18 May, 2011

Another office nuisance

So there’s a new contractor who’s sitting next to me in the office, and he shooting his mouth off, and trying to get a rise out of me (if you’re on Facebook, and you’ve “liked” this page, you’d know that.  See, just click that little “like” button on the right there). He's constantly making stupid fucking jokes that are neither clever nor funny.  He thinks, I’m sure, that it makes him charming, when in fact, it is the office equivalent of pulling my pigtails in class.
Anyway, in a desperate and rather vain effort to avoid his rage-inducing nitpickery, I’ve been forced to adopt a number of strategies.  One is to put my headphones on and pretend I can’t hear him.  But he's started to rudely interrupt my podcast, in order to tell me that he reckons I'd be a "plate thrower" in an argument (I swear, he's going to end up with a plate lodged in his pelvis if he's not fucking careful), or to observe that I've either put my jacket on, or taken it off.  So I've taken to typing furiously and staring at my computer screen, like I'm working on something Very Important, which requires Intense Concentration.  A great strategy, particularly if combined with the headphones, but I'd run out of writing work.  So I had to make something up.  And look very fucking serious about it.
I should add, that I don't think he's having a crack, he's just trying to ingratiate himself by taking the piss.  Problem is, he doesn't know me well enough to be able to do that yet.  Cocky fucker.
Here, my lovelies, is what I wrote Monday afternoon, at 4.40pm, to avoid having to talk to the Very Annoying Office Nuisance - unedited and as it happened. Warning! This contains some very coarse language.  Very. Like c-bomb very.

Just have to write something so that I can look like I’m concentrating so the douchebag won’t say anything to me.  I think I’ll keep this file going so that whenever he looks up to say something inane, I can look like I’m really focussed on what I’m writing.  What a dickwad.  Seriously.
Two minutes later.
So here I go again, because I can see in my peripheral vision that he’s looking at me, and about to make a comment on the chips I’m eating.  I don’t know what it’ll be, but it’ll almost certainly be something irritating, like – “oh, you like chicken chips do you?” or “you shouldn’t eat those, you’ll get fat.” Or something equally ghastly.  Maybe he’ll chastise me for not offering him one.
Okay, five minutes later.
It annoys the shit out of me that I can’t do ANYTHING sitting here without some stupid comment.  Or otherwise he talks out loud about stuff, like “I need to call Myki today”.  Like I give a shit.  Call them douchebag, and don’t tell me about it. He made me take my earbuds out so he could tell me that.  Un-fucken-believable.  Did I mention that he eats with his mouth open, shovelling food in and chewing noisily.  I think I may have to kill him. Slowly.  With a potato peeler and a bag of salt.
This morning, he banged on for twenty minutes about why cats suck and dogs rock.  Of course, he doesn’t know that I lost my beloved puss two weeks ago.  I think if he makes another comment in that direction, I’ll tell him about my sweet girl, and that he can fuck off.  That ought to shut him up for an hour or so.
Three minutes later.
I knew it.  I knew he couldn’t keep his fucking mouth shut.  He’s been looking over here every few seconds to see if my concentration has broken, and the second it did, he said “So tell me about yourself – what do you do for fun?”  What the fuck do I say to that?  Well, I write a website about fucktards.  You’re going to be on it, because you shit me to tears.  Instead I said “what?” with as withering a look as I could manage (which is pretty withering), then ignored him and started typing this paragraph.
Which is now finished.  Fuck.  I need to think of something to write…think!  Think girl!
Oh, I know! Today, he passed me on the street with another one of the contractors.  The nice contractor said “hey!” as we passed, and the douchebag, by way of trying to be funny coughed in my face.  Disgusting.
And he listened into a phone call I had where I said something like “are you going to have a boys’ lunch? Because I can’t come to a boys’ lunch, and I want to be there.” After the call ended he said “if you want to go to a boys’ lunch, you should dress up like the guys in Monty Python.”  Please, I beg you, put a bullet in my head.
Oh, another one.  So somehow we got onto the topic of fish.  I never eat fish. I just don’t like it*.  Anyway, he told me that:
  1. I'm stupid and missing out because fish is delicious**
  2. He was going out to lunch and was going to buy fish because he knew how much I “appreciate it”.  Fucking cunt.
  3. Next time we’re in a meeting (which we haven’t been yet), and he wanted his way, he was going to bring two trouts in his back pockets and threaten me with them.  As he said it, he thrust imaginary trout at me to demonstrate. 
Oh, and he keeps all the soft drink cans when he's finished, and piles them up on his desk in a tower.  He said he does that because "all creative people do something quirky".  I said, "what, like stacking up piles of trash on their desks? Just put them in the fucking recycling dude."  But there they stand, teetering and sticky.  Utterly repellant.  And you know, sometimes creative people are quirky.  But they don't do it deliberately.  That's not quirky, that's pretentious, douchebag.

Anyway, he’s packing up his stuff now, so I’ll wait ten minutes before I leave the office – even though I’ll miss my train, because I’d rather miss my train than ride the lift downstairs with him.

Don't even think about putting me in your pocket, arsehole.

*I once famously threw up on the street in Paris when I walked past a fish shop.  They'd just hosed it out, and there were guts all over the pavement.  Which were soon joined by my lunch.

**No, it's not.  It's fucking disgusting.

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