The Book of Freak

There’s no original thought here. This isn’t an uncommon feeling amongst my piers.  ‘Is this it?’  My self serving ego discusses this against the desire to lead some Orwellian fulfilling lifestyle as I push the grey button that breathes life into the little black box that ensures that I am tied to the kidney shaped desk that occupies the vast majority of my waking hours.

It’s a painful existence knowing that you cannot stand what you stand for during the best hours of a day.  WHY DO I TRY SO HARD?  I can’t stand the miserable fucks that I engage with.  I can’t stand the premise of the industry that I work in.  Bill Hicks said that everyone in marketing should just kill themselves for the greater good.  So I wonder where the guy making the pitch for a marketing company stands on his list of the cum stains that should be wiped from the earth.   I suppose that it could be said that I have a blessed opportunity in being able to recognise the short coming in my life.  In recognition, there is an opportunity to change.  Problem is that I’ve neither the financial means nor the testicular means to make the jump.  Resigned as I am to this, it is no less frustrating recognising that I’m floating through life hitting that plateau yet unable to get off or change.

Therefore my mornings consist mainly of filling my shoulders with rage at people in the car in front who have no idea the amount of shit I have to take if I don’t make it to that fucking clock in time to swipe my card so the little screen can confirm the daily occurrence that I am just a small number in a larger pool of numbers that ultimately don’t matter a fucking jot provided they turn up on time and hit the targets.

Having knowledge of which cubicle flushes properly is the only thing I can hang onto.  Depending if I make the clock or not depends on where I take my shit at 3pm.  Did I get a rough ride from the boss?  Did he give me a fucking school master stare as I skip into the fucking office self aware and sweating slightly.  WHY DO I DO THIS TO MYSELF EVERY DAY? Fuck it, they can have the toilet upstairs today.

It looks like a safe haven of shit ticket dispensing heaven.  Five mins to yourself.  However lest we forget that the fucking thing can only take a ghost shit at best.  If you have to wipe, even once, you ain’t sinking that shit for shit.  No amount of flushing is going to get that fucker in one go.  What is required is the pitiful endless wait to let the system refill after you flushed the first time.  It’s a fucking age.

That said, that’s when I thought I gave a shit.  Now I love that cubicle.  I go in there when they’ve given me hell.  I don’t even try and flush.  I leave that fucker in there floating like a big brown balloon slightly covered by a tiny piece of shit ticket so you can’t tell it’s there.  On our floor there are only plebs in the office.  The only other people who partake in that can upstairs are Managers and Directors.  A nice little present indeed.

I wish I could see who has to go in next but I’m out of there with only my imagination holding it up to the fact that they’ve done one of two things.  They flushed and were presented with my chocolate bomb hidden beneath the white flag of deceit surfing the wave of the flush and laughing at them doing it

or

they started pissing without flushing and are currently playing target practice with last nights curry.  Even at this point if they give the little general a squeeze so they can flush they’re gonna get needles like gonoreah waiting for that fucker to disappear.  Fuck em.