Category Archives: Worklife

Holy Fuck, Is That The Time?

Video Week has been cut short! Why’s that? I’ll tell you for whys! I got really, really, distracted.
A) I was chatting to loads of people on MSN Messenger and they were all like “come on join the party” and I came back with “you better get this party started cos I’m the kinda guy who’ll never settle down”. Seriously, I am the most fun to party with. I say things like “Walla walla BONG” and crazy shit like that.
B) The second reason was that it’s been a truly magnificent day for my beast-colleague, Brenda. Who would have thought that Brenda’s most awful behaviour to date would revolve around the bereavement of a colleague? I shit you the fuck not, she was crying more than the woman whose dad had died.
C) We had a sad-face complaint from the Law of the Playground. I don’t have time to explain now, but the glorious upshot is that we made someone cry about her fat dead mum. I think we can probably step aside now, and say “mission accomplished”.
By way of apology, I’m going to go to Nottingham for four days, and come back on Sunday. Is that OK? Does a period of self-imposed Midlands sound fair enough to you? Or do you want more? Take a piece, I’ve got loads spare.
Before I go, though – if you want to see a photo of me murdering whores on the internet, then you really should probably go see Jekyll and Gingernuts. I’ve never looked dapperer, and frankly, you could have made more of an effort.
Answer one or more of the following questions.
1. What do you bring to the party (bear in mind I’ve already brought the vodka and dancing honeys)?
2. Once I’ve wiped out all the whores, who should I murder next? Seems a shame to waste the momentum.
3. Should I take down this story from the Law of the Playground?

mahr keef
Mispronunciation of “My Keith”. Used primarily by the mother of [name removed], a gargantuan lumpy beast of a woman, who had a melted owl face and corned-beef arms. Her protective cry of “MAHR KEEF”, warped into a gigantic trumpet by her fatty fatty fatfat lungs of fat. She drove a car named “Cheese On Toast”, presumably because the idea of sitting inside of a huge piece of food made her wet her fat knickers in morbid glee.

Brenda : The "Approaching Obsession" Years

Brenda was on a bit of a roll, yesterday. I listened to it for half the day, and I was getting to such a state of frantic desk-scratching, that I decided to boot myself up the arse and do something about it. Did I confront her, and ask her to stitch a zip on the mush? Pih! Did I offer to help her with her backlog of work, which would give her the opportunity to thank me, but say in that superior way “only I can do it”, so that no-one else ever gets to see how little she really fucking does? Bof! Did I turn on my Nintendo and play Castlevania under the desk? Not yesterday, no.
What I did do, was turn my dictaphone on for three minutes and see if she said anything particularly shit. Although she was running low on steam by 2pm, there’s still some classic Brenda moments.
It’s 700k and two minutes of mp3, hidden behind this link. I would have done an embed link, but someone complained that it crashed their computer. Sorry.

Out And About With Brenda

< < Who the Hell is Brenda? : Intro | Additional
First of all, uncountable thanks to Robert, who delightfully adorned Brenda with a brown accolade. Look at the affection she shows to her mucky bangle – her cheek rests adoringly on the greasy tracks, as it snakes unwholesomely past her, no doubt to rest in the filing trays until she calls on it again.
“Vast poo,” Brenda wails, in my imagination. “You give me succour.” Rather than put an unpleasant image on the front page (heaven forfend), here’s a link.
Again, thanks to Bobby for paragliding that bitch into my inbox.
Anyway, Brenda’s been ill. She has that frail, poisoned look about her, so I’m not surprised. When you’re as offensive to creation as Brenda is, your body must occasionally try to kill itself with antibodies. So, last week, the air in the office lost its sawtooth edge. Also, someone moved one of the polystyrene ceiling tiles, and rainbows fell out.
But now Brenda’s back, and in the mood for some self-justification. She’s mouthy enough about being ten minutes late – this table shows some of her best excuses for different latenesses;

Lateness Voice Quality Required Lie
10 minutes Fighting Monkeys
  1. Traffic jam, the likes of which she has never known.
  2. Family Emergency!
  3. Washing machine leaking, husband up to neck in towels.
30 minutes Velociraptor
  1. Children jammed broken conkers into car ignition.
  2. Cougar in the bay window.
  3. Creature formed from negative human emotion barring front door, had to love it to death.
1 hour Spectrum Loading Screen
  1. Was here two hours early, but wild eagle kept carrying her home. Eventually bribed eagle with a enchanted bangle.
  2. New mattress too springy, catapulted self into Shepperton, where Sphinx made idle sport with body.
  3. I can say anything I like, as nobody listens to actual words I say. They simply wince in discomfort at my voice.

