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Funniest fucking thing ever.

October 29th, 2006 (01:05 am)

Being the total winner that I am, I spent tonight (Saturday) in front of my computer, alone, drinking beer and looking through other people's memoried pages.

I found this:
on bjsurvivor's journal (I think - it was 2 hours and many cans of Fosters ago).

Set the controls for the heart of the sun [userpic]

Another letter to my manager.

October 29th, 2006 (12:06 am)


I hate you. You are a fucking liability: when you are around, things go to shit. Today, I wanted to headbutt you. We had busier days than today while you were away and everything went perfectly. Today, however, was a mess, simply because you were there, being atrociously lazy, as ever, and making terrible decisions. Yes, on a Saturday, one o' clock is the perfect time to send one of the three members of staff on their lunch-break. Fucking brilliant; good move, well done. I wonder, though: does the fact that she had to go and sit outside because there was not a single table available tell you anything?

Take a tip: GO INTO THE DELI*, AND STAY THERE. We do not need you in the cafe, we can cope on our own. When you come in here, all you do is park your fat arse behind the bar and make it impossible for any of us to do our jobs properly. I fucking laughed when you dropped a jug of hot milk down your trousers, because it only happened because you were trying to show off and do 3 things at once. As a result of your adolescent attempts to prove that you are more efficient than everyone else, everything just went slower than necessary.

Also, STAY OUT OF THE FUCKING KITCHEN. You are not helping, you are getting in the way. When I am trying to put a new order up or pick up food to take it downstairs, and you just fucking stand there talking complete BOLLOCKS to the poor chef, who can't escape, you are an obstruction. Next time you do it, I am either going to push you out of my way, or I am going to shout at you.

Learn to look where you're going, you twat. I would have been so happy if I'd dropped that tray of crockery I was carrying when you walked straight into me because you were looking behind you as you waddled from the cafe into the deli.
And for fuck's sake, saying "Gangster" instead of "Thank you" is not funny, and it does not make you look cool, it makes you look like a complete CUNT. Just shut up. Nothing you say is funny or has any value whatsoever.

Fucking prick. I hope you get fired.


*The place I work is made up of a cafe and a take-away/deli. There's usually one person working in the deli and everyone else works
the cafe.

Set the controls for the heart of the sun [userpic]


October 24th, 2006 (05:31 pm)

I fucking HATE the wasps that live in the bathroom wall - they are being a bunch of fucking un-cooperative DICKS.

This is the scenario: a few months ago my boyfriend and I noticed that we were finding a lot of wasps in his flat. At first we didn't know where they were coming from, but then I figured out where the nest was, because one day when I was outside I saw loads of them flying in and out of this tiny little crack between the bricks in the wall under his bedroom window.

We thought about calling the estate agents but they are such a bunch of twats that it's very unlikely that they would have done anything, so we didn't bother; we kept the problem under control by keeping the windows on that side of the flat closed or part-closed. Every now and again we'd still find the odd wasp inside, but nothing too serious.

But then the number of wasps in the bathroom started to rise: we would find 4 or 5 there several times a day, even when the window had been closed. Eventually I figured out how they were getting in: they come in through that weird fan thing that comes on when you turn the light on - the vent is directly underneath the entrance to their in-wall nest. I really do not know how else they could possibly be getting into the bathroom - however, neither my boyfriend nor I have ever actually witnessed a wasp coming in through the fan.

So today after I had removed FIFTEEN of the fuckers, I had a brainwave: I encased the fan, loosely, in cling-film (sellotaped securely all the way round) - the idea was to prove, once and for all, that that's how they get in. I was really excited to know if I was right; and I was pleased that I had found a method to test my theory that didn't involve killing them in large numbers.

But since I painstakingly set up my trap, three hours ago, not ONE wasp has fallen into it. NOT ONE. What the fuck is that all about? They're just taking the piss now, and it makes me angry, because when I find them inside I never kill them: I always go to great lengths to set them free - and this is how they fucking thank me? By laughing at my trap?

