Archive for the Tales From Hell Category

Avian Swine Flu Pandemic Berserker.

Posted in Tales From Hell with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on May 20, 2009 by Buck Frain

SWINE_FLU_WARNING

Swine flu! Fucking swine flu! We’re all going to die! Fuck, let’s all run around like stupid ill-informed fucktards until we drop dead from exhaustion or get murdered by someone sick to their back teeth with our mindless hysteria!

It seems the whole cunting world has lost its shit over the latest style of cold. Last year it was bird flu. Everyone was pissing themselves that bird flu was going to destroy the world. What happened? Fuck all. This year it’s swine flu. At my workplace we all got a patronising fucking email from HR last week telling us all to be vigilant about hygiene in view of the threat of the swine flu pandemic, to use tissues when touching door knobs and never to put our hands near our faces because that’s how germs are spread. Then today I come to work to discover that anti-bacterial handwash dispensers have been installed all over the fucking place. Yes, I’m fucking serious! For cunt’s shitting sake! There’s only been one reported case of swine flu in the whole of Australia and even worldwide the disease, generally speaking, just makes people a bit sick. Naturally the media are going to beat it up into the biggest thing in since sliced bread but anyone with half a brain knows it’s all a pile of horseshit. Add to that, that swine flu is a virus not bacterial so the logic behind installing anti-bacterial goo dispensers becomes even more obscure. 

The people in this building are fucking idiots. Panic over a disease that one person in Australia might have, wash your hands ‘til the skin drops off…but then stuff your obese pie hole with Krispy Kreme and McDonald’s – but it gives me comfort – Fuck yeah, fear the swine flu! Fuck knows, heart disease never killed anyone did it ya fat cunts? You’re gonna die of pig’s arse not pig’s fucking flu. I fucking well despair at the lack of perspective, the blind fear and the wanton stupidity. 

The human race is a blight on the face of the Earth. I watched that tossy remake of The Day The Earth Stood Still last night and I have to side with Klaatu on this…well…before his superior intelligence gave way to emasculated sentimental fuckheadedness and he left the whole planet to be destroyed by people because we’re vulnerable and occasionally nice to each other. What the shit??? 

Fuck everybody, I say! Bring on the swine flu pandemic. May it mutate with avian flu and create a berserker-super-virus that dessimates the human population and leaves us cowed and beaten, fighting for survival against mutant flying pigs. I’d be prepared to die for the cause just so long as a good 5 billion or so useless cretins bite the dust with me. The planet is grotesquely over-populated and the human race is too selfish, infantile and stupid to ever make the necessary decisions to save it. We need an apocalyptic catastrophe to make what remains of humanity consider changing the way they do things. Nothing short of near-annihilation will get the message through, we’re just not smart enough for subtle hints. Stupid fucking monkeys! Survival of the fattest is not sustainable, it never fucking was. Bring on epic Darwinian cruelty! The dinosaurs had their time and we’ve had ours. Hell, if any of us survive we can use the dead as fertilizer and replant the bloody planet! AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRGHHH!!!

Hiatus, not dead!

Posted in Tales From Hell with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on January 31, 2009 by Buck Frain

Balls and Arse!!! Fuck you, Oliver Coppin, I’m not dead – I’m just a lazy bastard!

I apologise, dear readers, for deserting you for so long. I had a rather nasty bout of contentment there for a while which very nearly proved fatal. However, thanks largely to the grace of ridiculous, archaic fictions and the inescapable facts that: (a) the world is fucked and: (b) the majority of people are either stupid, complete cunts or both, I pulled through and return to you more or less intact.

I must thank planetross, sweetchief and Corinna for your concern, enquiring as to my well-being. My sincere thanks. It took you long enough, you fuckers!!! I could have been trapped under my fridge starving to death in the most ironic way possible and no-one would have been any the wiser. Nobody would have given a flaming shit sandwich! I could have been one of those sad fucks who dies and no bastard notices until the stench of decomposing lonely wanker interferes with their TV reception. But, thankfully, I didn’t. I’m still here, large as life as twice as shitty.

I’ve got heaps of time on my hands now I’m back at work in market research hell being wobbled by imbecilic, malevolent monstrosities and it’s been over 40˚C for the last 3 days so it feels like real hell. I should soon be able to vent to you about all of the many things that have given me the absolute cunt during my hiatus from divine fury.