So you can imagine the heaps of whining turd we all suffered this morning. Five working days’ worth of the stuff.
Before her illness, Brenda found a new way to outrage me. I was late, and had jumped onto a bus to shave vital minutes off my travelling time. It was only a couple of stops, but I was still horrified to see Brenda sitting next to the exit door. “RUNNING LATE TOO, JON?” she called over to me, startling the large black man next to her, who wasn’t expecting a shrill outburst from his right flank.
I never remember what I say back in these situations – it’s usually so violently bland that there’s no point. We just moved our mouths for two minutes, until we arrived at the university. Getting out of the bus, and walking along the road, this is when she outraged me.

On the left, at the bottom, you can see the bus stop. On the right, on the other side of the road, is our mutual destination. The red line is Brenda’s path. The woman is a fucking Tron light cycle. There isn’t a single curve in her walking pattern, and she will not tolerate talk of 45 degrees.
But that’s fine, you might be thinking. That is a strange quirk, but it is after all part of the Green Cross Code, and it doesn’t unduly affect you.
Well that’s just apologist shit, and I’ll tell you how it affected me. See that blue line? That is my approach to the building, with its unique and elegant compromise between the shortest “straight line” approach (which also increases the danger of being on the road for the most time) and Brenda’s 90 degree robotic insanity.
Now, do you see where the red and blue lines cross? That intersection is where I touched Brenda for the first time. My forearm still chills from the contact.
Brenda is around four feet tall, so my initial reaction was to look around in both directions, and say “whu? whassat?” Then I looked down, and saw her there, unwavering. Walking onwards as though nothing had happened. And I walked with her, slightly stunned, feeling myself getting pulled from my perfect blue-line approach to the building. This pull does actually seem to be guiding my path, as I bump into Brenda two more times.
After ten seconds in which I aged three years, we get to a place where Brenda is willing to cross. Her ferret-chops turned to face our workplace, she put her toes to the kerb, and looked left. Then right. Then left again. Then right again. A gap in the traffic appeared. I lurched forwards, unfollowed by Brenda.
“I’ll never make that,” she said.
Wanting to appear chivalrous, I rejoin Brenda until the traffic on the A4020 abates for long enough for her to shuffle across. Looking at her reminds me of the mental patients in Nottingham, near where I’m from. They demolished the asylum and built a residential crescent, but still the occasional mental shuffles around. Now, though, they lack a purpose – they just walk around in their old patterns, not really troubled by the fact that it’s all different, and the buildings that used to be their homes are no longer there.
I start to feel mortal, and I remember the irrational fear that gripped me as an eight year old; that light-speed cars would drive around the world, killing people. No matter how Green Cross Code-approved your style was, one of these driverless and invisible cars could kill you, and it would hit you so fast that your body would be sent into space, and your parents would think you had run away. This fantasy used to make me run across every road. And standing there with Brenda made me want to do the same, screaming. But I couldn’t, partly because I am now 31, partly because I am now utterly bound to Brenda.
The gap we need inevitably comes, and we walk together to our neighbouring desks, and I sit down and turn on my computer. Eventually the internet arrives, and I can ignore her again.

Quick Brenda Update

Brenda, the lady who sits opposite me at work, and a woman whom I despise with a kind of joyful clench, has just walked in at 9:53. This is pretty late, by all accounts, so from observing her habits, I know she’s going to shout really loud about some outrageous fucking lie to justify this one…
Sure enough, ten minutes later, I’m sitting through her sixth retelling of the story about how her fridge freezer packed in, and has flooded her kitchen. Her husband is at home, up to his knees in towels! And she’d gotten up especially early, because she wanted to be here at eight, to start attacking her huge workload, too. How cruel life is!
This certainly is proportionately more elaborate than the time she was 15 minutes late, when the reason was simply the longest traffic jam in the world. That was also on a day you were planning to get in early, wasn’t it? The fates must really conspire against you, you brown-spouting fuck.
I smile, with the fake placidity of furiously paddling duck, and stifle my natural response. “I no more want to hear your dreary fucking lies than I want to slide toothpicks into my eardrums, you stupid, withered slice of meaningless bitch pie.
Edit : I just took a photo of her. Please feel utterly free to print this out, roll it up, slide it into your arsehole and shit through it. In fact, if anyone were to send me a picture of themselves desecrating this picture, I would send them real presents through the post. Go on, piss on her. Piss on her face. Please.

