Christmastime in the Emerald City











{September 13, 2007}   Fuck You, You Fucktarded Fucking Fuckbags

Okay. You know what? Fuck everybody else. I am fucking awesome, and everybody else who doesn’t agree with how awesome and always right I am can go fucking fuck themselves. My farts smell like fucking cinnamon buns, I am so fucking awesome.

(I also like the word fuck, because nothing else comes quite as close.)

Fuck not getting easily upset and letting things fucking piss me off. Fuck not wanting to walk into someones office and stab them in the ugly fucking face. Fuck my doctor for giving me fucking antidepressants to cure my homicidal tendencies and making me feel like I’m coming down from fucking crack ALL DAY LONG. Hello?!!?!?! Did you not hear me? I said I’m so fucking awesome, my farts smell like CINNAMON BUNS!!!!!! I asked for something to make me less angry, or at least make me less angry about not being allowed to punch people in the throat! Do I sound depressed to you?! I’m so fucking happy most days, I might as well have ice cream coming out of my face. It’s just that most days, it would make me even happier to remove someone less awesome than me from the face of the earth, preferrably with a great deal of violence.

These fucking fucktards, who have been fucktarded before, are being even more fucktarded now. I got an email from my fucktard of a boss, who is leaving early to go scope out a fucking car instead of maybe dealing with various shit-and-fan collisions, to credit these fucktards the dollar fucking thirty two that they decided they didn’t feel like spending on their fucking postage.

I’m going to interrupt here to apologize to any of my colleagues (ie: clients whose rent pays my salary) who might read this. Obviously, you are not fucktards, or you wouldn’t be allowed to read my blog. I try very hard not to get this angry over insignificant matters, like something amounting to less than a twoonie that will not come out of my pocket anyways. I try very hard to bring back my whatever-will-be-will-be seventeen year old self whose biggest fucking problem was a calculus test that I knew wouldn’t be a problem six months later.

However, I have to deal with fucktards each and every day, probably well past six months from now, and today I want to kick several fucktards in the teeth for making a huge-ass fucking deal about a tiny amount of money, thereby ruining my fucking anger-susceptible day. You sons of bitches pay two thousand dollars a month for your fucking office, and you are kicking up shit over the cost of a fucking McNugget!!!! 

Some other retard kicked up a fuss because she got billed for mail we fedexed to her house, as per her fucking instructions. When she complained that she didn’t realize how much it would cost, we told her ‘fuck you, it’s not our fucking problem you didn’t read your list of billable services or think to make any inquiries about their cost.’ Obviously, not in those exact terms. It’s my job to answer your phones and sort your fucking mail, not hold your hand. Assmongers.

But no. These fucktards demanded that they get a credit memo on their next months rent for a dollar-fucking-thirty-two, or else…WHAT?!?! That’s what I would like to know, really, seeing as how I am not the fucking manager and do not have a say in these corporate fucking decisions. What did they threaten to do if we did not supply them with this money?

It doesn’t matter that I have done my job by recording the precise date and time of their usage of our services. It doesn’t matter that the error was theirs – they do not wish to pay for their forgetfulness. Apparently we are allowed to give in to whoever whines the loudest. Because not only do we have to give them their money back, so they can spend it at fucking Kentucky Fried Chicken or wherever else you can get anything for that much money, but I have fucking INSTRUCTIONS to follow regarding their mail from here on in. If by any chance, their retard of a fucking employee forgets to stamp their uber important fucking mail, I am supposed to weed it out of the envelopes dumped in there by the sixty something other people who rent offices here. Furthermore, it’s some apparent mystery why I didn’t do this in the first place. Thank you for fucking telling me that it doesn’t matter whether or not I do my job fucking properly.

Do you think I have fucking time to make sure your asswipe employees do their job on top of my own?! It’s very fucking simple – you put the mail in the basket and it gets stamped. Not. Fucking. Difficult. And I can follow fucking instructions: I’m going to be late tomorrow, calls to my cell phone, give this package to so and so, tell my clients I’ll be out of the office on Tuesday, some guy whose name nobody can fucking pronounce will be in to see so and so in such and such a room, make sure there’s catering. For dozens of people at a time. As I’ve said, I am awesome, and am told that on a regular basis by clients and visitors amazed with my abilities.

