Stop Making Me Want You To Die

This office just took a downturn. Let me introduce you to yesterday, with Brenda.
We walked into the office together. When we reached our desks, she screeched in her vinegar whine over the tables. “So why were you late?” Only she didn’t use the inflection that might have implied that she was late too. This is her tactic, the shrill faux-friendly voice that lets everyone know your business. Thank fuck she can’t see the insane pornography I’m staring at all day.
I was having a conversation with the other woman opposite me. This is what I do when I’m not on the internet. Brenda comes back from whatever she fucking does in the corridor – to be honest I don’t want to think about it – and started repeating the last thing we said to each other. I checked her face without making eye contact, and her disgusting jowels were flapping with exasperation that she wasn’t part of the conversation. I hate her.
The man came to fix her telephone. For one week, she has been without a telephone, and has sat in her fucking chair like a puddle of dog shit, saying “everyone’s calling me! And I’m not available! I mean, if they want me to sit here do nothing, I will **GROTESQUE LAUGH** but I’d like to do some work! **GROTESQUE LAUGH**”
The phone man needed to drop some cable behind her desk. She couldn’t stop herself from trying to help; she kept pulling the cable in a way that exactly undid what the engineer had just done. I was furious on his behalf, and could barely stop myself from making audible whimpers as she yanked brainlessly away.
She conspires with me that she has been frustrated with her lack of a phone. “You’ve seen those comedy sketches, haven’t you?” I smile, but don’t reply with words. “You know those comedy sketches? Where the televisions go out the windows? Sometimes I feel like that.”
ONE РTelevisions out of windows is a rock star clich̩, not a famous set of comedy sketches, you cunt.
TWO – Do you mean you feel like you’re a television going out the window? Or do you mean you feel like throwing your television out of the window? What are you fucking saying, woman?
THREE – It’s called a MONITOR, you thick-striped twat.
“Yes, I’ve seen televisions out of windows,” I reply.
She calls me Jon. Fine, that’s my name. She calls Lynn Lynn. Excellent, well done. However, when she talks about our likeable and unsavage boss, Jan, she goes the extra mile and says the full name. Every time. Swinging it around like it lends her some kind of authority.
“Not just any old Jan, you understand! I am referring to the one and only J. Sherlock! Yes, the very same! Ms. J. Sherlock who runs post-registration nursing courses in this faculty we’re standing in right here!”
Here’s a heads-up, you cunt – I’ve seen Jan look at you, and it’s only because she’s a fundamentally nice woman that she doesn’t tell you to go stick everything in your pisspipes. You only escape it from me because I’m the kind of person who’d rather shout at the internet.
Out of morbid curiosity, I look at her face again, and see that her mouth is, in effect, upside down. Her tits are like well-chewed and rehydrated prunes. She trips over something, and jokingly threatens to sue something or other. Then all hell breaks loose as she discovers that there is a photocopier in the next room.
There’s a photocopier next door? I was told I had to use the ones on the eighth floor. I’ve been going up seven flights to do my work.
She then changes her story, and repeats it down the office.
There’s a photocopier next door? Sue was told that she had to use the ones on the eighth floor. She’s been lugging all her work up seven flights.
Right, you fucking hero. You altruistic piss-drinking darling. If it wasn’t enough that you’ve adopted Sue as your own personal Live Aid cause, you may have noticed those lifts? The lifts that take you up and down the building, you retarded Surrey fuck? Lifts make all floors the same floor!
Ms Sherlock walks past our table. Brenda – and I just stopped typing to snap a pencil even thinking the word – breaks off from nattering fruitlessly to me, and calls her over. “I don’t think Jon gets my sense of humour,” she said. “I think I’m a little bit too much for him.”
Don’t even get me started, bitch! I got your sense of humour the moment you opened your anus-lipped face! Your humour is unvaryingly a three-punch-combo;

  1. Squeal in that fucking voice you have for two minutes about how difficult everything is for you, because other people simply make your life hell.
  2. Say something resigned, like you don’t really care.
  3. ** GROTESQUE LAUGH ** to cover up the fact that no-one else gives a leopard’s gash about your interminable suffering at the hands of the hole-punch thieves.

It’s not that difficult to get, Brenda! Now blow it out your cunt!
She’s been quiet for an hour, now. God, I hate her so much. I’m going to walk around a bit, and see what’s on her screen.
It’s a database entry form page. Jesus. That’s just so totally her.
OH GOD SHE’S PUTTING A SANDWICH IN HER MOUTH. She put about half of it in. She’s only two feet tall, and she’s cramming granary bloomers into her leathery neck. It’s 3:45, woman! Since when was that STUFF YOUR FUCKING FACE O’CLOCK?
Her phone’s ringing too much for her. It’s rung around four times since it was fixed at 10:14. The first time it rang was “Here we go!!!” Every time after that, she flapped her arms at me as though to say “Look! Look at this! Isn’t is abominable, what I put up with? You understand, don’t you? We bonded in that twenty minutes I talked to you about my holiday. You remember, that 20 minutes where you didn’t say anything? I just went on and on at you? You remember, right? You must remember, because I didn’t even stop when you actually turned your back on me and scowled at the wall!”
So now, she has a new bane of her life. I honestly don’t think this woman could operate with any less than 20 concurrent banes.
In summary, Brenda is not the best work colleague, and if you have an office you’d like me to work in, please say so. I promise not to write anything like this about your staff.

6 thoughts on “Stop Making Me Want You To Die”

  1. I hope Brenda has a blog where she records her thoughts on Log.
    9.30 Told joke, Jon didn’t get it.
    10.00 Phone rang AGAIN.
    I am googling the shit out of this now. Come on Brenda Blog, where are you?

  2. See, I wish could write stuff properly about the people in my office who annoy me. But the anger gets the better of me and mine would just be:
    0905: Garreth texts to say he’s running late. Cunt.
    0925: Dave tells me the i-Series team have been screwing us over for three days. The Cunts.
    1117: Fucking cunts!
    Continue until I have a seizure.

  3. Can you not try and take a picture of Brenda on your camera phone? I’d love to see her face! I know it may look a bit suspect if you’re pointing a phone at her. Then again, if you’ve got the bollocks to take a picture of a soiled toilet cubicle then surely you can turn your phone’s sound off and get a picture of the cunt! I actually hate the woman, too. Gripping stuff

  4. I’ve just noticed that you’ve already posted a picture of her. I feel a right cunt. Is she yellow or is my monitor fucked? Or TV as Brenda would say! Maybe she has liver problems or something? I’d like to put that cunt through a window. I just feel wrong in getting so much pleasure of out Brenda’s cuntishness.


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