You fucking lazy, moronic, pathetic, inbred cunts.
I know it's not exactly cutting edge comedy to point out how shit McDonald's staff are, but this lot really do deserve a mention for their services to fuckwittery.
I know that working in McDs is a pretty shit job - hard graft for crap money - but I am a firm believer that how you do the shit jobs is a great reflection on what you are like as a person and a professional, and an indication of how you will fare in any walk of life. Based on this philosophy, the current incumbents of the branch of McDonalds located in Asda, Bournemouth are destined for a good 40-odd year career of dribbling on their own piss-sodden genitals while picking peanuts out of their poo. You surly, stupid burger-flipping cunts.
I don't expect silver service. I don't even expect reasonable food. I expect shitty McDonalds, but when you've got up early and you've got a coach to catch, you sometimes have to undergo the kind of misery that only a McDonald's breakfast can force you to endure. SO IT WOULD BE NICE TO BE FUCKING ACKNOWLEDGED WHEN I APPROACH THE COUNTER. AT SOME POINT IN THE FIRST TEN FUCKING MINUTES. You fucking fucks.
Standing there with a slack-jawed thousand-yard stare while shuffling around gathering the various components of a McDonald's breakfast, they failed to smile, say hello, or generally display any kind of interest or enthusiasm for their customers. Now I hate all that fake 'have a nice day' crap as much as anyone else, but I'm talking the basics of human interaction here. Failure to make eye contact, communicating in monosyllabic grunts (literally, I'm not exaggerating this for effect) and just generaly doing the shittest job possible is a fine indication that you dumb motherfuckers have found your true calling, and can look forward to a lifetime of being shit at doing shit jobs.
Friday was a very special day. Friday saw the team leader working there - that's right, standing shoulder to shoulder with his workforce, showing them how it's done, working right at the front line of customer service. Or, as it happens, demonstrating an ability to drool on his own shirt coupled with an ability to forward plan bettered only by the bloke who thought that two rubber dinghies and a set of waterwings would suffice as lifesaving equipment aboard the Titanic.
This bloke was biblical. If you put a committee together and charged them with inventing the perfect moron, they'd come back with this man. Actually wandered round with his mouth open the whole time (SUCH a good look) and cooked every meal TO FUCKING ORDER. ITS A FAST FOOD RESTAURANT YOU CUNT. Queues formed. Oddly, of people who wanted to buy McDonald's most popular breakfast meals. It wasn't hard to figure out. Even better, he didn't take the next order until the first order had been fulfilled - whereupon he would often find the person wanted some, or all, of the same things as the first person. Having dispatched poor Olaf to cook in the kitchen (who wandered off with his knuckles scraping the floor; I'm sure that's unhygenic) our hero then stared into space and waited till the meal turned up before taking the next order.
He'd be great in a proper restaurant. 'Oh, sorry sir, I can't take your order until the other 26 tables have had their meals cooked. In order. I'll swing past your table again on Tuesday.'
What a shame you can't supersize their fucking IQ.
Monday, 30 July 2007
Wednesday, 25 July 2007
My ringtone/iPod combo
No-one to blame for this fiasco but myself really. We take the piss out of a female friend for sounding a bit like Orville when she gets over-excited so, pissed up the other night, we recorded 'I wish I could Fly' off the internet. A couple of days ago I set it as my ringtone. I'm fucking hilarious me.
EXCEPT I'M NOT
I was wandering around Asda this evening doing some shopping with my iPod playing. I became aware of a vibrating in my coat and after a good 20-30 seconds of scrabbling around, I located the source of the problem - my phone was ringing. Removing the iPod headphones, I realised it was on top volume, and a good two thirds of the way through 'I wish I could fly' by Keith Harris and Orville. Every shopper within earshot was looking at me like I was a complete and utter twat. I thought it was on vibrate only :-(
EXCEPT I'M NOT
I was wandering around Asda this evening doing some shopping with my iPod playing. I became aware of a vibrating in my coat and after a good 20-30 seconds of scrabbling around, I located the source of the problem - my phone was ringing. Removing the iPod headphones, I realised it was on top volume, and a good two thirds of the way through 'I wish I could fly' by Keith Harris and Orville. Every shopper within earshot was looking at me like I was a complete and utter twat. I thought it was on vibrate only :-(
Monday, 23 July 2007
My cock-biting toilet
I HATE MY TOILET SEAT
Just now, after finishing a sit down I moved forward off the seat and the vicious son-of-a-bitch slammed down on the trailing meat and two veg to bring me to my FUCKING KNEES. I wouldnm't mind if I was hung like Yul Bryner in a rollneck sweater, and I've actually tried a slow-mo replay of the incident since but cannot figure out exactly how it happened logistically. BUT IT HURTS. The old fella has an angry mark and me plums are the size of satsumas. Not a happy chappy.
