Archive for May, 2008

Inconvenience Stores, EFTPOS & The Death Of Community

Posted in Random Shit That Gives Me The Cunt with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on May 20, 2008 by Buck Frain

I’ve told you about my morning ritual before. All I want in the morning is my coffee. This morning I had no milk. Fuck. I know it’s never gonna be a good day when I have to put pants on before I’ve had coffee but I know they won’t serve me at the shop if I’m not wearing pants. 

So pants, shoes, shirt, just like a normal person, eyes still crusted over with sleep I head off to the corner shop. 

My corner store is not a franchise, it’s a traditional mum & dad business run by an ancient Indian couple. They barely speak and they move with a Thorazine slowness that is infuriating when all you want is a metcard before you miss your train. Luckily, I have time this morning. I place the milk on the counter. The wizened old crone shuffles to the counter, looks the milk over, looks at me, peruses the chart next to the cash register. Four dollars. she mumbles through her three remaining teeth. You think I’m being unkind but it’s the truth. I realise that I only have 95 cents and a sweaty piece of chewing gum in my pocket. I shove it back in and pull out my wallet. Empty. I hand her my card. Minimum $10 EFTPOS she recites blankly. 

I know I have less than $10 in my account. I drank tequila last night with mates and I know there is no $10. I don’t have $10 in the account. I’ve got about 8 bucks ’til Wednesday. She is unmoved. $10 minimum purchase. I’m not impressed. I just need some milk so I can have coffee. Why? I ask. She doesn’t understand. Why $10? She looks at me like I’m a trouble maker, someone definitely not to be trusted. It’s the rule. $10. Like that explains anything. FUCK! I fuckin’ hate this shit. 

I’ve heard the various justifications and they all sound like complete bullshit. The banks charge us money on small purchases. I’d believe it, the banks are all cunts – that doesn’t justify it, though. Do you know how much these machines cost per month? Obviously not too much or you wouldn’t have one, you fuckin’ tight-arse! Blah blah blah. It’s fucked. I have money. I want to hand it over in exchange for goods. This is the way it works, isn’t it? The cunting banks just fuck everything, how many times can they charge fees for the same transaction? Aren’t they supposed to provide a service or put something back into the community? CUNTS!!! IOf course, it could just be a cheap upsell technique used by drowning businesses to coerce a few extra dollars from a desperate consumer, and I confess in the past I have bought shit I didn’t even want just to get the shit I needed. I’d probably do it today if only I ACTUALLY HAD TEN DOLLARS WHICH I FUCKING WELL DON’T!!!

So I stare at the old woman across the counter. I change tack. Could you just put it through? How about you charge me $8 for the milk. You double your money, I get milk, that has to cover your costs, yeah? She shakes her head and waves an index finger at me like a naughty child. No no no. $10 minimum. OK. That failed. In a last ditch effort: OK, can I just take the milk? I’ll pay you on Wednesday, I promise. Her eyes widen like she’s never heard anything so preposterous in her life – which is a long fucking time to not hear anything like this. No! She’s shouting at me Put it back if you don’t have money. You come back on Wednesday with money I sell you whatever you like. Go on! Get out! Get out of here!

She reached for a broom and was going to sweep me out of the fucking shop, for real. She grabbed it, raised the bristles at me and began to walk around the counter – I just left. You win, lady. FUCK!!! I’ve been going to her fucking dank, cockroach-infested shithole every couple of days for two years. Two fucking years and this is what I get for customer loyalty. I get swept away like garbage because I wasn’t spending ten lousy bucks. I can’t seriously go back there now. Not ever. I’m a fuckin’ person. I bought their overpriced shit because of convenience. FUCK YOU, YOU FUCKING OLD BITCH!!! Where is compassion? Where is community? Where is the next nearest fucking shop to my house? FUCK! How fucking depressing. Black coffee, a big dose of humiliation and the loss of my corner store forever.

You’ve Got Buckley’s.

Posted in Human Stupidity with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on May 18, 2008 by Buck Frain

I received this yesterday, I thought I’d share it with you.

