YTAH's Weblog


Glory Be (To the Father of Malice)

Posted in rants,work by YTAH on February 27, 2008
Tags: , ,

Whew! For a while there, I thought I wouldn’t have enough vitriol left to write another article. After the way that last one ended, I though I was going to be forced to spend an entire day being all blissed-out and happy (relatively speaking): you know, appreciating the weather and the fact that the electricity hasn’t gone off yet. I was in a relatively good space, intellectually and emotionally. And if I’d never recovered my anger, I would no doubt be reduced to writing depressingly cheerful bullshit like “oh appreciate life” and “it’s going to be alright” and “what a wonderful world” – exactly the kind of schmaltzy bullshit that normally sends me into an apoplectic fit, like the sound of the Sound of Muzac.

Thank god for my boss.In fact, you may thank any deity of your choice – Allah, Buddha, Christ, Sekhmet, Elvis, Anubis, Athena, Jupiter, Billious, the Lord of the Flies, or the Great Potato. (And any one of them has as much right to be called a god as my “boss” has to call himself my “manager”. Managers are supposed to manage something, aren’t they? My boss couldn’t manage to get himself run over. And as many managers surround me, dear reader, as there are deities in the heathen pantheon. Never forget that too many cooks spoil the broth, and too many cunts make a cock-up.) But whatever your system of belief, dear reader, rejoice in the fact that the universe has once more righted itself and that the earth is revolving yet again on its proper axis, because I am horserapingly furious.

I am rather fucking relieved, to tell you the truth. I like writing this piece of shit column. If I had more discipline, I’d try to do this for a living. But instead I have to spend – dare I say “invest”? “infest” perhaps, no, squander – my time, effort, and remarkable talents doing a job where I have to be nice to fucking retards most of the time. All day long, people come up to me with the express purpose of saying something ridiculously mind-fuckingly stupid, or sharing impossible solutions to non-existent problems while blissfully ignoring the tsunami of troubles around them, or suggesting ways in which my already perfect grasp of my job could be dramatically improved by listening to their ludicrous, uninformed opinions derived solely from their own somewhat lacking (hah! my skill at understatement knows no bounds!) understanding of the basic facts of life (as in whether they’re standing on the earth or on the sky, or where the food is supposed to go in and come out), combined with their partial reading of some till slip they read one day while digging the turds from their own mouth orifices.


In Pictures: All My Bosses

I have to admit one thing about the people I work for: they do seem to be equal-opportunity jerk-offs. They will hire cunts of all persuasions, regardless of race, gender, sexual orientation, cultural background, or mental ability. Because like it or not, people, you can be as stupid as fuck and remain relatively innocuous, or you could be really, really clever and still be a complete cunt. Take me, for instance: I have been able, through many years of concerted effort and undiluted greed, to suppress the instincts of my superior intelligence – at least in the workplace – and pursue a life of modesty despite the ubiquitous fuckheadedness of everyone around me. And yet the people I’m thinking of are fuckheads in all senses of the word. Ignorance coupled with arrogance, my friends, is what causes wars. These people’s unrepentant cunthood, based solely on self-delusion and smugness, could turn an ex-Rastafarian Hare Krishna into Osama Bin Laden. (Imagine George Harrison with a turban and a rocket launcher.)

What good is it, I ask you, that I have command of language such as can “peel the paint from walls” (a reader’s words, my friends, not mine), if all I am required to do, time and time again, is to explain – calmly, politely, and repeatedly (oh yes, repeatedly) – what it is they are doing wrong, why it is they cannot do it their way, and why their contrary opinion is irrelevant, irrational, and unsupported by the facts. Why did the gods of wrath and malice deign to bless me with this astonishing aptitude for linguistic evisceration, dear reader, if I have to do all of this without laying verbal waste to their character and intellect? What kind of newfangled torture is this, to be capable of such extraordinary ferocity and yet be bound by the limits of good taste and touchy-feely goody-goody New-Agey horsepiss? Surely no mortal has ever been subjected to a crueller fate.

All this caused me to despair. (Don’t fear, dear reader; remember that this story has a happy ending.) At that moment, I reached an ever lower point in my life than the one in which I experienced a moment of happiness not filtered through the pain of others. Because I realized at that moment that, as much as I hate you, dear reader, and your terrible taste in films, and your depressing desire to be loved; as much as I hate my retarded rat-fucking boss, my monstrously dull job, and the festering sinkhole that is the company that employs me; as much as I hate Eskom, Telkom, and Parliament combined; dear reader, that is how much I hated myself at that very moment.

“Why?” you ask. Why should a genius like myself have cause to doubt himself, nevermind consider himself a failure in any way? Because I’m still here. In this job. With these people. Whom I despise. So you’ve got to ask yourself: why am I still here? Am I just as pathetic as all these fucking losers – my simpering, mouth-breathing colleagues; my friends, most of whom I met at work; the cunts who think they can order me about simply because their job title is “manager” or some such contemptible lie? What earthly purpose could there possible be in my remaining here, in this fiendish hell?

My search for answers to these and other questions drove me to even greater depths, dear reader, and I was forced to resolve to measures which no sane person should ever attempt: I consulted a book on anger management. Jesus fucking puking pissing syphilitic Christ; now I see why these books are advertised as “for idiots”. This isn’t a marketing ploy, it’s a warning. The first, last, and only one that I consulted, as part of their horrifically oversimplified steps to a better, less homicidal life (as if a less homicidal life were something to be wished!), claimed that you need to be forgiving. They even went as far as to assert – hah! – that you need to forgive your boss because your job isn’t perfect, and to forgive yourself for not having a better job. And I thought, Glory Hallelujah, and bring on the hatred. Because my unchecked fury at that ridiculous lie led to my greatest break-through yet; that, dear reader, that was when the earth tilted the requisite degree in the proper direction; because that was when I realized that I have, for a mere instant, been entirely mistaken. I don’t stay in this job because there is something wrong with me; oh no, dear reader, I stay in this job because of you.

That’s right. I realized right then that I do this to myself every single day because I know that without this column, your lives will be a pitiful, empty waste, devoid of value or meaning. Without this outpouring of grief-fuelled vitriol, your existence would have no purpose, no light, no joy. Because you’re even more pathetic than I am.

That is why, dear reader, I will thank the deity of my choice, the God of Malice, for my job, which keeps me happily supplied with reasons to hate you, the world, and every other living being in this miserable fucking universe. Without it, this column could not have existed. So take your forgiveness and hand me that rifle, because I’m coming for you. If you thought that underneath this cool exterior was someone who just needed a hug, you’re wrong; all I need is a tower, some ammo, and a single afternoon. And now that I know where all my inspiration comes from, I might actually be able to do one of these articles a week. This is the second one I’ve finished in as many days. So fuck forgiveness and embrace the hate, because here comes yours truly, asshole. Halle-fucking-lujah, amen.

Yours truly, asshole

[Originally posted on http://www.africans.co.za, on Wednesday, January 30, 2008.]

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