I realise this is a bit of a nothing post. Again, sorry. To compensate, here’s a little bit about me:

buck_history 

Can’t even be bothered typing it out again…lazy fucker!

Australian Supervisor – Banality TV or just another s#!t job?

Posted in Tales From Hell with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on August 25, 2008 by Buck Frain

Some are born mediocre, some achieve mediocrity and some have mediocrity thrust upon ‘em. 

Oh, for simplicity. Life has become a cheesy, unkempt socialist minge clamped suffocatingly over my red-wine-hungover face. Why, for the love of mercy, can’t I die in my sleep? Why don’t angry gang members just randomly shoot me while I’m buying coffee? I apologise, dear reader, for the infrequency of my entries of late but life my has taken an hitherto unprecedented turn for the feculently absurd.

My evil mouth-breathing minotaur of a boss called me into her office at the end of the week. She was terribly excited and that scared the living fuck out of me. If L.F. is happy about anything then either Creed are in town or something else is very wrong in the world. Indeed it was the latter.

She’d called me in to offer me the opportunity of vying for a promotion. Not to offer me one but to tell me I was now part of a bizarre selection process that appears like a cruel and unusual punishment in itself, for a position that no right-minded person would want in the first place.

They want a new supervisor. Supervisors are the pitiful wastes of humanity who oversee phoneroom work but have no real power except their own bitterness. So The Wobblers have selected four of the more literate and socially presentable interviewers, myself oddly included, to train as Team Leaders (Team Leaders are the people who listen to the calls that you agree to being listened to when bastards like me phone you) for a couple of months, at the end of which one of us would win* and be the new supervisor. She actually said win, I can’t wait for the day my doctor tells me I’ve won cancer.

The only thing I could think as she described this absurdity was that I should immediately call Channel 31 and tell them to get some RMIT students over here to turn it into a reality TV show called Australian Supervisor. It would be brilliant, the briefings and meetings with all their many office sub-plots streaming off. The learning of the ropes, the discussions about  troublesome interviewers, the monitoring the calls between interviewers and the general public, the confessions as we cry about having to reprimand our former comrades over petty transgressions, the patronising analyses of L.F. and the other supers as they rate us against one another. Of course the reality TV version would be much more exciting than the actual reality as the public would be able to vote on us and someone other than ourselves would bear witness to this pitiful existence. The sad banality is far more hopeless, but to my own surprise, after a little resistance, I accepted the offer. I tried to shrug it off initially but L.F. really wanted me to do it, any reasonable employer would have fired me on the spot for my lack of gratitude and work ethic.

Gee, I don’t know. The good thing about interviewing is I can leave for a week or two and still have a job when I come back. Can I still do that as a supervisor?

Well, …yes. I’d need notice but …yes, that’s fine.

How much extra do I earn an hour for all this?

Well, initially…not much…but the successful applicant will make $ 😦

You know, that’s not very much for being accountable for stuff?

Yes, but you’ll find this is a gateway position in the organisation and you could go from here to anywhere if you work hard enough…

What a cuntful pack of bullshit. The words market research and career should not end up in the same sentence together…ever! I should have dropped my trousers in front of her and snapped off a big steaming shit right on her desk before walking away forever, but I didn’t. I listened to the bullshit, I nodded and smiled and I acquiesced. I deluded myself that I would defiantly take the system for all I could at any opportunity, but really…?

In truth, I just sold out. I’m a weak piece of shit the same as all the many people I despise. Fuck, I hate myself, but sadly looking down the barrel of the continued mindless tedium of interviewing, I couldn’t say no. I am such a whore, but like a convict faced with the choice between continued incarceration or parole into an unforgiving world of prejudiced oppression and at-best minimum wage slavery, I chose parole. At least it breaks the tedium, I’ll still be a casual worker with no penalty rates or paid holidays, sick leave or job security, but at least the shifts are longer. Fuck me, who’d have thought I’d ever want to spend more time in that shit-hole than I already do?

If anyone knows how to make bombs out of paper clips and photocopier toner please email the recipe to buck.frain@gmail.com .

 

*She didn’t tell us what would happen to the three applicants who lose, does it not seem strange that none of us actually asked that?