Fuck 'em. Any wasp I find inside now is going to get killed instantly and I am going to hang its body on a string and suspend it in front of the entrance to their nest, to show them what happens when I get pushed too far.
I now want to spray poisonous gas into their nest, and then smash a hole in the wall with a hammer so I can survey the carnage: all their stupid winged bodies strewn around. They think they're so fucking clever. Cunts.

Set the controls for the heart of the sun [userpic]

A letter to my manager

October 22nd, 2006 (08:16 pm)

Dear Dick,

You misjudged that one, didn't you? I don't suppose you're ever going to try to pull rank on me in front of my co-workers again, are you? Because chances are, I'll do exactly what I did today: laugh in your face and walk away to go and do some ACTUAL FUCKING WORK, leaving you looking like a complete tool.

When you refer to yourself in the third person,  you have to understand that people are going to think you're a pompous, jumped up twat. You also have to understand that when you're talking to someone who is 30 years old and has 10 years' experience putting up with shitty, incompetent managers, the natural answer to the (comedy) question 
"Are you, or are you not, finished being rude to The Manager?" is "No."

Go fuck yourself, you fat, useless fucker. If I was bad at my job - and if you were any good at yours - I genuinely wouldn't mind being spoken to like that. The facts are, though, that I am very good at my job and you fucking SUCK at yours. You change the rules constantly (do we stop doing breakfasts at 12, or not? Make up your mind, and fucking stick to it) and don't bother to explain them to anyone, then patronise us when we do things the way you told us to do them yesterday. You take orders from customers and forget to write them down, then hide in the kitchen when they start complaining. You give customers dirty cutlery - very nice. You refuse to just TELL the KP that she NEEDS TO WASH UP FASTER: instead, you order the waitresses to wash up all the cups in the timy sink behind the bar. You "just pop out" a minimum of 3 times a day, for a minimum of an hour at a time, and there is never anything to show for these expeditions. It's not like you're running out to get more milk, or trying to get to the bank before it closes: so where are you going? What are you doing, while your minimum-wage waitresses try to hold things together during the rush?

To be honest, though, it makes no fucking difference whether you're there or not because all you ever seem to do is either stand in the kitchen, leaning against the counter and talking bollocks to the chef, or stand behind the bar fucking around with the till and getting in the way of whoever's making drinks.

Tell me, why is it that for the 2 weeks that you were on holiday, the place ran without a hitch - and as soon as you got back and started running shifts again, everything started falling apart? Why is that? Why did we run out of 5 things on the menu today, 4 days after you got back and resumed responsibility for ordering? That didn't happen ONCE while you were away. Why were we so ridiculously short-staffed today? That didn't happen while the owner was running the place instead of you.

You fucking suck. And that pathetic attempt you made to assert your authority over yourself today just confirmed that I really do need to start looking for another job.

Set the controls for the heart of the sun [userpic]


October 21st, 2006 (10:37 pm)

Okay my sister is going to have twins and I am freaking out with excitement.

I'm trying to think of names for them (they're identical but we don't know if they're boys or girls) but all the suggestions I've seen so far are supremely shit.

Taylor and Tyler? Shit and shit.
Amy and May? Twee and twee.
Um... Dorcas and Tabitha? Are you trying to get them killed? (That one comes from a very weird, OCD site called "Logical Names For Twins." Yeah that's what everyone looks for in a name for their new baby: logic. The reasoning behind Dorcas and Tabitha is that "both names mean 'gazelle,' but Dorcas is Greek and Tabitha is Aramaic.")

So I need some help. Can you think of a pair of good names for identical twins? I have already suggested all of the followng, and had them rejected (wtf?):
Pepsi and Shirley
Popeye and Bluto
Tom and Jerry
Laurel and Hardy.

So. Suggestions, please.

Set the controls for the heart of the sun [userpic]

Why? Why??? Whyyyyyyyyyy?????

October 15th, 2006 (12:53 am)

Why do new customers in restaurants ALWAYS choose to sit on dirty tables? WHY? WHY?


At the place where I work, if a new group walks through the door and there are 10 clean tables and ONE dirty one, covered with cups and plates and crumbs and spilt water and tea, THAT is the one the new people will sit on. And then they call a waitress over and whinge about how the fucking table is dirty! YOU CHOSE IT! You rejected aaaalllllll the clean tables and you CHOSE this lone filthy cluttered table! FUCK YOU!

