Gather round, scamps and travellers – and hear my tale. Hear about what happens when you allow unapologetic incompetents to flail unchecked in the offices of our land. My own tale begins innocently enough, with a simple lapse in organisation, followed by a profound disinclination to “do anything about it”, in the spirit of “oh God, do I have to, hmph”.
If I was a mechanic, my customers’ bonnets would flip up, tear off, and shear through a cyclist’s torso. If I was a tailor, my range of bespoke suits would cause a lingering melancholy and laziness that would – eventually – lead to the cessation of all human reproduction. It’s what I do. I do things badly, and people always suffer like you wouldn’t believe.
This is why I limit myself to admin jobs; it’s the same everyday consideration that makes modern Gorgons train their hair not to hiss at the cinema. What possible harm could I do in a menial admin job? Well, I’ll fucking tell you. I forgot to photocopy the study guides for Midwifery Pragmatism.
Now I didn’t realise they had to be taught this; I thought midwives were going to be pretty pragmatic by default. I mean it’s pretty down-to-earth and real stuff, running around saying “shit, a baby – get it the fuck out of that woman before it eats her hole” and “no way, another baby – do you want me to pull it out underwater?”.
|not pragmatic enough||just about right re: pragmatism||too pragmatic really|
|“I’m not convinced this is a baby, and even if it is I think it’d be better if we all went bowling”||“Come on chaps, let’s get this baby out. Also next time we should consider being further away from the window, or maybe not point her fanny at the window.”||“Let’s smash their heads in, they’ll only die anyway”.|
What I’m saying it that pragmatism is essential to midwifery. Too little, too much, and babies start dying. And now, thanks to me, a generation of totally fucking impractical midwives have been unleashed. I mean, shit! I’ve started a midwifery timebomb!
By 2007, these people will be delivering their first babies. The midwives – I say midwives, by now they’re just baby-killing machines – will be taking the expectant mothers to Alton Towers. Then, when the mothers go on the nice swan boats they start shouting “BOOOORING LET’S GO ON OBLIVION”.
By 2008, caretakers at the Obvlion will have to unsnag the umbilical cords from the frame, so that other customers don’t get smashed in the face with a 60mph toddler. They’ll become really immune to infant mortality, and it’s my fault. Their wives will say “why aren’t you gasping, there’s all manner of infant mortality on the television, and some is particularly excellent” and the man will say “my daily life is now a catalogue of human remains and unrealised potential, thanks to Log“.
Well, I’ll tell you what. I’m not hanging around for the fallout. I’m fucking OUT of here. On Friday, when my contract ends. I just hope to God that I’m out of here before the carnage starts, and the blood starts flowing.
This is totally like I’ve fucked up the Bible.
PS : Apologies go to Neon Kelly (mydeaddog in the comments), the winner of January’s competition, for the delay in his prize sponsorship deal taking effect – I’ve just been a very busy lady (I’m a boy actually, giggle!) and haven’t got around to it yet. In the meantime, Neon, happy Valentine’s Day, and know that I love you harder and faster than I love Kettle Chips (ie really hard and damn fast idst).