Archive for Humiliation

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!

The Dehumanising Onset Of Sickness.

Posted in Things Rank And Gross In Nature with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on June 14, 2008 by Buck Frain

Ah, I’m getting sick. It’s absolutely fucked. I could feel the lump starting at the back of my throat and putting just the slightest pressure on my right ear-drum this morning. There was just a hint of a sniffle and I just knew that tomorrow I’ll wake up as sick as a bitch, sore throat, snot factory, hot dry eyes and in a cunt of a mood!

 

I don’t suppose I should be surprised, call centres are breeding grounds for disease. The whole place is a fucking bio-hazard and should be bombed to shit. Sniffling, sneezing, coughing mouth-breathers everywhere. Fuck! I’m an obsessive fucking cleanliness freak at work. We have these alcohol wipes for the headsets, I use about five or six at the beginning of every shift. I sterilize the headset, keyboard, mouse, monitor, desk, everything. Who the fuck knows who was here last? And, fuck, let me tell you there are people who work here who you don’t want to share anything with. I don’t even trust the cups in the kitchen at work. Even if they look clean I hold them under the boiling water tap before using them.

 

But despite my best efforts, flu shots included, I’ve caught something. I fucking felt it all day, it’s like a cloud of retardedness has descended on me. Everything is just a little out of phase, I’m just half a step off normal. I rammed my shin into the corner of the bed while I was getting ready for work this morning. I swore like a bastard. Fuck, it hurt. I poured boiling water on my hand at work while sterilising my cup. It fucking hurt too but wasn’t bad, I put it straight under cold water, it probably won’t even blister. Still, I felt like a tool and it was another sign that something was wrong.

 

I finally decided to go home after I sneezed and everything turned green. Not only did I nearly deafen the guy I was on the phone to, I had viscous green mucous all down my face and in my hand. It was fucking revolting. I excused myself from the call and reached my free hand into a pocket searching for tissue…to no avail, there were none to be found. I started to get up and realised that my headset mic was entirely hidden within an enormous gob of phlegm connected by a green umbilicus to my top lip. The nice goth girl sitting next to me actually dry retched.  I am hideous. I went to the loo, with my headset, cleaned up and left for the day. Ah, kill me!

You’re fuckin’ BALD, bitch!

Posted in Wankers In Denial with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on May 23, 2008 by Buck Frain

For fuck’s sake, if you’re bald, DEAL WITH IT! There is nothing more pathetic than a man with fake hair. Except maybe a man with a comb-over, but that’s a really tight call. Hairpieces and comb-overs are stupid. Really, really stupid and rather than making people feel better about themselves they really just serve to fuel fear and insecurity because even if you’ve got the best wig or comb-job in the world and everyone does a really good job to pretend they don’t notice it’s fake, you’ve still got to live with the terror of what would happen if they ever did notice. 

You’ve constantly got to have the hair around a rug trimmed to blend in, there’s re-colouring as you age, and the panic attacks caused be high wind, vigorous exercise or water. Do you really think that hot girl’s gonna go out with you a second time after tearing your toupee off in the throes of passion? Shit, man, you’ll be lucky if she stays to finish the job. My bet is she’ll scream loud enough your neighbours will call the cops and then she’ll leg it naked down the street, you fucking freak! Of course she may just laugh her arse off, rug in hand, you with tape on your scalp and a hard-on – that mood’s killed.

Don’t kid yourself that transplant technology is gonna save you either, cue ball. Even if the grafts take, your real hair still falls out around them so eventually you look like a recovering cancer patient and you can’t ever go back to shaving your head or you’ll reveal the big-arse scar on the back of your skull where they chopped all the graft skin out.

Any way you try to thatch that roof, insecurity is what’s unattractive. Look at the fuckwit in this ad. Hey that’s some pretty lush hair, right? If you look closely I think you’ll see he’s unable to touch it, he goes close but, ooh nah, there’s no running his hands through those thick locks. There’s something in his voice too, you can hear it, it’s like a little inner cry, a teary voice going: Nah, man, I’ve got hair now. You can’t call me baldy anymore ’cause I’ve GOT hair. Yeah! It’s REAL, man! It’s fuckin’ REAL! …is!…SHUT UP!…bastards. He’s not enjoying the confidence, six-pack or not, he’s a scared little bitch. He’s more of a baldy now than he’d be if he had the balls to cut his hair short and admit it. YOU’RE FUCKIN’ BALD, BALDY!!! BALDY, BALDY, BALD, BALD!!!