Dear Mr Frain,

It has come to my client’s attention that you have been reproducing her anecdotal material in written form on your blog entitled “Buck Frain’s Angry Place.”

Not only does this action breach The Privacy Act, as my client was not approached for permission before publishing details of her personal life, but it also constitutes fraud, as you have been passing off events in my client’s life as your own experiences. Perhaps most seriously, you have on several occasions voiced your desires to make profit from the blog. Doing so would constitute theft of intellectual property.

My client fully intends to take swift legal action unless a settlement can be reached out of court. At this stage, I suggest damages of $50,000.00

My client and I eagerly await your response.

Yours Sincerely,

[name withheld]

I’ve withheld the name and list of legal qualifications in the interest of avoiding further legal action and seeing as the persons in question are evidently reading the blog, rather than actually replying to them personally, I thought I might just answer it here:

Get Fucked!!!

First of all, I’ve got no idea what you’re talking about. Secondly, even I’m not stupid enough to think anyone actually makes money out of blogging. Thirdly, if I had $50,000, which I don’t, I’d sooner blow it all on cocaine and hookers and get whacked by hired goons than give you one pissy cent. Bring on your legal action. Bring it! I live for this shit. You think you can touch me? I’m a fucking fictional character. Any resemblance I have to persons living or dead, or that anything in my world has to people or events, real, imagined or hallucinated is purely coincidental. You can eat my fictional shit! Ha Ha Ha!!! My life might suck pretty bad and not really exist but I’m damn near invincible. The only person who can touch me is my author. Ow, that was my eye! Fuck! That really hurts! …CUNT!

In conclusion, [name withheld], I reject your suggestion, I spurn you and your client, I regard you with the utmost contempt, I question your credentials and your parentage, I have placed your letter in my yard and I intend to piss on it every morning this week, and should I ever come to visit your house I will wipe my nob on your curtains.

BALLS! ARSE! CUNT! PISSFLAPS! JISM!

Buck Frain.

Having A Big Shit In The Nest

Posted in Tales From Hell with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on May 17, 2008 by Buck Frain

Seeing as I’ve begun to bite the hand that feeds me, I might as well do the job properly and gnaw the fucker right off.

I work for Corgan Research, one of the country’s oldest MR firms. It sucks and is run by a complete maniac called Barry Corgan – big C, little organ, or so we suspect. Barry inherited the company from the founder, his father, so he’s always been rich and has never had to relate to people. He dresses like Gregory Peck in The Boys From Brazil, only shorter and without the moustache or charisma and a Barry’s a bit more of a nazi. The only way he ever communicates with anyone is by shouting at them. Thank fuck he hardly ever condescends to visit us. The odd occasions he does is usually to gloat about his empire to boozed up potential clients.


As head of the company he has established a culture of fear, pettiness and disaffected slovenliness. Thanks to a careful maneuvering around, or in some cases a complete flouting of, industrial relations and tax laws everyone in the entire building is paid well below any industry minimums. This results in everyone only doing the bare minimum they can get away with without getting fired and ripping the system for anything they can whenever opportunity arises. Barry treats every employee as if they are a thief and this sort of punitive management style filters down through the whole organisation. He routinely fires people on the spot so everyone fears and despises him, hates their job, and is suspicious of their co-workers. Interviewers are the lowest of the low, everyone has more power than us and despite the fact that none of them would have jobs if we weren’t here, I understand that most consider us some sort of subhuman troglodytes. Unfortunately, they’re occasionally correct. It’s a truly demoralising work environment.

The two main surveys we do are one for a big tobacco company on smoking habits. Our conspiracy theory has me certain the information they get from this is filed away for future legal cases to prove the vast majority of smokers smoke more than one brand of cigarettes so, when you try to sue them because of your lungs are rotting and your cock’s fallen off, they can say How do you know it was OUR cigarettes that caused your cancer? Pretty evil, huh? 

