By Spods For Spods

At work they have just migrated all our servers. I type that as I know what it means. I guess it means they have moved all our files and data and stuff to another rack-mounted box, but it could just as easily mean that all the servers have sprouted wings and flown of to Africa for the Winter. Mostly likely to Nigeria where they can be mined for data and bank details until they are forced to shit our money through their power sockets right into the clammy hands of every scammer in the land.

I am cursed with this lack of knowledge because of our ICT department. They are, almost without exception, they biggest collection of Aspbergers goons on the face of God’s Holy Earth. Goons, techies, spods, geeks and techno-fuckwads of the highest order.

Have they explained why they are migrating servers? No. Instead they sent out an email telling us it is part of a rolling plan to put the whole organisation on the same server footing, whatever this means. They also said that after the migration (1) we would be able to move file more securely. More securely? Do they mean that we have been moving things in an insecure manner before? And how will this move from one box to another afford us this extra level of security? Fuck knows. The email from IT didn’t say. Either they don’t know or, more likely, don’t think we’d understand. So why fucking tell us? They may have well said that the server migration would allow all users to speak to the dead soul of the last unicorn. Or that once it is done each user will be able to fax their hand to the moon in the USB slot. Or that… oh fuck it, look the point is that information with no context or explanation is just noise.

Another wonderful thing that our highly paid and resourced ICT shower of shite have done is leave the whole organising of folder structures up to us. Why? When I’ve had website hosts tell me they are moving servers, they have never asked me to provide them with a directory listing showing how I wanted it organised on the new site. They just transferred what was already there to the new server. Done and dusted with only a couple of hours downtime. Not our dolts, oh no. They want us to make sure every single one of our hundreds of thousands of filenames are under 128 characters but have provided no list or method of identifying which ones exceed that limit. Result? Hundreds of man hours spent pouring through MS Explorer renaming Word docs and Excel sheets. Why? No one knows.

Total fucking insanity. And all because a group of socially inadequate Star Wars fans are so wrapped up in being the cleverest little spod in the team that not one of the giant anal warts has thought to ask how much of this is either necessary for or achievable by the ordinary plebs who have to put up with this crap.

We should rebel. We should rise as one to light the emergency torches and break out the pitch forks so we can march upon the fourth floor. We should round up the Buffy droolers and make them tell us why they are doing this and why we have to do half the fucking work for them. And for each poor answer we receive we should run one of the Hobbit botherers through and toss him out of the window to cries of “Can you fly, Bobby?”. Pretty soon we will have answers. And less IT spods. It’s a win win idea. Pass me a lighter.

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(1) What a great day is the Glorious 26th when across the land furious office workers armed with airzookers and rubber-band gattling guns from the team joker’s cubicle lean out of office windows across the land and bring down the majestic servers as they migrate south for no good reason whatsoever.

Bus Full of Bastards

Buses. I take them every day. To and from work. Every day. And they are, every day, steel skinned bastard tubes chock full of smelly, inconsiderate, miserable, talking bastards.

The fuckers with all their bags on the seat next to them always piss me off (although I delight in finding them so I can get them to move all their shit so I can sit down) but they pale next to the selfish shits who put their foul, filthy, outside-covered shows on the seat in front of them just because years of family in-breeding and a lifetime of being pampered by lazy scum parents have left them with an innate belief that they have the god-given right to act any way the fucking please and fuck you pal. And if this means draping their mud-caked old trainers over the only seat left on the bus so you have to either stand or ask them to move for the absolute honour of putting your clean clothes on the dirty wet patch they have left for you then they have every right to do that so fuck you pal.

The unmitigated bastards.

They deserve someone twatting them in the ankles with a nine-iron. I could quite easily spend half an hour listening to the wailing cacophony of half-a-dozen clit scabs screaming about their broken ankles. Anything to drown out the cunts on their mobiles.

Oh now they are annoying. Weapons grade annoying. 100% cast iron annoying. More annoying than almost anything I can think of right now*.

Take the blonde bird who gets on near the Halifax bank. I say bird as I’m guessing that’s what she calls herself in what she might think was an ironic fashion if she thought she knew what irony was. But she won’t. But she still does it. Probably calls herself a ladette and geezer bird with a woefully misplaced sense of pride**. She gets on the bus talking fast and loud into her small black bastard box and she doesn’t stop all the way home. Not once. Just keeps going. Squawk after woof after cackle. I’d say she must breathe through her arse but as she sits on that and somehow unfortunately manages not to die of asphyxiation I can only deduce she has gills in her eyes. That alone should be enough to have her stoned to death as a mutant, but why the police have not stormed the bus and dragged her off by her tits for being an ear polluter I simply do not know. Must be a conspiracy between the police and the phone companies. That can be the only answer. Why else would witless bumburps like her be allowed to moo into the air non-stop? And why in the name of all that is shitty do these people always bray on about the most pointless things in the kind of English that can only be mastered after years of dutifull pissing about at school and learning fuck all***? It’s all “an I tol im like that I wan like that right and he just tol me that I shud just piss off the bastard and I had me er done an everythin like but you know wat es like dnt ya hes a bastard but I love im you know wat I’m like like”. Times 100. Non stop.

Many years ago, whilst messing about with a mini-home mixing desk, I taped a conversation I was having with my friend. I played it back just to see how the desk performed and I was genuinely horrified to hear my own voice. A nasal whine peppered with unnecessary swearing that made me sound like a hod-carrying buffoon of the lowest order. I resolved there and then to not only stop swearing in every day speech, but to give up speaking altogether for the good of humanity. Both pledges, needless to say, I failed to keep. Sorry the World.