Today we even had a group of people come in and sit on a clean table and then get up and MOVE to a dirty one! WHAT... THE... FUCK?

Set the controls for the heart of the sun [userpic]

How bleeding on a customer's table helped me make a decision.

September 25th, 2006 (09:27 pm)

Making a decision is a big deal because I am SHIT at making my mind up.

I vacillate terribly. It doesn't matter if it's a really insignificant decision (should I have coffee or tea? which pub do I want to go to?)  or a really major one (should I move to Tanzania? should I defer my university studies for a year?)  - I can never just make up my mind.

But today, I was decisive. I had to choose between 2 waitressing jobs: one was well paid, the other less so. I am seriously in need of money because I'm over £16,000 in debt, so really, I should have grabbed the better-paid one with both hands.

I had a trial shift there last night, and something happened that made me realise that it's just not the job for me. Bear in mind that it's a very nice restaurant, very formal. 

I was  opening a bottle of wine at a table and, somehow, I managed to cut my finger on the foil. It didn't hurt at all, though, so I didn't realise that it was bleeding profusely until the blood had smeared all over my hand, and then started to dry and go stiff. At that point, I looked down and saw that there my hand was covered in blood, and it was all over the corkscrew, and even on the cork, which was only halfway out. The lighting in the restaurant is very low, and the couple at the table were having an animated conversation and weren't  paying me much attention, so I thought I could get away with it. I surreptitiously pressed the cut against my (dark brown) apron, and carried on. But it wouldn't stop bleeding;  and when I finally got the cork out I looked down and saw that I had dripped blood onto the ice bucket, got it all over the white linen napkin I was holding and, classiest of all, flicked it onto the woman's side-plate. Bizarrely, they still hadn't noticed; and they were really nice when I pointed out that I'd bled on the crockery, removed it,  and told them I'd be bringing a replacement. 

So there was no complaint (as far as I know) but that kind of weird fuck-up is absolutely  typical of me; and I know that it's not the kind of thing that usually goes down well in a place like that.

The other drawbacks associated with the job were:

  • It’s quite a long way from home;
  • lots of split shifts;
  • the manager is a cunt, and I hate feeling sick with fear before every shift;
  • I'd be finishing after 2am most nights;
  • the uniform sucks;
  • it's a very expensive restaurant so people expect a certain level of service, so if I fucked up - which I absolutely would have done, regularly - it would have mattered.

So I decided to go with the less well-paid, but infinitely less soul-destroying job, on the grounds that:

  • it’s much closer to home;
  • no split shifts;
  • latest finishing time is 6.30pm;
  • the manager is a human being;
  • it's a lot less formal, so the odd balls-up  wouldn't mean instant dismissal.
So yay! I looked at the pros and cons and I was decisive! I know that most people do shit like that every day, but for me, it's a Big Deal. So I am chuffed

Set the controls for the heart of the sun [userpic]

I swallowed my contact lens yesterday.

September 17th, 2006 (12:47 pm)

I had it in my mouth because my eye was really hurting so I took the contact lens out, and I didn't want it to dry out.
I couldn't put it in its case, because I didn't have it with me: I was at my friend Miranda's place, where I'd slept the night before (we went out drinking and her place is closer to the pub than mine is.)

So anyway I was lying there with my contact lens under my tongue, feeling very pleased with myself because I knew I wasn't going to swallow it - no way was I going to do something that stupid  -  and I started napping, just half-asleep like. And as it turns out, I can't actually control my reflex actions when I'm asleep, so I swallowed, predictably enough.

Then I had to walk around for most of the day only able to see out of one eye, which is very disorienting. I felt a bit sick all day too - although come to think of it that might have been more to do with the quantities of booze I drank the night before than swallowing a really small piece of polymer.

Set the controls for the heart of the sun [userpic]

People are never satisfied.

September 15th, 2006 (04:02 pm)

This guy called James Frey wrote a book called A Million Little Pieces, which is all about his life as an out-of-control,  meth-taking, crack-smoking alcoholic, and his "journey to recovery."  I picked it up in a bookshop once, and read the first few pages, because the guy I was going out with at the time was trying to convince me that I was an alcoholic (this was because he couldn't drink, because of the meds he was taking, so he didn't want me to, either). I found it quite hard going and not very compelling, so I didn't buy it.

