You’re cool, and…
by Gethin A. Lynes
By the end of the day, every exaggerated sigh from the next desk is a wave of rage crashing on the shore of my resolve, rapidly sweeping the dunes of my attempt to remain even-headed away to nothing. Had I remained a single minute longer, I am sure I’d have let loose such a tide of abuse that could only have ended in one of two ways:
1) with my summary dismissal, or
2) with me getting my head beaten in by a colleague whose bulk is matched only by his lack of subtlety in fobbing work off onto everyone else… wait… I lie… his size is very much equalled by the volume (in more than one sense) of his sighing.
Now ordinarily I manage to remain more amused than aggravated by his oft repeated lamentations. So much so, in fact, that for my own entertainment, I keep a daily tally of his exhalations of dissatisfaction.
Like giving someone a run-down of the amount of property they would now be in possession of if they’d saved their thirty seven years worth of dollaroos instead of planning for their retirement by buying fucking lottery tickets, as a leaving present (as in, when I leave) I’m planning on giving the bastard a little framed poster that says:
you could have spent 1460 hours
in a job you actually like,
if you’d gone out and got one,
instead of sitting on your arse
and sighing about how much
you fucking hate this one.
Either that, or I’m going to walk into the office with a megaphone and make my way around each member of staff saying fuck you, fuck you, fuck you, you’re cool, and fuck you!