Well that’s what this gezzerbird needs. Some form of external 3rd party recording system quietly, mutely taped her actions throughout the day and then sat her down when she got home and played back to her just how ball-slappingly ignorant and annoying she has been. I then imagine she would weep for the rest of the night and drink bleach, but I’d settle for her not bellowing into her fucking phone every time she gets on my bus, the cunt.

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* Let’s see. Sand in your eye. The kids of parents with no idea or desire to check their offspirngs’ behaviour. Supermarket shopping. The fact I can never find sunglasses that fit my stupid wide head. Or a nice watch I actually like. My boss. Cat shit. Cats. People who have cats. The failure of technological convergence. All these in the few seconds it took me to write “Oh now they are annoying. Weapons grade annoying. 100% cast iron annoying. More annoying than almost anything I can think of right now*” and bus seat hogging bastards are still more annoying.

** These pricks are thick and ignorant to the point of art form but somewhere deep down they know this is not how other people behave so they create a cocoon of false pride to protect them from the crushing weight of the absolute truth that their behaviour is simply wrong. It must also help them cope with being shit at everything bar breeding and mooing loudly. Canadians! Stop hitting baby seals and come here to cull these cunts, you work-shy wankers.

*** I’m constantly amazed by how people get through 11 or 12 years of basic schooling without learning a single thing. How is it possible to go through school and not know that New Orleans is not on the flight path from Manchester to Ibiza, or what apartheid is, or what happened in Chernobyl****. How? By the law of averages you must come out of the school system with more information than you went in with. These dumb planks seem to come out with just what they’ve leant from trial and error in the bits between schooling – how to get dressed in a manner that avoids death, how to txt and how to breed. They are the true walking dead and they are already everywhere – it’s a class 3 outbreak and we never even noticed it happening.

**** All real examples – the New Orleans one came about during the recent news coverage of hurricane Gustav when I was asked by a colleague if said hurricane would affect their flight to the party capital of cultureless cockends. This person also berated ‘them’ for giving the hurricane such a stupid name. By ‘them’, I think they mean the World Meteorological Organization and by stupid I guess they were angered that the fact they couldn’t pronounce Gustav. Not even close. Despite help.

Swallowing Corporate Cock

I’ve been feeling sick to my stomach of late. This is because it contains a metric kilo of fetid corporate ejaculate. All slimy and slithery and inside me. Yum yum. And do you know how it got there? Why, I gleefully knelt at the desk of the boss and took his full length of wrinkled bullshit pipe into my willing gullet and I sucked like a brand new dyson of course. When I say ‘boss’, I don’t mean mine. Nor do I mean theirs. Nor do I mean the top boss. No, instead this fucker is just a higher-than-minion-level-but-lower-than-king-level boss. The kind of boss you’d have to fight at the end of say the 6th level in a 10 level FPS.

Incidentally, in this 10 level FPS I would refuse to pick up any of the guns scattered throughout the base/complex/spaceship/world/wherever and would instead opt to wield nothing but two tried and trusted cricket bats with which I would transform myself into a veritable dynamo of long-pent up impotent rage. Like a thwacking great Dervish of death I’d spin my way through the game manically twatting all and sundry (friend or foe – you can all fuck off or die as far as I’m concerned at this point – the red mist has descended) squarely in the hole pies are normally forced through. By level 2 word would have spread of the madman with the wooden bats. Over-confident bosses and eager-for-promotion henchmen would be swarming towards my position confident of an easy and braggable kill. The fools. By level 5 there would be a palpable frisson of fear in the virtual air. Bosses would start sending massed forces against me and every stupid, ugly alien/soldier/terrorist head I saw would have its jaw loosened and brain hole opened by my gore dripping bats. By level 7 numbers would be running low and only the cream of the crop would be sent against me. They would creep and stalk and pounce like bastard ninjas and I would land a death blow to the kisser of each and every one of them. And I would do this naked. With a fucking big hard-on. I may even fuck the ruined faces of the dead and make sure the security cameras saw me so they could broadcast the exact moment my rage-filled man-mess mixed with the gooey ruins of their friends heads and forced a whitey-pinky ooze out of their shattered noses. By level 10 I would be the Angel of Death. But with wooden wings. And an unhealthy obsession with sticking my tinkle in the brain goo of dead men. Or women. I’m not sexist, after all. Or aliens. I’m also an equal opportunity bastard. Point being, whoever the bad guys were in this game, I’d first kill the fuckers with my cricket bat and then bugger their faces live on TV. All whilst grinning and humming The Girl From Ipanema.

Why would I do this? Because in real life, where I not only don’t have two cricket bats but I don’t even have one cricket bat, I am the kind of impotent pussy that has just taken my fucking middle manager boss’ old chap into my hot, little mouth and given it the schlurping of a lifetime*. And all to get him to put me on a poxy £600 course that not only do I not want to do, but they don’t want to put me on. And that’s why when I look at the bosses here all I hear is a cacophony of swinging willow and breaking bones and terrified face-fuck screams.

Mind you, what I hear when I look at myself in the mirror is far worse. An empty silence that somehow sounds so very disappointed with me**.

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* This is, of course, not a literal statement. He & I may be many things, but neither of us would welcome such an event.

** Imagine your parents tutting at you for some stupid act you know was stupid and you’d do almost anything to erase from history. And your grandparents. And teachers. And loved ones. Siblings, friends, work mates. Fuck, passers by too. People I don’t know and don’t exist are tutting at me. Silently. In my reflection. Jesus.