Between the Lines, Please
what kind of fuckery
Dear Mr Boss Captain Mr Boss,

The company car is two or three times the size of a normal company car. I understand this makes it difficult to park, and you are not always very bright, so I'm going to try and help.

There are these THICK WHITE LINES, yes? In theory, the car should go between them. There is are concrete supports on either side, yes. Welcome to the parking garage. There are concrete supports. They are supposed to be there. The next time I catch you complaining about them and trying to knock them down with the company car, God as my witness I am going to cut all your ties in half. I'm the one who has to fix any damages to the company car and the parking garge. Me. Not you. I am the one who is inconvenienced, and if you knock over the support? I can tell you right now: Windex and a bit of elbow grease is not going to fix it.

Anyway, yes. White lines. They are thick. They are on the ground. They do not move, so quit telling me they must have fallen through a temporal shift of some sort right as you came up to park the car.

No where - I repeat, NO WHERE - does it say, in any shape, form, or fashion, to park the company car behind my car, thus delaying me in getting to the drycleaners so I can retrieve your trousers.

I can't believe this is what my life has become.

Parking. You're doing it wrong. Please see the diagram I left on your desk for further details.


They're official documents. For the love of Christ.
what kind of fuckery
I do not pretend that the documents where I work are devoid of errors. I am sure they are rifled with their share of typos and grammatical fuck-ups. But I also know that none of the documents I have written up look like that. Why? Because they are government documents. We leave records to our successors on what we have seen and how certain obstacles may be overcome. I take my work seriously, seeing as how if you muck about you can inadventently destroy the universe or get shot or get a spot on your tie.

I found a delightful series of old documents today in the archives. Apparently, Torchwood used to have things called "mettings," wherein they discussed things like the "compnesation" of "those Tory puffs" for the "runway weavil."

The worst part is that it looks to have been written in my boss's handwriting. I hope he was drunk at the time. He always does certain... things... when he's drunk.

Water Cooler Conversation - SHUT THE FUCK UP!
oh fuckbugger
Ironic I should use that subject line, as I loathe it when people use all caps.

Listen. I know I'm just the peon here who happens to be fucking the boss. I know that it doesn't come with as many perks as it could (everyone else he's slept with is dead, after all). I still have to make the goddamn coffee.

Though if I may say, it is excellent coffee.

Back to the point - and I will digress for now on what happens when the office mascot shits on the coffee machine, and I was having a bad day and left some in the cup when I poured the boss's coffee (What? It's not like it was going to kill him) - there has been some water cooler conversation going around the office lately.

Here's the thing. There is a time and a place for water cooler conversation. The time: During break. The place: The water cooler. Not at the coffee machine. Where I have to be, most of the time, by the way, because these people are addicted to my coffee (perfectly understandable given some of the things I put in it).

Talk somewhere else. Outside on the roof, for instance, like the pompous prick you are. Or go out with your fucking husband to an Indian restaurant on yet another night you're taking off early, leaving me here cleaning up bird shit and trying to amuse the boss with naked hide-and-seek (Harrassment, that's all I'm saying, if I so desired and weren't worried about having my mind wiped and walking around in some godforsaken place like Nebraska thinking my name was Ron) in order to distract him from that other thing in the basement - which thank God no one's found out about that.

Where was I going with this? Oh, right. But with the water cooler conversation? Yours is stupid. Incredibly, unbelievably, please-pass-the-axe-so-I-can-put-the-pointy-end-in-my-head stupid. It is punctuated with "likes" and "buts" (or in one person's case, "butts" and variants thereof), and talk about reality television. Given what we do all day, I suppose you could make a case for escapism, but Big Brother is going too far. I don't want to hear that shit. I'm too busy rereading Moby Dick and fake-laughing at all the innuendos my boss makes about it.

God, are there a lot of innuendos. I'm really starting to hate that book.


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