Archive for Wobblers

Hunting The Bogeyman.

Posted in Things Rank And Gross In Nature with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on February 7, 2009 by Buck Frain

OK, so here I am. Again. Back at my stupid, stupid, fucky old job facilitating the acquisition of accurate research data for sociopathic multi-nationals. Ticking boxes and going through the motions for malevolent, imbecilic and monstrous bints. Yeah, it sucks but what really fucks with me is how the cancer of toxic personality trickles its way down the corporate ladder infecting everyone in the whole organisation.

I went to the staff toilet on our floor today. I think it’s the first time I’ve been to the toilet whilst at work since I’ve been back. No, not because I’m afraid, but because I don’t drink enough water, although after today’s experience I don’t want to go back. Standing at the urinal I couldn’t help but notice that the wall at eye level was spattered with bogeys. I’m not talking about a dried phlegmy spit which is gross but quite common to see in male toilets, but a serious spattering of crusty boogers.

I examined the form and pattern trying to work out what the volcanic arsehole was going on. There was no way this was just an unguarded sneeze, there must have been over 100 of them. This was a conscious and premeditated work undertaken over months while I’ve been absent. It was a veritable nose-goblin collection that Stimpy himself would have been proud of. I was fucking appalled!

stimpy_nose_goblins

So, was the Bogey Collector just leaning back while pissing and blowing the loose bogeys out onto the wall? No. I don’t think so. That may have been how it started but it had since gotten way out of control. He really liked this. He liked putting the bogeys up and he loved that they were staying there and that there was nowhere else to look but at them. There were some that were definitely picked, I could see what looked like smear marks trailing from some of them. This meant he was standing there, pissing, dick in one hand, other hand stuck up his nose fishing out grunties and then wiping them on the wall. Now that is just cunting well wrong! I don’t blame the cleaners for not cleaning the bogeys off. That’s not their job, this is vandalism, this is some crazy fucking act of mucus terrorism. ONE OF THEM HAS A CUNTING GREAT HAIR IN IT, FOR SHIT’S SAKE!!! Quick – call forensics! I need that fucker DNA tested so I can track this snot-fiend down.

I left the toilet. Nauseated. Outraged. Bogeys on the fucking wall! WHY!!! It doesn’t hurt The Wobblers, they don’t use the gents…maybe they do – eew!!! As a form of protest it is completely redundant. It’s just fucking gross. It only serves to further demoralise people who hate being there anyway. Even the most inarticulate graffiti has a message, this has no message… Or does it? Is it just a pure emotional expression? Is it a visceral interpretation of the rage generated by corporate containment and the impotence of the individual? Is this the post-modern answer to conventional graffiti? Could this be the future of street art? NO! NO! NO! IT’S NOT AND IT SHITTING WELL COULDN’T!! IT’S BOGEYS ON A MOTHER-FUCKING WALL!!! IT’S FUCKING FILTHY AND WHEN I FIND YOU, BOGEY COLLECTOR, I’LL FUCKING EXPOSE YOU FOR THE SHIT-EATING, CUNTFUL DEVIATE YOU ARE!!!

DON’T SMEAR YOUR FUCKING BOGEYS ON WALLS!!!

I WILL FUCKING FIND YOU!!!

ARSE!!!

 

Winning The War On Bones.

Posted in Things Rank And Gross In Nature with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on June 28, 2008 by Buck Frain

We win! Australia, the little battler, has won – against insurmountable odds we fought hard to be leading the world in obesity! Yeah, We’re the fattest cunts in the world! Fuck you, USA, you can eat our convict shit, we’re fatter than you bastards! 26% of all Aussies are obese, that’s four million of us – a 33% rise in obesity in the last nine years. Fat Aussies have been gorging their pie-holes for the last nine years to top the USA’s puny 25% obesity rate. Yeah, they’ve got more fatties in total, but per capita we have the most cottage-cheese-arsed, cankled, wheezing behemoths of any nation on the planet! 

 

Doesn’t anybody find any of this remotely offensive? I don’t mean my ruthless attack on the fatties, I mean isn’t anyone offended by the rampant epidemic of bloatedness? We see it everywhere. My two bosses, The Wobblers, are both horrendously obese shit-sacks. Many of the people in the building I work in have Office Body*, you only have to walk down the street to realise that most people are packing some weight, thin people are a serious minority. 

 

But we’re all polite about it – everyone knows the pain of the fatty, Oprah’s made us oh-so aware of the torture it is to be fat. No one wants to point out to their friends or co-workers Hey, you’re becoming a bit of a chunk, should you be eating that? Woe betide the heathen who dared say such a hurtful thing. You insensitive bastard, it’s genetic, his whole family is like that. Um…but he’s eaten two pizzas today…are you sure that’s genetic? 

 

You see, I think that’s part of the problem – it’s politically correct to tell people they’re drinking too much, or that they should quit smoking, but we’re in denial about obesity. You mustn’t tell the fatty they’re fat, they might feel bad about themselves and eat more! Yeah, I know, the fuckin’ fat cunt might eat YOU, you’re just scared! For fuck’s sake, tell her from a distance, the fat fuck won’t be able to chase you for long. 

 

Now before all you fatties out there start sending me death threats, I’d like to point out I’m not advocating everyone need have chiseled abs and cheekbones or plastic surgery themselves to look like Paris Hilton, that’s just another disgusting sickness. What I’m saying is: take physical responsibility for yourself. Be a bit healthy.

  

No-one wants to walk down a street and see a piss-pants drunk sitting there boozing himself into oblivion, nor do you want to see junkies shooting up nor sex addicts jerking themselves off in public. Why not? Because it’s offensive. Obese people are killing themselves with food. I find it offensive to see some filthy, fat pig scoffing into a Big Mac. Most people will walk past keeping their revulsion private but everyone finds it unsettling, even if only on a well-trained, unconscious level. It turns my stomach and I can’t understand why it is no longer acceptable to acknowledge that offensiveness. Even the most compassionate soul has to concede that, on a purely pragmatic level, it’s a massive a waste of resources. On a planet with billions of people barely surviving, these fat turds eat enough each day for a whole family, and in a few years time they’re going to be a massive financial burden on an already strained health system. We all will be paying through the nose to save these fatties from themselves. Maybe they need a dose of reality rather than that second Double Quarter Pounder! YOU’RE FUCKIN’ FAT, FATTY!!! FATTY FAT FAT FAT!!! HAVEN’T YOU HAD ENOUGH FOOD, YOU STINKING FAT CUNT??? What? Chase me, fuckface!   

 

 

*Office Body – a phenomenon where, due to a lack of physical activity, chronic over-eating and a diet of shit, a person becomes overweight or obese and most of their muscles wither away except for a few fingers on the hand that operates their computer mouse. See also Internet Body, Playstation Body or Lazy Fat Cunt.

 

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!!!