The other is for The Cuntingwealthy Bank, interviewing their customers about their level of satisfaction with the service they receive. This is gold because we have to rewrite customers’ actual responses into less offensive, more company-positive messages that are then passed on to the branches to contribute to employee KPIs and are posted on the internal website so the shareholders can see what a great company they own. Also a wee bit evil, no? It goes against everything market research is supposed to represent. If there was ever integrity in the simple gathering of information to find truths it has been corrupted by Barry and his corporate shit-sucking mates. It makes me wonder why we bother calling people at all for this project – we could just make the shit up, that is what we’re doing most of the time anyway.

The problem at its root is that the business of market research is a fiction. Our company produces nothing. Numbers on a page that are the result of meticulously engineered questionnaires tailored to produce the exact outcomes desired by the client. The manner in which the work is carried out is completely irrelevant. You could pay people top dollar for the best work or, like Barry does, pay the bare minimum to keep yourself out of jail and say bollocks to quality. The end results are indistinguishable from one another, so unless you have any interest in people as anything other than earning potential, it makes sense to create a shithole like Corgan’s.

This does not, however, change the fact that Barry Corgan is an evil dog-felching bastard and his empire is thoroughly contemptible. I believe, if you employ people, you have a duty to provide them with an environment where, even if their job is meaningless, they feel as though they are respected, they’re paid properly and treated with basic human dignity. Barry Corgan is a rotten-to-the-core-son-of-a-whore and I would happily beat the fucker to a stinking bloody pulp and then do a shit in his hat. Fuck you Barry!!!

My Confession – The Horrible Truth.

Posted in Tales From Hell with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on May 15, 2008 by Buck Frain

I work in a market research call centre. My job is to call people like you on the telephone and ask you all manner of pointless questions, while you try to prepare dinner or bathe your children, about products and services you don’t care about in order that faceless corporations can work out how better to get you to hand over your cash to them. So now you know the horrible truth. And you wondered why I was so angry?

Market research is where artistic mediocrities come to die. Dispirited by the corporatisation of the arts and the hopeless lack of funding for, or public interest in, anything that can’t be manipulated to sell burgers, we enter the career cul-de-sac of MR with the illusion of keeping our options open but secretly knowing that we’ll be here until we either die or our jobs get outsourced to a company in Bangalore.

I get out of the lift and clock into hell by pressing my thumbprint onto the scanner plate. Yes, they hate and distrust us that much. I sit at a booth with a neolithic computer, a dialer and a headset. Either side of me sit clones of me, broken artists, impoverished students, gambling addicts, the socially, aesthetically, or mentally challenged, society’s talking wounded. For four to eight hours at a stretch I sit while the auto-dialer dials for me, I say the words that appear in front of my face and key in the responses as given by the respondent. Creativity and initiative are dismissible offences. My job is to be a phone monkey. Say the fuckin’ words!

Of course, I could get another job. But could I get one that pays this well with so little work involved? Probably not. And there’s the rub. It’s Boiling Frog Syndrome – getting paid for sitting talking to people, drinking tea whilst gradually having one’s creativity, imagination, one’s very soul eroded through the dull repetition of mindless research-speak.

If your bank was a person would you be its friend?

Do agree or disagree that your current mobile phone defines your masculinity?

How relevant or irrelevant do you feel your current career makes you to reality? Would you say very relevant, relevant, neither relevant nor irrelevant, irrelevant or completely irrelevant?

Neither relevant nor irrelevant – nice grey area! Is it possible for anything to ever be neither relevant nor irrelevant?

The sad thing this job has really done to me is it’s given me an accurate picture of the society in which I live. I used to think most people in Australia were intelligent and open-minded, slightly left-thinking and generally good-natured. I was wrong, that was just the people I came into contact with. The Howard government’s longevity should have been a dead giveaway. I know now that most Australians are apthetic, sexist, racist, paranoid, hostile, right-wing, sport-obsessed, binge-drinking imbeciles who can’t even spell their own suburb of residence.

How did you get my number?

Well, sir, for this particular project we use random digit dialing…

Don’t bullshit me, I’ve got a silent number…

I understand that sir, what a lot of people don’t realise when they pay for their “silent” number is that all they pay for is for it not to be listed in the white pages or passed on by directory assistance. We have a computer program that generates numbers at random…

That’s impossible, it’s SILENT!!! How can you ring it?