Tonight I’ll be making a new Firestarter and Waterboy cartoon, so hang around for an entry that isn’t me swearing at women.

Stop Making Me Want You To Die

This office just took a downturn. Let me introduce you to yesterday, with Brenda.
We walked into the office together. When we reached our desks, she screeched in her vinegar whine over the tables. “So why were you late?” Only she didn’t use the inflection that might have implied that she was late too. This is her tactic, the shrill faux-friendly voice that lets everyone know your business. Thank fuck she can’t see the insane pornography I’m staring at all day.
I was having a conversation with the other woman opposite me. This is what I do when I’m not on the internet. Brenda comes back from whatever she fucking does in the corridor – to be honest I don’t want to think about it – and started repeating the last thing we said to each other. I checked her face without making eye contact, and her disgusting jowels were flapping with exasperation that she wasn’t part of the conversation. I hate her.
The man came to fix her telephone. For one week, she has been without a telephone, and has sat in her fucking chair like a puddle of dog shit, saying “everyone’s calling me! And I’m not available! I mean, if they want me to sit here do nothing, I will **GROTESQUE LAUGH** but I’d like to do some work! **GROTESQUE LAUGH**”
The phone man needed to drop some cable behind her desk. She couldn’t stop herself from trying to help; she kept pulling the cable in a way that exactly undid what the engineer had just done. I was furious on his behalf, and could barely stop myself from making audible whimpers as she yanked brainlessly away.
She conspires with me that she has been frustrated with her lack of a phone. “You’ve seen those comedy sketches, haven’t you?” I smile, but don’t reply with words. “You know those comedy sketches? Where the televisions go out the windows? Sometimes I feel like that.”
ONE РTelevisions out of windows is a rock star clich̩, not a famous set of comedy sketches, you cunt.
TWO – Do you mean you feel like you’re a television going out the window? Or do you mean you feel like throwing your television out of the window? What are you fucking saying, woman?
THREE – It’s called a MONITOR, you thick-striped twat.
“Yes, I’ve seen televisions out of windows,” I reply.
She calls me Jon. Fine, that’s my name. She calls Lynn Lynn. Excellent, well done. However, when she talks about our likeable and unsavage boss, Jan, she goes the extra mile and says the full name. Every time. Swinging it around like it lends her some kind of authority.
“Not just any old Jan, you understand! I am referring to the one and only J. Sherlock! Yes, the very same! Ms. J. Sherlock who runs post-registration nursing courses in this faculty we’re standing in right here!”
Here’s a heads-up, you cunt – I’ve seen Jan look at you, and it’s only because she’s a fundamentally nice woman that she doesn’t tell you to go stick everything in your pisspipes. You only escape it from me because I’m the kind of person who’d rather shout at the internet.
Out of morbid curiosity, I look at her face again, and see that her mouth is, in effect, upside down. Her tits are like well-chewed and rehydrated prunes. She trips over something, and jokingly threatens to sue something or other. Then all hell breaks loose as she discovers that there is a photocopier in the next room.
There’s a photocopier next door? I was told I had to use the ones on the eighth floor. I’ve been going up seven flights to do my work.
She then changes her story, and repeats it down the office.
There’s a photocopier next door? Sue was told that she had to use the ones on the eighth floor. She’s been lugging all her work up seven flights.
Right, you fucking hero. You altruistic piss-drinking darling. If it wasn’t enough that you’ve adopted Sue as your own personal Live Aid cause, you may have noticed those lifts? The lifts that take you up and down the building, you retarded Surrey fuck? Lifts make all floors the same floor!
Ms Sherlock walks past our table. Brenda – and I just stopped typing to snap a pencil even thinking the word – breaks off from nattering fruitlessly to me, and calls her over. “I don’t think Jon gets my sense of humour,” she said. “I think I’m a little bit too much for him.”
Don’t even get me started, bitch! I got your sense of humour the moment you opened your anus-lipped face! Your humour is unvaryingly a three-punch-combo;