Idiots Enslaved By Technology.

Posted in Tales From Hell with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on June 13, 2008 by Buck Frain

The life of a market research interviewer is tedious at best. Sitting in a booth phoning people and boring them to death with mundane questions about crap they don’t care about. I’m serious, where the fuck do you find people aged 18-34 who don’t use libraries but do want to spend 15 minutes answering questions about why they don’t use them? Genius! Aren’t you glad you pay tax?

I freely acknowledge that my job is stupid, pointless and on occasions invasive but I’m constantly amazed by the psychotic levels of rage it incites in seemingly ordinary people, and for that matter how stupid most people are. I mean, I don’t sell anything, I’m not asking for money, all I want is time. If you don’t have any or if you’re not interested, no worries. Thanks for your time, see ya – I move on. But, no,  people lose their shit. It seems to me that there are a massive number of people who are so disempowered and shat-upon in their regular lives that they need to cut loose at someone, anyone,  and the lowly, anonymous market research interviewer is a perfect target. Most of them are pretty unimaginative:

Fuck off, ya fuckin’ cunt!

That’s cool. Occasionally, I get mildly more imaginative attempts.

You shouldn’t be phoning me, I’m on the witness protection programme.

Yeah, and you tell people that? Smart. But then there are the people who think we’re deliberately targeting them ‘cause they’re oh so important!

Why do you call at dinner time, everyone’s having their dinner, don’t you people know that?

Oh yeah, that’s right, this is the legally designated, universal, unvarying time when the evening meal is consumed, it can’t ever happen at another time and we’re calling you so yours gets cold. Are you stupid? Fuck off and die!

Dontcha know I’m watchin’ the fuckin’ footy?

Of course I do, I can see you on the camera we put in your lounge room, I’m just ringing to fuck with your puny mind! Would you like to buy some DVDs of you shagging your dog?

Then there’s people who go crazy that they have a silent number and I’ve rung them on it, and they don’t even know me. Angry as piss because they pay for something that doesn’t prevent anyone calling them. I’m polite to these people but Jesus they’re ridiculous because, despite their protestations, they don’t actually want to end the call. They want to crap on and on and make me feel guilty for intruding into their lives – never gonna happen! I’d be happy to leave them in peace but they won’t let me, they want to lecture me on being an evil fucker for wasting their lives. Shit, I’m not wasting it, fuckface, it’s a phone – HANG THE FUCKER UP!!!

For fuck’s sake, do you have to answer your phone? If you don’t want to speak to people, don’t, I don’t make you. Just don’t pick it up. Stop being a slave to your technology! Get the fuck over it! And while we’re at it, if you’re angry at your life don’t expect me to give a fat rat’s clacker – hell, I’ve got my own shit to deal with. Pathetic Pavlovian shit-brains – I have absolutely no cunting sympathy! Don’t answer your phone if you don’t wanna talk to people! Don’t respond to the bell like a dog to a whistle! Remember – YOU HAVE FREE WILL. Well, some of us do.

This is the saddest thing. So many people have become completely enslaved by their means of communication. I’ve called people who have answered the phone while fucking. They don’t usually tell me but it’s pretty obvious what’s going on. Then they have the nerve to get mad at me about it. Hey, I’m not the fucktard who answers his phone mid-root. Damn, isn’t that what voicemail’s for? Ooh, but what if it’s important? If it’s important they’ll ring back. People are stupid. The human race is doomed!

The Wobblers – A Tale Of Two Bosses.

Posted in Tales From Hell with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on May 21, 2008 by Buck Frain

It was the worst of times, it was the worst of times.

The Wobblers have been at me today. Ah, it makes me want to throw up. Revolting, obese, mouth-breathing bitches breaking my balls for no other reason than the fear that I might one day show them up for their ineptitude. As if I give a shit. 

The Wobblers is the collective term I apply to my two bosses. Fuck, one would be bad enough but I have two of the rotten things. I call them The Wobblers because that’s what they do best – wobble. If you tried to make people out of blancmange and hate you’d make my bosses. You’d also be a complete arsehole and I’d fuckin’ hunt you down and kill you. 

