
The most annoying one is when I go to leave a comment on someone’s blog, and, after I enter my ID, password and word verification (the usual stuff), another screen pops up, asking for the same details. Then, when I re-enter them, I get dead space.
Kinda like this:
I’m just saying this to let you know, I have been trying to comment on your blog, but some of them just don’t seem to let me. I’m still lurking though, and you’re still making me laugh.
Also, my speakers at home are broken, and my work PC has audio/video disabled, so I can’t listen to any of the (probably hilarious) audioblogs that are going around at the moment.
I’m imagining Damian‘s voice to be as smooth as Isaac Hayes singing Chocolate Salty Balls, but I’ll probably never know…
I’m in a much better mood today. I already feel bad about hating that bitch yesterday.
I am fucking seething right now. I’m in awe at the sheer ignorance of some people. How much effort does it take to be polite and use some manners? Not. Fucking. Much. For some people, though, even to drag their eyes away from their monitor to look at you when you’re asking them a question is too much for them.
*rewind to 2pm*
I was offsite, at one of our other offices, doing a walkthrough of an application with one of the system administrators. Blah blah blah, nobody wants to hear any of the boring techie crap. Suffice to say that I finished the walkthrough at 2.10pm, and had one final item to get info on that the current person couldn’t help me with.
She told me I would need to talk to Ignorantbitchface to get that bit of info. Just to clarify, Ignorantbitchface is her real name; even her parents knew she’d be a fucking bitch.
One thing I can’t stand is rudeness, especially in the workplace. On the street, okay, there’s always going to be some rude bastards around, but at work, it’s just not acceptable. I don’t care if you’re the CEO or the janitor – you should treat people with respect. It’s the only way you’ll earn it. The only place you should be rude is your blog. Fuck shit piss arse balls etc.
So, Ignorantbitchface is on the phone. Fine, I think, I’ll wait for her to finish. Now, if it was me, and I saw someone waiting for me, I would finish my call as promptly as possible, so that I could deal with the person standing in front of me. But that’s just me, and I realise that some people do things differently.
That’s why I stay calm when she hangs up the phone…twenty-five minutes later.
I take a deep breath, and say “Hi Ignorantbitch, how are you doing?” (She gets called Ignorantbitch for short.)
She doesn’t even respond, because two other fuckers come over to ask her questions. She speaks to the first girl without acknowledging me, and then dismissively says “I’ll just be a minute, Kav” as she starts conversing with this other chap, who looks like he might be her manager.
Again, if this was me, even if this was my manager coming to me with an important question, I would still turn to him and say “Sorry N, but Kav has been standing here for a while waiting to talk to me – I’ll give you a shout as soon as I’ve finished, ok? We won’t be long.”
Wimp that I am, I sit there for another ten fucking minutes. At that point, I feel like the top of my head might be about to explode, so I stand up, push my chair in, and say “I’ve gotta get going. I’ll mail you later, you ignorant cunt”.
OK, I didn’t say the “you ignorant cunt” part. But I wanted to.
I stormed out of there, hoping that the uncharacteristic curtness and lack of sociability in what I said would make her see what an obnoxious cow she had just been. I drove home white-knucked, gripping the steering wheel like it was her throat.
I should point out, in case you think this is why, that she is not in any way senior in the company – we are roughly equivalent in our status, although she has been there over 20 years, and I’m there a year and a half. So it’s not as though I can even say “Oh well, she’s in a high pressure job in senior management, and sometimes those guys forget their basic social skills, they’re under so much pressure”.
I mean, I’m talking basic common courtesy here. I wouldn’t treat a pet with such disdain.
I think that I should say something to her, explain how rude I found her actions. I work with her fairly regularly, and the nature of our work involves alot of challenging and cross-questioning. If I don’t say something now, I can picture it building up and up and up, and then the next time she questions me on something, I’m gonna smash her fucking head with a baseball bat like Robert DeNiro did to that guy in The Untouchables.
Better yet, I’ll get The Hoff to do it:
Update: I spoke to a colleague, and he thinks she was just correctly prioritising who she felt she should talk to in order of seniority. I think that (a) she was chatting on the phone about completely non-work-related stuff at various times during her half-hour conversation, so they can’t have been that senior, and (b) I hate that stupid stuffy-corporate-hierarchy-hamster-ball-mentality.
I’m going to finish my work, and just forget about this.
I must say, having a blog is great therapy. In the past, all my rage would have been bottled.
I was over at Laurie’s blog, laughing my ass off as usual, but I laughed even harder when I saw her pirate pic at the end of the post.
It inspired me to dig out me cutlass and me ould parrot Quint:
Later that same evening:
|Your Pirate Name Is…|
Skull Crusher Jimmy Jailbird
Now with added monkey: