Just fucking shoot the fucker, someone.
Fugg You
April 21st, 2008 § 0 comments § permalink
Women! Know this.
Ugg boots might be comfortable, but they are COMPLETELY FUCKING HIDEOUS.
No, really. I honestly hope those things are free, because you look like utter cunts in them. Without exception.
Walking around with your feet in two dead rotting badgers might be comfy too, but it would be pretty bloody nasty to look at.
Do what you’re paid for, perhaps?
April 8th, 2008 § 2 comments § permalink
Look, it’s so fucking simple even a television presenter could understand it.
If you give me a delivery date, and use the word “guaranteed” when you do it, and the item is in stock, it is NOT FUCKING ACCEPTABLE to then miss that delivery date.
It really isn’t. Look, here, I’ll look up the fucking definition of “guarantee” for you.
Here: “an assurance for the fulfillment of a condition“. You see? An assurance. As in, you are assuring me that my purchase will be with me on the date you fucking say it will.
OTHERWISE WHAT’S THE POINT? “Oh well the post service can’t always blah blah blah…” Well then you shouldn’t be throwing fucking guarantees around like they’re free, then should you? SHOULD YOU, CUNT?
Just fuck off, Amazon. Really. Just fuck off.
And another thing
March 20th, 2008 § 4 comments § permalink
The dialling code for London is 020. Only.
NOT 0207 OR 0208. If you use either of these – that is, if you put the space after the 7 or the 8 – YOU ARE A COMPLETE FUCKWIT. No exceptions.
The point of a dialling code is to locate the area from outside that area. You do not need the code if you are inside that area. In Brighton, the code is 01273. For the fictional number 01273 123546, from inside Brighton you would simply dial 123456.
Thus, for the fictional London number 020 7654 1234, you would dial 7654 1234. Try leaving the 7 off and see how far you get.
Has that explained it simply enough? Or do you need a FUCKING DIAGRAM? OF A PHONE? YOU TWAT.
McCartney Dead Since 1966
March 19th, 2008 § 0 comments § permalink
And that’s one of the saner bits of “news” surrounding the whole spunkslinging match.
A wanker he might well be, but this fucking loopy nutjob bitch is just plain dangerous. Take back some of that money and build an airtight fucking box around her. Oh, and best stake her through the heart before you lob her in.
Huh
March 19th, 2008 § 0 comments § permalink
So apparently, it’s OK to go to the pub at lunchtime, but it’s not OK to sit at your desk swigging from a half bottle of Stolly at lunchtime.
Who the fuck knew? SHOW ME WHERE IT SAYS.
Cause but no effect
March 19th, 2008 § 0 comments § permalink
Oh look. Here’s a project. It’s divided up into phases, isn’t it? Like, say, design phase, amends phase, build phase, and testing phase. Sounds good doesn’t it?
Ah but wait! Testing phase? We all know that that actually should read “Doing last minute amends for the client because the account manager can’t fucking say no phase”, don’t we? Yes we do.
Oh! Now look again! The design phase has slipped! It’s eaten the whole amends phase! Plus, the client didn’t sign off the designs, and now that even that phase has overrun by three days, and they’re still umming and ahhing. I wonder what that could mean for the build phase…
Yes! That’s right! The people involved in the build phase now have to work twice as hard and twice as fast! And work late! Oh, joy!
If your answer was “The delivery date should move” you obviously don’t work in advertising.
What is it that you imagine I’m doing?
March 18th, 2008 § 0 comments § permalink
Excuse me, Mr Project Manager, can I just point something out? Thanks.
See, you’ve just approached me at my desk, and started to talk to me about something work-related, haven’t you? Yes, you have, in case you were in any doubt.
Now. Take a quick look at me and what I’m doing, if you’d be so motherfucking good. Can you see what I’m doing? Yes, that’s right. This tasty plate of meatballs and spaghetti is my “lunch” and I am eating it. Do me another little favour if you wouldn’t mind – you’re doing so well! – could you just look at the time? No look there, on your wrist. That’s a watch, that is. Oh dear, let me do it for you. See, it’s 25 minutes past one in the afternoon, or 1:25pm, if you prefer.
Would you like me to tell you something special that can actually be derived from these previous two pieces of information? It’s for free… you would? Ok, here it comes.
I’m on my cunting lunchbreak, you brain-dead workaholic cunt, so JUST FUCK OFF.
There. That wasn’t so hard, was it? Oh stop crying, I barely touched you.
I’M ON THE MOBILE
March 16th, 2008 § 0 comments § permalink
Excuse me, Prick. You seem to have missed the point somewhat.
You see, the mobile phone is an invention which allows people to talk to other people who are not in the same room WITHOUT bellowing at the top of their fucking idiotic whey-faced lungs.
Right
March 12th, 2008 § 0 comments § permalink
This bullshit has gone on far too fucking long, and I’ve had enough of it. As of now you fucking lot are going to be told.
Pin them back and listen up. I know where every one of you lives, and I have a length of 2×4 with each and every one of you cunts’ names on it.
Get up against the wall and pray that when your time comes I feel merciful enough to run you through with a modicum of speed.