Two of the constants of life working in the advertising business.
1. When asking someone what their favourite book is, 9 times out of 10 you will receive an answer along the lines of "À la recherche du temps perdu by Marcel Proust". Fucking lies. Just admit you were queued behind the thousands of other morons to buy the latest Harry Potter. Morons who were old enough to know better.
2. Ask any gay man whether he is a giver or a taker and he will ALWAYS reply that he is a giver. There are quite a few gay guys in my work circle. All of them are givers apparently. Something don't look quite right here and it ain't the trident pointy beard, or the thick rimmed black glasses, and it ain't the piercing in your eyebrow at the age of 42. Nope, it is a simple matter of maths. Unless there is only 1 single gay taker in the entire city, a guy that all the other gay guys end up fucking exclusively, some of you are lying. Come on gay guys, admit being the bitch sometimes. No shame in it. If you're the one that the other guy holds down and dumps his mess into, be proud of that.
Monday 21 January 2008
Monday = Cuntday
Sundays are a fucking enigma to me. I am constantly at war with Sunday, have been since I can remember. When I was a kid, Sunday was the perfect time to go play in the park or the forest. If the weather was bad and I couldn't go out I would experience the beginning of the fear. The fear of unwarranted reprehension, for the smallest thing.
My mum turned into a monster every Sunday.
My dad worked nights and didn't get out of bed until say 3pm. Sunday was the day my mum did the boring household shit that comes with having 2 young children. All that washing, cooking, cleaning and breaking up fights put my mother in a beautiful mood. You stepped lightly on Sundays in my house.
That was me up until I left home and took my first job in a casino. Shift work. I had Wednesday and Thursday off, worked nights the rest of the week. Sunday was just another work day to me then and I slept through most of the day anyway. That pattern continued pretty much for the next 10 years. I have to say that by the time I left the casinos, Sunday had taken on an almost mystical quality. I wanted that generic lazy day that everyone else had. I was fed up with my job and wanted out. I rationalised my occupational apathy by telling myself that if I was a normal person who didn't sleep all day long and work at night, didn't spend their version of a weekend forever going out on Tuesday and Wednesday nights, worked a 9-5 job, everything would be OK.
Imagine my surprise that 4 years into leading a "normal" life, I find that the bullshit is exactly the same on this side of the fence. I waste 50% of my weekend with the nagging, almost debilitating ice ball in my stomach that is "Fear of Monday".
Fuck Mondays for spoiling my Sundays. I hereby declare Monday to be a big bullying cunt of a day. All other days shall now refer to their colleague Monday as "Cuntday". As should all humans. Next week when you leave work on a Friday evening, turn to your colleagues and tell them that you shall "See them on Cuntday". A blatant reminder to us all that because it is Cuntday, it is OK to be a grumpy bastard, or cunt if you will. I will.
Driving to work in the morning and some fucker cuts you up? Ram them off the road. Using "The Cuntday Defence", you shall be acquitted immediately from any court in the land for any crime. "It was Cuntday your honour and he looked at me all funny...let's face it, he deserved the machete treatment."
Someone barges past you to get on the escalator before you do during the pleasures of rush hour on public transport? Simply cover them in petrol and set fire to them. They certainly won't be doing that again in a hurry. Education is a good thing. I caramelise you for your own good.
You too can join in the pleasures of Cuntday even if you live in rural areas. Driving to work and that same fucking sheep gives you a funny look again? Kick the fucking crap out of that sheep. Boot it down the largest hill in your village, making sure all other villagers hear you telling that woolly cunt who is boss.
I have Thursday and Friday off this week. The fear is minimal today. I can just about handle it.
My mum turned into a monster every Sunday.
My dad worked nights and didn't get out of bed until say 3pm. Sunday was the day my mum did the boring household shit that comes with having 2 young children. All that washing, cooking, cleaning and breaking up fights put my mother in a beautiful mood. You stepped lightly on Sundays in my house.