But these particular fucking jerkfaces are 1) giving me instructions that don’t make fucking sense, and 2) assuming that I was supposed to read their fucking minds all along. I’m sorry, but it’s fucking difficult to conduct telepathy with a fucking unshelled peanut or cymbal crashing monkey, whichever image is most appealing as a symbol of a lack of fucking brainpower. How the fuckass am I supposed to know that you didn’t really mean to put an unstamped envelope into a basket full of unstamped envelopes waiting to be fucking stamped?!?!

This would all be fucking bad enough and cause for me to walk in there and kick some cheap asses for making me waste time and money on printing off reports to indicate that yes indeed, we stamped one fucking envelope for them, and then wasting more time and money and paper and ink printing off a fucking credit report (not done by me, in all fairness, but by equally astounded Sassy Friend), all of which wastes far more than a dollar and a bit. Really, it would be bad enough right there.

But no, fucktard himself comes out from behind his mail-mistamping minions and walks up to my fucking desk with a big shiteating grin to ask me what time the fucking mail gets picked up every day. (We are now talking about incoming mail, as opposed to outgoing mail. Keep up.) Your mail, I inform him with a massive smile, is sorted and in your individual mail receptacles by 1:30 pm. It is the same every day, and you should know this. Do not expect it any earlier. He continues to smile and informs that he is aware of what time it is sorted. He wanted to know what time it gets picked up.

I pick up the mail at approximately 1pm. AFTER my lunch.

He pauses, the smile falters, and he replies with an “…oh” before walking away. I’m sorry, what did I catch there? Are you expecting something? Were you going to ask me to perhaps let you paw through the mail and everybody else’s incoming cheques for your special item? Or be so bold as to ask me to fish it out for you and inform you of its arrival, thereby further etching in concrete your special fucking status above everybody else here smart enough to not bitch about stamps?

Don’t you dare throw a fucking tantrum about paying for a stamp and then ask me for mail-related favours. I will kick you in the fucking head. To add further insult to one cactus-bashing of an injury, they didn’t pick up their fucking mail until 3pm.

FUCK YOU, YOU FUCKTARDED FUCKING FUCKBAGS!!!!!!

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Maytina says:

Ok, so my fave quote in this post is the following.

‘I’m sorry, but it’s fucking difficult to conduct telepathy with a fucking unshelled peanut or cymbal crashing monkey, whichever image is most appealing as a symbol of a lack of fucking brainpower.’

This kills me. It also kills me that such douchebags exist. How do people like this make it past 25 without being stabbed at a frat party? Honestly, it’s just how they’re weeded out, those not fit for society with the rest of us. I have no idea how they have managed to not only survive, but somehow end up as some kind of ‘professional’, albeit a professional that has to rent office space by the hour, but still. I don’t understand it and we shall have to introduce ouzo to our gatherings now to melt the part of the brain that remembers such things.



nahole says:

Listen greenie – your repeated use of the work fuck gives me total fucking wood; but shit girl, write some shorter fucking posts. All this reading really cuts into my taking a dump/getting wasted/jacking off time.



greenmetropolis says:

Sorry asshole, I do tend to ramble. But in this case, it was to keep me from going apeshit on some fucking retard. Because, you know, I do like my job for the most part with the time to blog and all, and I’d kind of like to avoid getting fired.

Oh, and the fucktard who eventually picked up the mail came back twice to get the code to unlock the door. Because the numbers sixty, sixteen, and sixty-two apparently all sound the same. Dumbass fucktards.

May: do not let me stab anything with knitting needles tonight.



romi41 says:

“I’m so fucking happy most days, I might as well have ice cream coming out of my face”

You continue to bust out the wicked-ass lines; I love it.

And sorry about all the fucktard-ism, hope your upcoming work-week starts off a little better! 🙂



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