Tuesday, 7 August 2007

Office cubicle rage

I know I said I’d sworn off bagging employers, but an exception has to be made today. Has anyone else ever felt like presenting a manager or three for ritual public humiliation and torture? I had in mind a mass-attended butt-fucking by 45 John Holmes clones, followed by a couple hours of water-boarding and concluded with extraordinary rendition to an Egyptian prison for a quiet garrotting with a piece of very smelly cheese wire.

These feelings of something less than amity were provoked by some very, very obtuse and wilfully ignorant questions stemming from an inability to read earlier communications on the importance of delivery of certain information within strictly defined timeframes. One belated answer I got was a request to supply some ‘context’ to my urgent follow-up queries today, as well as an enquiry into what the precise nature was of the legislation that obligates us to report on this and that. It’s certainly true what is said of management: “Shit floats to the top”, and there are a number of malodorous little floaters in this general vicinity. In my parallel universe, I answered along the lines of: “Listen you cloth-eared twat, only someone with the IQ of an intellectually handicapped hamster could have asked a question like that. Are you taking any medication for what is clearly a chronic form of cognitive dysphasia? Please do not interrupt me ever again with your chromosome-missing twitterings, unless you would like a personal audience with my good friend, Anotoli Kalashnikov, aged 47.”

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