Do you have children?

No!

Do you have friends with children?

Why?

Imagine your friend’s child at two years old…

She’s four!

…at four years old, takes the phone and just dials a jumble of numbers. If those numbers just happened to be your phone number, your phone would ring, wouldn’t it?

Yeah…

Our program is like that child – numbers at random…

Youse are fucked! I’m gonna sue you! You’ll be going to jail, mate and then you won’t be so fuckin’ smart, will ya?

I assure you we’re not doing anything illegal, if you don’t want to participate, all you have to do is decline.

Ya fuckin’ what?

Would you like to speak to my supervisor?

I get a few of these a night. I almost look forward to the stupidity – it breaks the monotony, and dealing with idiots is the only time we’re allowed any creative latitude, all within the bounds of professional civility, of course. A co-worker was sings …I hate people, I wanna kill ’em… Oh, how I empathise.

If you live in Australia, USA or UK there’s a very real possiblity that I may have rung you in the last couple of years. I may have actually annoyed you or someone in your household personally. If I have, I humbly apologise. If not, stay close to the phone because tonight could be your lucky night.

Australia – Rule #1: Don’t Spill Ya Piss!

Posted in Human Stupidity with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on May 13, 2008 by Buck Frain

 

When I was in college a couple of my dear friends made up a list of rules for life. Rule number one was Don’t spill ya piss! (For the international visitors: “piss” is a colloquial term for any alcoholic beverage). The other rules slip my mind, the important thing was that every odd rule was Don’t spill ya piss!

 

Today I read this article about a driver pulled over in the Northern Territory who allowed his five year old child to sit on the floor of his car whilst his precious, his carton of beer, was safely secured to the back seat with a seat belt, between two other seat-belted adults. What a complete wanker.

 

This is about as Aussie as you can get. The only real cultural identity we have, outside of an unhealthy obsession with sports, is a culture of binge drinking which places more value on alcohol than even the safety of our own children. I suppose it’s only fitting seeing as the first currency of colonised Australia was rum.

 

When people ask me why I’m not patriotic I tell them because most of the people in any country are complete fuckwits, Australia is no different and I can’t really get fired up to associate myself with fuckwits. Patriotism is an archaic pile of horseshit, it’s just another version of tribalism, sectarianism, or a whole bunch of other –isms that attempt to disguise a very base animal behaviour, the aim of which is to alienate and ultimately kill anything other. Fuckin’ stupid monkeys! The only benefit in pulling this guy over and stopping him from killing everyone in his car was the possibility he might have taken a useful citizen or two with him.

 

I love a drink, beer is a great friend of mine, but people like this cunt just make me wish for the stupid-bomb to hurry up and cleanse the world of this plague of fools. Bring on the idiot apocalypse! Die you useless fucks! Please just die!

How My Monday Turned To Complete Shit!

Posted in Random Shit That Gives Me The Cunt with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on May 13, 2008 by Buck Frain

On the train on the way in to work yesterday afternoon, standing there minding my own business when a complete scrotum-head spilt his coffee. I’ve no idea what he was doing and I doubt he did either but we had stopped at a station, his station, not mine and somewhere in his haste to make it to the door he upended what seemed like a whole cup of coffee down the front of my shirt and pants. 

He hadn’t even noticed until I yelped something containing a few mild expletives, at which point he turned around, noted his cup…hmm, lighter…and me…ooh, angry and wet. He smiled, embarrassed and mouthed a cowardly Sorry, but continued to back-step his way to the door and freedom. I mouthed a considerably voluminous Cunt! as the doors closed. A concerned woman, unperturbed by my profanity, asked me if I was OK and handed me some tissues, which I dabbed ineffectually at my stained crotch whilst holding the fabric at a safe distance while it cooled. The coffee hadn’t been overly hot and thankfully hadn’t done any medical damage but I was left with the cosmetic problem. A white shirt and fawn pants completely cunted by some uncoordinated fuck’s crappuccino. What the flyblown-arse was I going to do? 

