Takes all sorts to make the world. Sadly, some of these are the annoying cunt sort.

And everyone knows that cunts need to be blogged about.

1. The Jobsworth

I’ve had a long day. It’s been raining for most of it. My shoes are wet. My socks are wet. My feet are wet.

All I want to do is go home and go to bed.

But no. I have to get the bus home, shovel some food in my mouth, shower, put on clothes, then get the bus back out for a birthday party.

Not in the mood at all, but you can’t miss these things unless you have a really good reason.

Before I get on the bus I drop into an off licence in town to pick up a bottle of booze as a birthday present. It’s one of those shitty little shops where they keep the good booze behind the counter. So then you have that horrible moment where you’re trying to look at the stuff behind the counter and the counter dude is just staring at you like a moron.

STOP LOOKING AT ME WHEN I’M LOOKING AT SOMETHING ELSE.

PRETEND TO BE BUSY FOR A FEW SECONDS BEFORE I’M READY TO ASK YOU FOR WHAT I WANT.

“Can I get a big bottle of Captain Morgan’s please?”

-”This one?”

“No. Captain Morgan’s. At the bottom.”

-”Oh right, this one?”

“Yeah, just, the bigger one on the left there. Yep. That’s the one, thanks.”

-”Have you got any ID?”

No. No, I don’t have any fucking ID I’m afraid, you massive bellend. Look at me. Look at how wet my clothes and skin are. Just give me the booze. Look at the toll life has taken on me. Look at my face. Look at how worn it is from my twenty one years on this fucking planet that’s crawling with arseholes like you that ask me silly questions like that. Just give me the fucking booze. I buy drink all the fucking time, and nearly always have my fucking ID on me, and they never fucking ask for it anymore, so I’ve stopped bringing it around with me. Tonight I’ll go to a club and won’t need ID because the people on the door will be reasonable and see that I’m clearly over the fucking age of 18. Just give me the shitting booze. I’m 21 years of age. I’ve been buying alcohol for the last three years. Sometimes I wonder why I bother drinking anymore, but then I remember it’s the only fucking legal thing that’ll numb the pain of having to endure people like you nearly every fucking day of my life. So just give me the fucking booze. Scan the fucking booze, take my money, and we’ll both be fucking happy and life will go on and everything will be fine.

“Ah I actually don’t, sorry.”

- “Sorry, I can’t serve you.”

“Ah okay, no problem then mate, bye now.”

You have made a very powerful enemy today, my friend. Later on I will return and murder you. I will then celebrate your death by weighing you so I could make sure I drank your exact body weight in booze, just to be extra weird and creepy.

Yes I know he’s just doing his job and technically he’s in the right. But fuck that. If I want to bitch and moan despite being in the wrong then I’ll go right ahead and do it. It’s my blog and I’ll do what I like.

2. The immovable object

You get on the bus and there’s no completely free seats left, so you have to sit beside someone. You look around for the one who’s least likely to start talking to you or  be weird in any way.

You sit next to some guy.

You wait for him to scooch over a little bit so you can sit comfortably.

He doesn’t scooch.

Not a single bit of scooching.

If it were a scooching competition he’d be dead last. Maybe even disqualified for lack of participation. It’d be like France at the 2010 World Cup. You’d be thinking to yourself, ‘why are you even in this competition if you’re not even going to bother?’.

So now you’ve to perch uncomfortably on the edge of the seat. Perching like a timid little bird on a brittle branch.

What an absolute bastard.

I bet his mother hates him.

He beats his wife.

His children wish he was dead.

Worst person in the world.

3. The early goodbyers

This is a silly one that shouldn’t bother me.

I find this happens most often in a work environment.

You’re in the office, or wherever it is you work.

It’s time for one person to go home.

- “Right so, I’ll talk to you later Mark, see you soon”

Then they start packing up their things and getting ready to leave.

We both know that they’re going to be there for another few minutes, but I have to respond to their goodbye, knowing full well that I’m going to have to say it again in a bit.

“See ya now, all the best”

- “Jaysus I wonder what I’ll have for dinner”

“Yeah”

- “Pasta I suppose, so handy to make.”

“Yeah Pasta’s good alright.”

-”It is, isn’t it?

“Yeah.”

-”Yeah, maybe pasta.”

“Mmm.”

Another few minutes pass as they gather their things and take a fucking eternity to actually leave.

Then the second goodbye.

-”Right then, that’s me done. Talk to you soon”

“Yep. Bye now. Enjoy your pasta!”

I hate that first goodbye so much.

JUST SAY GOODBYE WHEN YOU’RE ACTUALLY WALKING OUT.

Worse still when they come back for something they’ve forgotten.

Oho, you forgot that thing that you forgot there did you? Oh well you’ve come back in and picked it up now. That was so funny when you forgot that thing. God, head like a sieve, you! Anyway, for the third and I hope to fucking God final time today, GOODBYE.

4. The bearded guy on ASOS

Worse than all of the above, is the bearded model on ASOS.

As a really fashionable guy, I sometimes shop online for clothes. So sometimes I go on ASOS.

The male models on there are all reasonably handsome or trendy looking men and I can understand why they were given the job of modelling.

All of them except one guy.

One bearded cunt of a model that I despise beyond belief.

This guy.

Look at him.

Look at his stupid hair.

Look at his even stupider beard.

This man is a model.

He looks like a homeless man who just got given a comb.

And it might be alright if he looked like a happy-go-lucky cheeky chappy. But no. He looks dour and miserable.

I’m convinced they always give him the shittest clothes to model too.

Regardless, I will never buy an ASOS item that he’s modelling because of how much I hate him. Never.

Look at this fucking thing that they had him wear.

I mean, it’s a nun’s blouse.

And how much?

Two hundred and eighty pounds.

For that.

Well, in the words of Alan Partridge, butter my arse.

Butter my arse right up.

27 June 2011For The Lolz, Life etc., Ranting5 Comments

blah
6/27/2011

I’ve decided to tell you who i am. In fact, I think you can tell already who I am because of the venom pouring out of me as I type this. I am… THE BEARDED MODEL FROM ASOS. And now you will feel my wrath; I’m finally able to use that glock i got for my birthday last year. And just for the raic; I celebrate your death by weighing youand then drink your exact body weight in booze. I am weird and creepy.

Mark
6/27/2011

Oh Blah, my blog posts don’t feel complete until you’ve had your say.

Ciarán Lyng
6/27/2011

I love that word – scooch. I don’t think I’ve heard it since primary school.

Orla
6/27/2011

Your posts just cheer me right up. Might even go as far as to say it was the second most enjoyable part of my evening, after steak of course.

Keira
6/30/2011

I.Should.Be.Working!! … oh well to funny not to read

Add yours