Mind you, given the crimes against humanity I've sent t'other way in recent times, I suppose some kind of fightback was inevitable
Just now, after finishing a sit down I moved forward off the seat and the vicious son-of-a-bitch slammed down on the trailing meat and two veg to bring me to my FUCKING KNEES. I wouldnm't mind if I was hung like Yul Bryner in a rollneck sweater, and I've actually tried a slow-mo replay of the incident since but cannot figure out exactly how it happened logistically. BUT IT HURTS. The old fella has an angry mark and me plums are the size of satsumas. Not a happy chappy.
Mind you, given the crimes against humanity I've sent t'other way in recent times, I suppose some kind of fightback was inevitable
The inhabitants of Bournemouth on a Saturday night
Jesus H Christ. I don't normally venture out on a saturday night, and now I remember why. What the fuck happened to having fun on a night out, people? By about 2.30am, the town was full of people unable to stand or talk, being sick on each other, fighting with each other, shouting at each other, or stealing each other's taxis. Am I getting old? Yes. But I never acted like such a total cunt when I was in my early 20s.
The place is basically an intelligence bypass. Chavs who have clearly spent a lot of money to look very cheap/just like everyone else strut and posture all night, basically scrapping over some of the ugliest women in Christendom.
Bournemouth on a Saturday - Fuck Right Off. I'm staying in and playing Pictionary from now on.
The place is basically an intelligence bypass. Chavs who have clearly spent a lot of money to look very cheap/just like everyone else strut and posture all night, basically scrapping over some of the ugliest women in Christendom.
Bournemouth on a Saturday - Fuck Right Off. I'm staying in and playing Pictionary from now on.
Friday, 20 July 2007
Carrier bags that pretend to be plastic but are in fact paper
Yes, 'Office' shoe people, I'm looking at you. Tonight, I'm going round a friend's for a quiet night in (because we got twatted earlier in the week, randomly, on a tuesday and figured we should save money tonight to make it up.) So, there's four of us. Wine. In a house. I figured - bit of pictionary.
I'm nearly 30 and can't afford a coke habit, okay? It's the closest I can get to fun while staying in.
So, I'm coming into work today and bringing the game with me. I pop it into the office bag, where it fits snug as a bug in a rug. Lovely, thinks I.
Exit house, it's pissing down. So leg it to bus stop. Only I can't get under the shelter properly while waiting for the bus BECAUSE OF THE FOREIGN CUNTING STUDENTS THERE. But I won't go on about that, I'm turning into Bernard Manning and need some new material anyway.
So, the bus arrives, on I get. It's a double decker too - a victory for the little man if you see the post below. I pay. I take three rain-sodden steps into the vehicle, at which point the paper-disguised-as-something-sturdier bag burst open. Pictionarium ensues. Bits of the game everywhere. Am scrabbling around after dice, counters, and most embarrassingly of all old pictionary drawings which had somehow been put back in the box. Almost all of which involved penises.
Fucking great. Now the occupants of the 1c know I am such a rocking bloke, I play pictionary on fridays. Interestingly, if the bus driver reads this blog, they will be able to identify me as the writer of the letter they received earlier this week. Fortunately, he clearly could not read, let alone work a computer.
Phew.
Incidentally, the post below drew a response:
We do not respond to puerile, abusive emails'
I replied pointing out that they had just done exactly that. I think this may mark the end of the correspondance.
I'm nearly 30 and can't afford a coke habit, okay? It's the closest I can get to fun while staying in.
So, I'm coming into work today and bringing the game with me. I pop it into the office bag, where it fits snug as a bug in a rug. Lovely, thinks I.
Exit house, it's pissing down. So leg it to bus stop. Only I can't get under the shelter properly while waiting for the bus BECAUSE OF THE FOREIGN CUNTING STUDENTS THERE. But I won't go on about that, I'm turning into Bernard Manning and need some new material anyway.
So, the bus arrives, on I get. It's a double decker too - a victory for the little man if you see the post below. I pay. I take three rain-sodden steps into the vehicle, at which point the paper-disguised-as-something-sturdier bag burst open. Pictionarium ensues. Bits of the game everywhere. Am scrabbling around after dice, counters, and most embarrassingly of all old pictionary drawings which had somehow been put back in the box. Almost all of which involved penises.