There was no turning up to work in my present state so I rang the mill-stone-around–my-neck that employs me to let her know I would be late. WHY DO YOU ALWAYS LAUGH AT ME, YOU FAT BITCH? LOOK IN THE FUCKING MIRROR, WHAT DO YOU EVER HAVE TO LAUGH ABOUT? I hate her so much! 

I got off the train, crossed to the opposite platform and caught a train back home. I’m usually at work early on account of having a bit of an obsessive problem with lateness so I had time up my sleeve. I got off the train and the wetness of my clothing coupled with the wind made me quite cold. I hurried home and snapped my key off in the flyscreen door lock. Snapped it. Right off. 

Oh, ha ha HA!!! FUCK YOU, GOD, YOU OMNIPRESENT PIECE OF CLOUD-DWELLING SHIT!!! FUCK YOU!!! Isn’t it funny how your neighbours never ask what’s wrong when you’re screaming blasphemies at the sky? Fuck you, Gareth! He doesn’t speak to me because his girlfriend smiled at me once. 

I rang my land agent, he’s a complete cunt, as they all are – I believe it’s a prerequisite for the job. He told me he was heading out the door and as I’d snapped the key off, it was my responsibility to find a locksmith, not his. It is Monday, isn’t it? 

Stuck outside my house – the backdoor can only be opened from inside. After a few phone calls, finally, I found a locksmith who could come out and fix it. In keeping with the rest of my day, it was after 5pm so after-hours rates were all I was going to get unless I wanted to sleep on my front step. He’d get here in half an hour. Yeah! I love life, it rocks! I rang my stinking anus of a boss and let her know I wouldn’t be in at all. She was less amused by this call and I could tell she’d hold that shit over my head for a good 18 months – fuck, maybe I could poison her donuts, everyone hates her, there’d be so many suspects I’d be almost certain to get away with it. 

The locksmith arrived, he was a cheerful-looking guy in his early forties called David. I was genuinely grateful to see him. He approached and I could see him taking stock of the shivering, coffee-stained figure I’d become. I could see him feel that inevitable sense of smugness one has when they know their life is substantially better than someone else’s, and without any malice he smiled Looks like you’ve been having a good day so far!, he joked. The lackadaisical whimsy of his comment severed a neurological connection deep in my brain, something twanged inside my head and I broke into uncontrollable laughter. I looked at him and shrieked with laughter. I knew it was ridiculous but I couldn’t stop. The shivering from the cold gave way to wracking sobs of hilarity as tears rolled down my cheeks and my body cramped with the pain of hysterical laughter. David looked very concerned all of a sudden and putting a hand out as if to half sooth and half keep me at a safe distance. Are you OK? 

That sent me off even more, I couldn’t articulate a syllable. I mouthed words that wouldn’t form and he just stared in fear at the giggling mess now collapsed and gibbering on my front step. With some effort I rolled away from the door. Trying desperately to control my breathing and stop the laughter, and I waved him towards the door. Nervously he edged towards the door, glancing back at me to make sure I didn’t do anything weird – like a guy covered in coffee laughing like a maniac on the ground outside his house isn’t weird.

The laughter began to subside. Gradually, I brought myself under control, only bursting out again occasionally whenever he looked back at me. He must have realised looking at me made it worse and he just focused on the lock. He was fast. Within 10 minutes he’d removed the offending lock and replaced it with a new one. I had calmed down and gotten to my feet and was acting like nothing out of the ordinary had happened whatsoever. I casually handed him my credit card and soberly thanked him for having helped me at such short notice. He also pretended everything was perfectly normal, handed me my new keys and left me to my open house. 

