Viva La Résistance

The Dark Überlord, who’s in Europe this week on business, called me yesterday distraught because his swanky hotel room (a five star hotel room at that) didn’t have an impressive enough view for his lofty tastes. “It overlooks a side street!” he spluttered, terrified by this unknown world of deprivation. Well that must have been just traumatizing. A side street! The indignity. There must be someone we can sue for the distress caused to his emotional psyche. Paging Doctor FUCK-YOU!

Also – horror! - the people in the room next door had the audacity to have an infant. Not that he could hear the kid or anything, but, in theory, he might hear it and then where would the world be if he was forced to wake up bleary-eyed and devoid of the brain cells necessary to participate in his meeting? Well the world would tilt on its axis, Dark Überlord. People would run shrieking through the streets, knocking over nuns and small children in their wake, causing massive traffic pile-ups and mayhem at intersections. Stores would close and public transport would grind to a halt and the market would drop to unprecedented lows and start a recession.

Silly old butt-sausage.

On the upside, since he’s been gone I’ve been taking advantage of my freedom by coming in late and closing my office door all day to block out the rest of the scum. I’ve been playing my iPod through the speakers and singing along. I’ve been avoiding all the minions who are scurrying around hyperactively, like ants, making sure the client’s ass is well and truly kissed and other très important matters of world shattering importance, while I swing on my chair giving them the finger.

It all irritates me. The corporate world is not The Guv’ner’s world. The Guv’ner’s world is filled with margaritas and cake and bad men and music and comedy shows and Edy’s Butter Pecan ice cream and gay abandon and cursing and cats and liquor and drawing cartoons and sticking pins in maps and like...dreaming about a debauched weekend in Amsterdam eating magic brownies and getting up at noon and sitting around half the day in her underpants and a t-shirt scooping cereal into her mouth and patting her tummy and playing with dogs and interfering with boys and writing tripe and playing guitar and wearing fuzzy slippers and it is not about sitting at a desk all day organzing meetings for half-witted fucktards who can’t tie their own shoelaces..

Let the rebellion begin.