That was me up until I left home and took my first job in a casino. Shift work. I had Wednesday and Thursday off, worked nights the rest of the week. Sunday was just another work day to me then and I slept through most of the day anyway. That pattern continued pretty much for the next 10 years. I have to say that by the time I left the casinos, Sunday had taken on an almost mystical quality. I wanted that generic lazy day that everyone else had. I was fed up with my job and wanted out. I rationalised my occupational apathy by telling myself that if I was a normal person who didn't sleep all day long and work at night, didn't spend their version of a weekend forever going out on Tuesday and Wednesday nights, worked a 9-5 job, everything would be OK.
Imagine my surprise that 4 years into leading a "normal" life, I find that the bullshit is exactly the same on this side of the fence. I waste 50% of my weekend with the nagging, almost debilitating ice ball in my stomach that is "Fear of Monday".
Fuck Mondays for spoiling my Sundays. I hereby declare Monday to be a big bullying cunt of a day. All other days shall now refer to their colleague Monday as "Cuntday". As should all humans. Next week when you leave work on a Friday evening, turn to your colleagues and tell them that you shall "See them on Cuntday". A blatant reminder to us all that because it is Cuntday, it is OK to be a grumpy bastard, or cunt if you will. I will.
Driving to work in the morning and some fucker cuts you up? Ram them off the road. Using "The Cuntday Defence", you shall be acquitted immediately from any court in the land for any crime. "It was Cuntday your honour and he looked at me all funny...let's face it, he deserved the machete treatment."
Someone barges past you to get on the escalator before you do during the pleasures of rush hour on public transport? Simply cover them in petrol and set fire to them. They certainly won't be doing that again in a hurry. Education is a good thing. I caramelise you for your own good.
You too can join in the pleasures of Cuntday even if you live in rural areas. Driving to work and that same fucking sheep gives you a funny look again? Kick the fucking crap out of that sheep. Boot it down the largest hill in your village, making sure all other villagers hear you telling that woolly cunt who is boss.
I have Thursday and Friday off this week. The fear is minimal today. I can just about handle it.
Wednesday 2 January 2008
The First Steps To Becoming A Serial Killer
If I was feeling like writing something particularly eloquent about the way I feel right now, I would probably begin with an insight into the situation that caused this urge. I am not feeling it right now so I shall have to make do with a question.
If you knew for a fact that you could get away with it, would you go on an indiscriminate killing spree?
I'm talking all out war. You against the world. No guns allowed. An indiscriminate killing spree executed with stunning bravado and otherworldly elegance. Your weapons? Blades of all sizes and descriptions. Unleashing the Rapture on your neighbourhood with style and artistry of the highest level. The entire populace unlawfully separated from their appendages against their will, obviously. As you complete your god given mission, you view your desolate creation with the light of religious fervour shining brightly in your eyes as your chest heaves to suck in air, arms hanging tired at your side. Then, and only then, can you drop the machetes beside you, walk slowly to the local McDonald's, cook yourself a Filet O' Fish which you eat slowly, savouring every bite as you ponder The Book of Revelations, and more specifically your place in it.
I wouldn't think twice.
If you knew for a fact that you could get away with it, would you go on an indiscriminate killing spree?
I'm talking all out war. You against the world. No guns allowed. An indiscriminate killing spree executed with stunning bravado and otherworldly elegance. Your weapons? Blades of all sizes and descriptions. Unleashing the Rapture on your neighbourhood with style and artistry of the highest level. The entire populace unlawfully separated from their appendages against their will, obviously. As you complete your god given mission, you view your desolate creation with the light of religious fervour shining brightly in your eyes as your chest heaves to suck in air, arms hanging tired at your side. Then, and only then, can you drop the machetes beside you, walk slowly to the local McDonald's, cook yourself a Filet O' Fish which you eat slowly, savouring every bite as you ponder The Book of Revelations, and more specifically your place in it.
I wouldn't think twice.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
