the blasts, the fallout, the sickness and the diar[y]hoea

And the winner is…

I hate work. It’s official. It probably doesn’t come as a big surprise to anyone. I’m an educated man and yet I find myself dragging my arse into a small grey office to work with people who barely dip a toe into the shallow end of the gene pool.

There’s Sourpuss, a middle aged, a perpetually miserable woman who finds her only comfort in 4 packs of fags a day. She actually smells like death. And the Bullshit Bobs numbers 1 and 2. These two are wiry, share a penchant for dodgy pinstripe suits and are engaged in game of bullshit one-up-man-ship.

Today I have passively smoked about 20 cigarettes and had to endure the BB’s try to outdo each other on the subject: “Who Was The Most Out Of Their Mind Drunk On Saturday.” The conversation went as follows:

BB1: I was so drunk I got lost going home, and get this, it was only a 5 minute walk.

BB2: Me too but I got so lost I ended up in another town.

BB1: I was so pissed I ended up in someone elses house.

BB2: (laughs) I actually got into bed with someone.

BB1: (snorts) I woke up in someone elses bed and it was a girl and she was hot.

BB2: I did that too AND ended up shagging her.

BB1: Yeah me too, and her Mum. Who was fit too. Not old.

BB2: So what. I did that twice and when I left I puked on her doorstep

BB1:(silent thinking) Yeah that is pretty drunk.

Victory to Bullshit Bob 2.

I wonder how long it would take them to die if I stabbed them with my biro. I’d try it if I didn’t think they would compete over that. Can you imagine it.

BB1: I’m dying.

BB2: I’m dying more.

And so on. Only 3 hours/60 fags/2 BB’s to go til I can leave.


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