Needless to say, it features plenty of outrageous anecdotes about the crazy shit he did while off his tits - graphic descriptions of his gruesome injuries (including tearing a hole in his cheek big enough to put his finger through); accounts of his assaults on police officers (including hitting one with his car) and subsequent arrests and jailtime; analysis of his failed relationships, etc etc.  Pretty standard,  for the "ooh look how fucked up my life has been!!!" genre.

So anyway, it sold really, really well in the States - 3 million copies or something - largely because Oprah Winfrey thought it was awesome and made it one of her book-club books.

And then it turned out that he'd made up a lot of the content - and people got really angry and self-righteous.
Oprah got him on the show and gave him a lecture: "I have to say it is difficult for me to talk to you because I feel duped. But more importantly, I feel that you betrayed millions of readers." His publishing house has agreed to refund anyone who feels that they were "defrauded" when they bought the book.

Duped? Betrayed? Defrauded?! What a load of shit! The people who bought the book got EXACTLY what they wanted: a ringside seat; a close-up of someone's car-crash life. They wanted to read about how totally fucked he was, and that's what they got. They derived enormous pleasure from reading all about his pain. They got a kick out of his desperation. Reading books like A Million Little Pieces is voyeurism, plain and simple. It's compassion pornography: "oh, yes! yes!! tell me how horrendous your life has been! make me feel baaaad for you!"  It's people getting off on other people's misfortune  - and as long as it has the desired effect, what difference does it make whether it all actually happened or not? 

And furthermore, shouldn't his readers be glad, instead of pissed off,  that most of it was made up? After all, if they were affected by the book, surely that's because they liked the narrator - so why exactly are they angry and resentful that he didn't suffer quite as much as they thought he did?

I don't see why anyone needs to be angry: the readers got their kicks, and the writer wasn't having as bad a time as he might have been - everybody wins.

This whole episode reminds me: my friend Ana and I have been planning for ages to write one of those "my parents abused me - wanna read all the details?" books. It'll be called Butterfly Lost or Too Young... or Still My Courage Burns or something similarly dreadful. We're going to make the abuse in it super-terrible, and it's going to sell millions to people who get off on reading about the sexual torture of children -  in a totally respectable way, you understand.

Set the controls for the heart of the sun [userpic]

Help me with this.

September 14th, 2006 (12:31 pm)

I have recently got involved in a nascent debate with a fucking fool person about Margaret Sanger. As an antichoicer, the fucking fool person has come out with the usual horseshit about how Sanger was a racist, just wanted to get rid of all black people, etc etc.

I have stayed away from the debate for a few days because I don't want to lose my rag, but I am not going to let it go: when I know I can reply without using the words fuck, fucker, and fuckhead, I am going to respond to his latest load of pious ignorance by providing the (very readily available to anyone who can actually be bothered to do their own FUCKING research, instead of just taking the anti-choice propagandists' word for it) evidence that actually Sanger was NOT a racist, and was working WITH the black community, not against them.

I just get so damn tired of doing other people's research for them that I am finding it really hard to compose anything even remotely civil. I just want to write "fuck off  you retard," but that's not going to change any hearts or minds, is it?

So will someone help me draft it? I'd be very grateful.

ETA: I have the factual material I want to show the guy (evidence that the quotes he cites are either made up completely, or wrongly attributed to Sanger; Rev Martin Luther King's tribute to her; etc).
I just need help coming up with a polite way of saying, "You're a fucking retard. Have you ever actually bothered to do any reading on Sanger at all? Why are you so ready to swallow whatever bullshit you're told by propagandists? Is this the best you can do - making baseless personal attacks on the woman who founded PP - and do you honestly believe that this means you gain points in the debate?"

Actually, I suppose the problem is that I DON'T want to say ANY of that: I just want to present him with the evidence in a civil way. I really don't want to just copy and paste, because people like him typically take that as an opportunity to say "omg u can't even argue for yourself!!!!1" - ignoring the fact that they themselves, er, can't argue AT ALL.