  1. Squeal in that fucking voice you have for two minutes about how difficult everything is for you, because other people simply make your life hell.
  2. Say something resigned, like you don’t really care.
  3. ** GROTESQUE LAUGH ** to cover up the fact that no-one else gives a leopard’s gash about your interminable suffering at the hands of the hole-punch thieves.

It’s not that difficult to get, Brenda! Now blow it out your cunt!
She’s been quiet for an hour, now. God, I hate her so much. I’m going to walk around a bit, and see what’s on her screen.
It’s a database entry form page. Jesus. That’s just so totally her.
OH GOD SHE’S PUTTING A SANDWICH IN HER MOUTH. She put about half of it in. She’s only two feet tall, and she’s cramming granary bloomers into her leathery neck. It’s 3:45, woman! Since when was that STUFF YOUR FUCKING FACE O’CLOCK?
Her phone’s ringing too much for her. It’s rung around four times since it was fixed at 10:14. The first time it rang was “Here we go!!!” Every time after that, she flapped her arms at me as though to say “Look! Look at this! Isn’t is abominable, what I put up with? You understand, don’t you? We bonded in that twenty minutes I talked to you about my holiday. You remember, that 20 minutes where you didn’t say anything? I just went on and on at you? You remember, right? You must remember, because I didn’t even stop when you actually turned your back on me and scowled at the wall!”
So now, she has a new bane of her life. I honestly don’t think this woman could operate with any less than 20 concurrent banes.
In summary, Brenda is not the best work colleague, and if you have an office you’d like me to work in, please say so. I promise not to write anything like this about your staff.

Alongside The Mentaloids

This is my fourth week in the University. I’ve been working with nurses and fake cervix dolls for so long now, that I’d forgotten some of my previous jobs. And those previous jobs, while I’ve enjoyed them with a slow frown and a dumb acceptance, have been occasionally shit. According to some friends, I’m capable of “so much more”, I’m just not certain what exactly I’m capable of, and when I ask people what it is I’m capable of, they utterly fail to write out my ten-year plan.
There’s something quite gratifying, however, about taking orders from someone who has no idea what they’re talking about, and seeing what facial expressions you can get away with.

Facey Offy Hoo Hoo

Take your average post room. It’s undemanding work mentally, so as an employer you’ve got a wider scope of employable IQs. How diplomatic was that? I’m saying that I worked with some amazing, top rank retards. In the post room in which I worked in I did, there were two full-fledged mouth-breathers.
There was a semi-autistic bloke called Dennis, and a real-life wowzer Downer called Josephine. Everyone called her Jo, but she’d look really grumpy when they did, so I made the effort and used her full name. Because despite the fact I’m writing this now, I’m not a monster.
Josephine. It took me until day seven in the post room before she introduced herself. She seemed shy, and unable to meet my friendly glances. After a week, the part of myself given to irritating fantasy was telling me she fancied me, and was asking me how I’d deal with it if she made a pass at me. They’re strong people, I assume from absolute ignorance. Would I be able to fight her off?
I took a photo of her on my phone. Here she is. I’m sorry, Josephine, but you’d be the first to admit that you do all look the bloody same.

