Brenda Is Dead : Long Live Monica

It’s not entirely fair. Boo hoo, it’s not fair. 🙁
My job covering the cervical screening course ended ten days ago, but they liked me enough to take me back. Now I’m in another role, whose details are too dull to properly understand. But today is my first day back, after taking a week off watching the telly.
This morning, I got off the bus, and Brenda greeted me. With a weeklong drudge slog hanging from my ankles, this would normally have made my tongue sizzle. But, bouyed by my absence, I winked at her, and decided to keep the conversation on my terms – largely by talking over her. Incredibly, she liked it, and decided to let me in on the office news.
Monica’s got my chair.
My hatred of Monica pre-dates Brenda by some weeks. Monica is a mythical office spectre; her long absences based on entertaining illnesses. When RSI became a commonly-known condition, she had an epiphany – that’s why her hands were shit at doing things! It wasn’t her under-gifted shitfa brain firing off a relentless volley of dumb, dumb commands, it was Health and Safety’s fault.
Now, she has two wrist rests. Presumably if she balances it out, so that she’s had an average of one wrist-rest over the course of her life, this will cure her “RSI”. It’s only because her nails are as long as an Indian fakir’s that she can reach the keyboard at all.
Then, she ruined her reputation for hypochondria by getting a tumour in her eye. Where it would be uncharitable of me to claim that a God-fearing Mormon such as Monica would fake a tumour in her eye, it does give her the opportunity to do the following, which appear to come very naturally to her;

  1. Take months off at a time, to put eye drops in.
  2. Burst into tears whenever asked to do work, because it all so horrible.
  3. Steal my fucking desk, because the “glare” from her identically-lit monitor is too much for her.

My desk was magnificent. No-one could see what I was doing on the internet. Monica’s desk, apart from having the stink of long-term illness about it, is exposed to the whole office. And that’s what the crafty cunt was up to, the second she got her chance. Honestly, you let your guard down for a fucking second. I’m going to dazzle her with the reflection from my watch. I’ll give the bitch glare. Come get some glare! I got a wrist fulla the stuff! And if I get tired, reflecting sunlight into your tumour, I’m gonna come round your desk and rest my bitty wrists! ‘Cos your desk is like some kinda fuckin’ wrist spa! With little wrist-jacuzzis and shit!
Now, I’m not one to bitch, but I’ve seen her typing letters in Excel. I watched over her shoulder, my mouth blopping open-shut in awe. I asked her whether she should be using a word processor, like Word, the software for words. It’s part of the Office package for offices, I explained. She replied – “I tried that, I couldn’t get the words over here.” She pointed to the cell range G1-G5, where she had typed the address.
At the moment, as I live and type, she’s being talked through a data entry form. She was told “you put the name in there”. Her reply, with the emphatic arrogance that I love so much…
“Why does it ask for name? You leave name blank.”
Now, I don’t know where to focus my hatred. Dog with two dicks. I know what I’ll do – I’ll ignore them both, and try to write something funny that’s not based on hating the cunts that fill this world. It is getting to be a bit like shooting a pike in a teapot.

7 thoughts on “Brenda Is Dead : Long Live Monica”

  1. Don’t you DARE even THINK about not writing about Brenda. For some reason that I can’t quite put a reason to – I find her exploits completely fascinating.

  2. Monica sounds like she was put on this earth to make you appreciate Brenda, your inevitable post office party* one night stand.
    People who are that technophobic deserve all they get. You should probably drop in an easily overheard comment about how computers cause tumours. You might get your desk back.
    * – as in ‘after your office party’, rather than a party in a post office that you both happen to attend. Though that might be fun too. Stamps laced with vodka etc.

  3. Don’t worry Log. Monica won’t be around for long. H5N1 should take care of even the most hardy of ropey old birds, particularly if it joyously unites with human flu – and I pray nightly to Oholu Sakpata (the ancient African god of disease) that it will. Failing that, you could always take Brenda’s stapler and stick it on Monica’s desk. Light the blue touch paper and stand back…

  4. Monica reminds me of a lovely lady I work with, who is continually taking time off because she keeps getting outbreaks of Herpes all over her face.
    We’re not talking cold sores around the lips, here. We’re talking great big fucking hob-nob biscuit-like scabs over the jawline and cheeks, too.
    No one minds that she takes time off; the alternative is to have to look at her crusty leper face during lunch.

  5. Step 1 – Buy PVA Glue
    Step 2 – Apply pva glue liberally to face. Avoid eyes unless you enjoy running round the house screaming like a red-eyed banshee.
    Step 3 – Wait for glue to dry.
    Step 4 – Using fingernails and a ruler, tear off strips of now hardened PVA glue.
    Step 5 – Admire leper-like appearance in mirror.
    Step 6 – Enjoy the use of unmentionable embarrassing disease to ensure nobody comes too close and make much of your free time.
    Step 7 – Laugh at the poor shmoe posting on a website about poor you as you jet-ski in Ibiza.

  6. you are not alone in your suffereing. i have the vastly irritating jj, currently sitting about 40 feet away but yes even from here i can hear her shrieking about her fake 36GG tits. from what i can hear i think she wants to remove the lumps of clingfilm or whatever it is inside them to “stop other women being jealous of me”. she’s now going on to blame her rubbish performance at work on this titty-envy, politely
    ignoring the fact that she’s too stupid to understand the most basic picture request, vain, conniving and very very loud with it and that’s why we hate her – for making our lives a decibel-busting misery. doesn’t she know that silent incompetence can be a virtue? help!!!!!!


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