Fucking great. Now the occupants of the 1c know I am such a rocking bloke, I play pictionary on fridays. Interestingly, if the bus driver reads this blog, they will be able to identify me as the writer of the letter they received earlier this week. Fortunately, he clearly could not read, let alone work a computer.
Phew.
Incidentally, the post below drew a response:
We do not respond to puerile, abusive emails'
I replied pointing out that they had just done exactly that. I think this may mark the end of the correspondance.
Wednesday, 18 July 2007
Yellow fucking buses
You all know how much I hate buses, although I have to use them as I don't have a car :-(
Here is a transcript of an email sent this morning to Yellow Buses, who operate the line I use to get to and from work. Sometimes, ranting on a blog ain't enough. You gotta go direct, innit.
Dear Morons,
which part of 'rush hour' do you not understand? Having had the misery of enduring a number of your services running between 8 and 9am from Southbourne, I would like to place on record my displeasure at having to share my personal space with a-the public in general and b-loads of sweaty grumpy miserable people with their heads in each other's armpits because your ingenious forward planning department somehow neglected to put a big enough fricking bus on the route. You're the people that I see legging it round Asda at 9.30pm on December 24, amazed that Christmas has crept up on you again, aren't you?
Admittedly, I have made some new friends thanks to your service - to be honest, I have been more intimate with people on that bus than I have been with most of my ex-girlfriends - but it is becoming slightly tiresome. It is only a matter of time before one of us becomes pregnant, dead, or worse.
To aid you, I have come up with an invention all of my own, and have attached a basic prototype sketch of it to this email. I am calling it the 'double decker bus'. It is like a normal bus, but with an extra layer (or 'deck', if you will) added to the top. You may notice in my picture I have drawn people with SMILEY FACES and also added in some EMPTY SPACE. Please forgive me if this is an over-use of artistic license, but hey - it's my drawing and I want to live a little.
Anyway, I have to go now - I've just discovered that the small mexican man who gets on in Boscombe is still in the pocket of my suit and I need to make sure that he gets to work okay, which is more than you twunts can be bothered to do.
Hugs and kisses,
Mikey
Here is a transcript of an email sent this morning to Yellow Buses, who operate the line I use to get to and from work. Sometimes, ranting on a blog ain't enough. You gotta go direct, innit.
Dear Morons,
which part of 'rush hour' do you not understand? Having had the misery of enduring a number of your services running between 8 and 9am from Southbourne, I would like to place on record my displeasure at having to share my personal space with a-the public in general and b-loads of sweaty grumpy miserable people with their heads in each other's armpits because your ingenious forward planning department somehow neglected to put a big enough fricking bus on the route. You're the people that I see legging it round Asda at 9.30pm on December 24, amazed that Christmas has crept up on you again, aren't you?
Admittedly, I have made some new friends thanks to your service - to be honest, I have been more intimate with people on that bus than I have been with most of my ex-girlfriends - but it is becoming slightly tiresome. It is only a matter of time before one of us becomes pregnant, dead, or worse.
To aid you, I have come up with an invention all of my own, and have attached a basic prototype sketch of it to this email. I am calling it the 'double decker bus'. It is like a normal bus, but with an extra layer (or 'deck', if you will) added to the top. You may notice in my picture I have drawn people with SMILEY FACES and also added in some EMPTY SPACE. Please forgive me if this is an over-use of artistic license, but hey - it's my drawing and I want to live a little.
Anyway, I have to go now - I've just discovered that the small mexican man who gets on in Boscombe is still in the pocket of my suit and I need to make sure that he gets to work okay, which is more than you twunts can be bothered to do.
Hugs and kisses,
Mikey
Tuesday, 17 July 2007
Seethrough plastic bra straps
Girls - we can see them, you know? Do you really think we can't? You MUST know that we can see them when you couple them with an off-the-shoulder number, so what is the point of them? Wear a strapless one, you look like less of a chav.
What certainly does NOT happen is that you flounce around the pub while us blokes all marvel at the fact that you are clearly not wearing a bra, only for a stray beam of light to catch the shiny surface, betraying the secret that your breasts DO NOT defy gravity.
girls. Officially idiots.
What certainly does NOT happen is that you flounce around the pub while us blokes all marvel at the fact that you are clearly not wearing a bra, only for a stray beam of light to catch the shiny surface, betraying the secret that your breasts DO NOT defy gravity.
girls. Officially idiots.
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