meh
"Moving forward, what procedures can we put into place to ensure this is properly actioned in the future..."
It’s 10:30am, and I’ve been staring at the above email for about twenty minutes now. I’m trying to word a reply in my head, and it’s hard when all I want to do is tell this guy to go fuck a bee hive.
It’s going to be a long day.
I’m hungover, and I’m tired, and I’m really fucking bored. Not even a Doberman bite to my groin could wipe this morbidly disinterested expression of my face.
But I’ve got about a hundred emails I have to fucking wade through, and each one is more vague than the next. These emails have been forwarded and replied round the company dozens of times, and somehow have found a home in my Inbox. I have to back-track through each email string trying to work out the fucking gist of each conversation, fighting the itching urge to just delete all of them.
The combination of too much alcohol last night, and my already existing apathy, has left me in a tremendously phlegmatic state. If I’m not careful, I’m going to completely regress into some kind of primordial blob and seep into the carpet.
I sent an email to Gibbo earlier, declaring in size 72 font that "I’D RATHER BLOW A BURNS VICTIM THAN BE AT WORK TODAY".
He replied "Fine, go ahead". Attached to his email was a JPEG of a guy who had completely immolated his penis in a freak barbecue accident. I spent at least ten minutes dry reaching.
Like I said. It’s going to be a long day.
It’s 10:30am, and I’ve been staring at the above email for about twenty minutes now. I’m trying to word a reply in my head, and it’s hard when all I want to do is tell this guy to go fuck a bee hive.
It’s going to be a long day.
I’m hungover, and I’m tired, and I’m really fucking bored. Not even a Doberman bite to my groin could wipe this morbidly disinterested expression of my face.
But I’ve got about a hundred emails I have to fucking wade through, and each one is more vague than the next. These emails have been forwarded and replied round the company dozens of times, and somehow have found a home in my Inbox. I have to back-track through each email string trying to work out the fucking gist of each conversation, fighting the itching urge to just delete all of them.
The combination of too much alcohol last night, and my already existing apathy, has left me in a tremendously phlegmatic state. If I’m not careful, I’m going to completely regress into some kind of primordial blob and seep into the carpet.
I sent an email to Gibbo earlier, declaring in size 72 font that "I’D RATHER BLOW A BURNS VICTIM THAN BE AT WORK TODAY".
He replied "Fine, go ahead". Attached to his email was a JPEG of a guy who had completely immolated his penis in a freak barbecue accident. I spent at least ten minutes dry reaching.
Like I said. It’s going to be a long day.
posted by Beef at Friday, July 27, 2007
7 Comments:
Sounds like upper management got in trouble for something and blamed it on you. nothing worse than writing policy and procedures. too much thinking and when you are hungover it makes it twice as hard
eh.. cut the crap and go home la wei.. enough with the London shit.
please la..
please.
It is a testiment to the amazing power of the internet that your friend was able to find the photo of the guy with the burned boy bits to email back to you. Unless he just happened to have it on his computer, in which case, don't be his friend anymore. Seriously.
"We really need to sit down with Purchasing. **** has been dealing with stuff for purchasing virtually all morning, about one & half hours.
I have told him not to deal with anything else for them, but he say’s we can’t we have to get parts for them"
bunch of c****
Hey, it's not everyday you see a burnt off dick...
Seriously it was disgusting. It was the first email some psycho temp sent me and Si when he turned up. I kept it as evidence of the kind of workers we attract, and just in case that one in a million opportunity arose...and it did
are you ever gonna write again?
bit slack on the updates old boy
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