Downs Downs, Deeper and Downs

Once we’d broken the ice, Josephine relaxed. The practical evidence of her relaxation was that she would belch in front of me. She’d belch about five times a day, and I got into the regular routine of saying “Josephine, I heard that!”, later developing it into “One more for good luck?”, and “It sounds like the ruddy docks in here!”
It became our routine. She’d smile at me, and I’d wink back at her. Then we’d get back to posting council tax reminders to our neighbours. There was comfort.
Things changed when, by pure and wonderful fortune, she let rip with a shocking belter. I was looking at her, and what I saw hypnotised me for ten minutes. Her top set of dentures slid out of her mouth. They didn’t fly out, or anything dramatic – they slid, slowly, over her bottom lip and came to rest. It was like watching a sleepy Alien’s little head come out, to see who’s come knocking at 3am. I failed to make my usual buddy-ha-ha comment. I couldn’t find the words. Josephine pushed her teeth back in, and gave me a cheeky, knowing smile.
I wanted to see it again. I’d stare at Josephine, to the point where I was worried that people would notice I was staring at her. So I had to turn it into a game. I would limit myself to five second stares, where I’d will her to belch so fruitily that it caused her dentures to drop onto the table. If she didn’t, I wasn’t allowed to stare at her again for ten minutes. This game was the only reason I didn’t stare at her solidly for eight hours.
By the time I’d finished that job, I’m certain that Josephine thought I had fallen in love with her. The symptoms were identical.
Onto Dennis, then. Dennis had a mental age of 11, and was spot-on. Friendly, he had the Asperger’s trait of being set in his routine, and panicky without it. Dennis loved music. He loved Coldplay, Travis, and Starsailor. He did, remember, have a mental age of 11.
One day he came in, clearly excited, with a new edition of the Guinness Book of Hit Singles. This was his obsession, his autistic party trick. He had memorized every entry of the old edition, and set about reading the new one in every spare minute. After two weeks, he challenged us all to ask him anything. Anything at all.
But… because he was only semi-autistic (he could engage on an emotional level – he was genuinely fond of people – and he loved jokes), he didn’t have the full-on idiot savant skills range. So he’d constantly get things wrong. And when he did get things right, it was generally stuff that I’d know, from a lifetime of non-autistic what I call “listening to music”.
Break times were, therefore, a squalid exercise in rolling your eyes and leafing through the Guinness Book of Hit Records, looking for fucking obvious records. Paint It Black, Dennis? IS IT NATALIE IMBRUGLIA?
When I said, earlier, that Dennis had a grasp of jokes, let me tell you his favourite joke;
Why did the world outside stop raining?
Because it had run out of water.
I laughed at this. It was brilliant that he’d specified that the world outside had stopped raining. Because it wouldn’t rain inside, even if the world hadn’t run out of water, you see. He may be spaffed upstairs, but he’s not stupid.
Dennis’ next favourite joke – My friend asked me if I took the train home – I said no, I can’t get it through the front door.
Every day at the post room, every day spent opening envelopes, came with a growing sense of belonging. And I’d like to be able to say that was the reason I left… but it wasn’t. I left because there was a couple of extra quid an hour on offer in a nearby nursing university. With cervical smear videos and everything.

Zoe, The Temp & The Cervix

Following on from the (notsafeforwork) video… more adventures with a cervix!
Once upon a time, a young man worked as a temp in a University. He was really lovely, and everyone agreed that he was the most magnificent temp there had ever been. Sometimes people would come in just to look at him, either because they were in love with him or were dead jealous of his brilliant face.
It was an administrative role, so he was surrounded by in-trays and pending issues, and could spend upwards of six hours a day building his rubber-band ball, as long as he made a regular huffing sound that meant “huff! It’s lucky I am so efficient, or this workload would crush me!”
However, in this office there were other things lying around. Scattered amongst the windowed envelopes and Neon Post-Its were old battered boxes that whispered mystery, and zipped up bags that smelled of adventure. But the temp didn’t look in the boxes and bags, because all that huffing was quite exhausting, even for the best temp in the world, and he had fallen asleep.
He was woken by a coughing, squirting sound, like a man with a mouth full of toothpaste trying not to sneeze. His head jarring backwards, he looked around, and saw a legless torso with its fanny out, trying to get his attention by noisily cocking a flap.

Hello Dolly

“Hephllo!” gobbed the torso. “I pthink you might (flurph) be able to helphthrrrp me. My name isth Zoe.”
The amazing temp rubbed his tear ducts with his knuckles and threw away the bottle of whisky he had been drinking. Then he frowned at the torso, looked away again, then turned back to look at the torso again. It seemed friendly enough, even if it did spit terribly when it talked.
“How do you think I could help you?”
“I have got a cervixthh. It yearns to be found. Shfrt.”
The temp squinted at the lump of plastic flesh, and with frankly gobsmacking perception, saw that it had been designed to train nurses in the tricky task of finding the cervix. It had been under the desk since he came to work at the University. Thinking back, not once had a nurse popped in, crowbarred open the lump’s chops and said “there it is – a cervix!” to her gathered friends. The poor doll was understandably distraught. It turned to face the dashing temp, who was all muscley.