Once inside and changed, I reflected on the expense of the afternoon. One lost shift, serious laundering and $150 worth of lock. The lock may have happened anyway, but in the interest of being petty and small-minded, that fucker on the train cost me over $350. I remember your face, motherfucker, you owe me three hundred and fifty bucks, and when I see you next, I’ll fuckin’ ask for it. You fucking spastic, UNCO FUCK!!! You travel on my train line and I’ll fucking see you again, be fuckin’ sure if it! I’ll have coffee too. I’ll never go to work again without coffee. I’ll have coffee every day, really hot, strong, black coffee and if you don’t have my money, I’ll fucking spill it on you and I’ll burn your fucking balls off with my coffee!!! And I’ll fucking laugh at you and your stupid burning balls and your stupid stained clothes. HA HA HA!!!

 

Teaching Our Children How To Be Failures At Life.

Posted in Rage Against The Machine with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on May 9, 2008 by Buck Frain

Small-minded sexually repressed fuckwits! Man, I fuckin’ hate them so much. Trying to pretend that no-one ever has sex and if they do they certainly don’t enjoy it, and God forbid, if they were in a moment of weakness to actually enjoy it, they’d be plagued with guilt and never speak of it again. That’s the way: Back to Victorian values! Should we put skirts on the piano legs so no-one gets a stiffy? GET FUCKED!!! 

Here’s an article I read today about Lynne Tziolas, a 24 year old primary school teacher who has been fired for appearing in a Cleo magazine article. Yes, the article is about sex. Yes, it features a tame nude photo of Ms Tziolas and her husband. But it appears in an adult magazine, theoretically kept out of primary-age childrens’ reach. She was fired because of some complaints from offended parents. There has never been any suggestion that her behaviour or work as a teacher has been anything less than excellent. 

What the FUCK??? 

Is sex bad? Is the human form a point of shame? Where do children come from anyway? I mean, surely even the offended parents must have gotten laid at some point. Who the shit are these people? The stupidity of this makes me lose my mind. Your primary school kids learn all about war and crime and violence and all manner of brutality – hey, that’s just the TV, surviving school’s much worse – and yet concerned parents lose their shit at the thought that their kids’ teacher is fucking, despite the fact that the kids are oblivious to it. Why? Oh my God! My child’s teacher fucks her husband. Can you believe that? Her husband! I just read it here. Neither of them are fat either, it’s obscene ! And they’re married. Ew! Perverts, I’m not letting her near MY baby! What is the real problem? Is that she has sex? Or is it that she enjoys it? Or is it that she speaks about it in a adult forum and isn’t ashamed of her body? Do any of these things matter at all? And what the fuck are we saying, that only virgins should teach children? Only celibate people should be teachers? Fuck, that’s a great idea – just ask anyone who went to a Catholic school! Hah! 

From my dusty recollection of how unjust and belittling a misery school could be, the teachers I liked, who were human and understanding, who inspired respect and taught me useful things, were also the ones who, in retrospect, I suspect as most likely of having had some semblance of sex life. It was the mean-spirited arseholes who’d never had a sniff of romance, love or sex who you had to watch out for. The misanthropic bastards who begrudged you your childhood and hated the happiness you exuded. Their whole mission was about crushing that beautiful, innocent spirit before it lead you anywhere near a happy life. Excising imagination and inquisitiveness wherever they emerged lest they spread to the other children like a disease. Do we really want more of those people teaching our kids? 

When I have kids I hope they have teachers who are healthy, happy people with good relationships and fulfilling lives outside the school. People who choose to be teachers because of a passion for helping young people develop into healthy, happy, well-adjusted adults. That, I fear, is unlikely as teachers’ pay is shit, so many of the good ones go on to other professions, and when schools are being run by soft-cock sycophants like The Principal at Narraweena Public School, what hope is there that you can actually do your job and have a normal life?

For fuck’s sake, what does an innocent magazine article about healthy, natural, acceptable-even-to-God-if-you-care-what-he-thinks sexuality have to do with a person’s ability to function as a teacher? She’s not telling the kids about it – No, Johnny, a figure 8 with your tongue, that still feels like a 1…  Fucking hell, what century is this? If I was the Principal who got the calls from those uptight puritan FUCKHEADS about a good teacher, I’d tell them to buy a good-sized mettwurst and GO FUCK THEMSELVES!!!