My immediate boss, L.F. Ant, is a morbidly obese balding woman in her early 30’s with Bell’s Palsy so her face looks like half of it has gone on strike and is trying to run away. Who the fuck would blame it? As a result she can’t talk properly so I’ve put up a $50 bounty to anyone who can get her to say I was born on a pirate ship in public – no-one’s attempted it yet. I’m not a superficial human being and I don’t ordinarily judge people for their looks but unfortunately L.F.’s personality is even more unpleasant than her grotesque appearance so I feel justified in vilifying her vile exterior. She is very stupid, almost illiterate, completely incompetent and a mean, angry bitch. She’s got these fuckin’…I don’t know, they’re like bed sores, on her elbows… from holding her enormous bulk off the desk. It’s fucking horrible. She sits in her office munching Cheese & Bacon Shapes, Rasberry Bullets and anything else that comes within arm’s reach of her. Fuck I wish she would just choke to death.

Unfortunately, today was not the day. Instead of choking to death quietly in her office, she decided to give me my first bollocking for the week. I suppose I should be thankful I missed it yesterday. I usually get bollocked for something on Monday, when this first started happening I actually thought I was doing something wrong but now I know it’s just that two days of not bollocking anyone and the disappointment of yet another sexless weekend of binge eating and self-hate needs an outlet. It would seem that kicking piss out of your employees alleviates the pain of an empty existence.

Today’s bollocking began as a passive-aggressive rebuke over what she felt was an inappropriate comment – I acknowledged to a respondent that a question was poorly written. I’ve learnt it’s better to nod and smile rather than engage in any debate with L.F., she doesn’t have the academic skills to hold a cogent argument so you just get in worse trouble disagreeing with her. So I agreed I should have been more professional – if it happened again I’d do exactly the same thing, of course. Unfortunately, it didn’t wash. She really wanted to have a go at someone, and even worse, I suspected she wanted me to put up some resistance. This was very dangerous – you know that Hippapotamus kill more people than lions? It all came out, a back-catalogue of all my transgressions over the past twelve months. You were late on thith day…Tho-and-tho had to thpeak with you on thith day…I ekthpect a lot more from you…you’re ekthperienthed enough to know better… I could fuckin’ see her glancing over to the spreadsheet of misdeeds she obviously had open on her computer. I stuck to my plan – nod and smile, agree and apologise. Don’t run, she’ll chase and kill you. In the end she could see she wasn’t getting anywhere, she started to tire, she was about to let me go when her boss walked in. 

Her boss, my second, is Pat Schwerk, a not-quite-so obese South African woman in her 60’s. Not as stupid as L.F., she is bureacratic and thoroughly misanthropic. If she was green and wrote poetry, she’d be one of Douglas Adams’ Vogons. She’s got a squint so one eye looks through you and the other skews off into another dimension where I suspect she receives her orders straight from a source of immense evil.

What’s going on here? Brilliant! The whole story comes out again and all the patient back-peddling was for nothing. Two bosses for the price of one. Tag-teamed by fatties – I’ve been Wobbled! Fuck it! What am I eight years old in the head master’s office? This drives me mental. I want to scream into their faces THE QUESTION IS BADLY WRITTEN, YOU ROTTEN FUCKING BANSHEES! IT’S ABOMINABLY WRITTEN BECAUSE THE SPEC WRITER IS A MORBIDLY OBESE FUCKTARD JUST LIKE YOU TWO LOUSY SHIT-SUCKING SLUTHEADS!!! WHY DON’T YOU JUST KILL YOURSELVES? WHAT DO YOU HAVE TO LIVE FOR, YOU EVIL CUNTS??? FUCKING DIE!!!

But I need my job, thus conscience does make cowards of us all, or I’m scared to be without it. I continue to apologise and placate and the situation gradually subsides. After a time I can back away slowly and return to work.

Back at my booth, after a three seconds of being thankful I got out alive, reality descends on me like a brown cloud – they’ve won, they might as well have my balls one each in jars on their desks. I’m back out at work minus some spirit, without my balls, having taken shit from hideous beasts and I’ve come away with a bunch of their self-loathing. It’s not mine, I don’t hate myself normally. They’ve achieved something incredible. Evil, but completely incredible – they’ve transferred some of their self-hate to me. This is intolerable, it’s really fuckin’ sick, they are using management as their therapy. They must be stopped. DEATH TO THE WOBBLERS!!!

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.