Have Some Dignity Woman

“Pleasft. Ft. FFFFFT. Tell me you will ffrffrffind my cervixth, one lastht time.”
The temp wiped the mucus from his face. Although he understood how difficult it must be to form words with a plastic vagina, it did seem rudely oblivious to the amount of cunt phlegm it was stringing into his face. His eyes lowered.
“Why do you have an anus?”

Pure Needlessness

The torso became agitated. “Ladishhhh have anussthhesthh! Praaak! Why shouldn’t I have an an an anusth?”
“Well, you don’t need an anus for your job. They haven’t given you legs, or a mouth. Why would they give you an anus? Unless it’s a decoy to catch out the retarded nurses, but that’s hardly likely. It just seems an utterly needless detail to give you an anus, especially one that’s basically a tattered stab-wound starfish.”
The torso was now so enraged that it could no longer form words, and just sputtered, spattered and coughed a twenty second long “PHRAAAAAACKACKACK”. By the time it had finished and descended into a desolate “fruff-fruff“, the temp (who could do the Rubik’s cube in about 20 seconds and juggle six balls) had taken pity on the wretched stump.
“Alright. I’ll find your cervix on one condition. You let me slide one of my fingers into your stupid, redundant anus.”
“Deal!” The torso brightened instantly, and made a contented phraa sound from her insides. And the temp walked in an amazing new style that he had just invented over to the doll, which had hopped onto its neck stump and was pointing the vagina eagerly at his hands.

Shit! A Cervix!

Within seconds, the temp had gently seperated the flaps, and found the cervix. “There you go,” he sang like Pavarotti and the bloke from Muse. “One cervix, right where it should be.”
The torso was whistling like a kettle from her navel. “Oh, yeah! This is what it’s about! This is life! Now stab it with a spatula! Stab it with a spatula!
“No way. That wasn’t part of the deal,” said the temp. “Now, I get to put my finger into your anus.” The temp considered slipping his dick in and saying it was his finger. The doll didn’t have eyes, after all. Then again, it didn’t have ears or a mouth. No, too risky. The last thing he wanted was a plastic doll screaming “rthhape!” and coughing mucus onto his lean, defined stomach. He decided to play it safe, and slowly slid one finger into the messy hole, as agreed.
There was a sound that went “ding”, and the torso let out a mighty yelp. “Oh!” it said. “You pressed my magical button! The button that turns me into a real person! Oh, thank you so much! Now I’m a real human lady, with glass ceilings in the workplace and emotional rollercoasters!” As if to prove her point, she shot a period onto the carpet. “Look! I’m as fertile as a bee!” she cheered.
But as the humanness filled Zoe, her voice began to fade. As she became more and more human, the fact that her neck ended in a smooth stump was proving to be a very real hindrance. Once the transformation was complete, Zoe lay dead, suffocated, on the floor.
The temp, who had invented ball-bearings when he was seven years old, tried to pull his finger from the anus, but magical rigor mortis had set in, and his finger was stuck fast.
This was in the year 1947. That temp is still in that office today, because everyone is too polite to say anything. The cleaners give him pebbles, because they’re nice people, but impractical. That temp – that wonderful, 2sexalicious4u temp – had to wait for the internet to come along to tell his story; typing one-handed when everyone else had gone home.
Ladies and gentlemen – that temp is me.

Rooting Around

It’s difficult, in this office, to be the last to leave. I’m supposed to leave at 4:30, and staying any longer makes me look like the most efforty keeno ever. But there’s boxes to shuffle through. I’ve got my eye on a 3×5 stack of boxes, which contains nurses’ tunics and skirts. I don’t know what size I am in girl, but there’s got to be one that fits me. The last time I got in the lift, trying to negotiate the vast, crazy wobble of the buttocks felt like playing It’s A Knockout. My arse can’t be bigger than that. And my tits, as succulent and overgrown as they are, cannot rival the colossal parodies that roam this building.
I’m nearly there. I’ve found the spatulas, and the cervical smear dolls (all called Zoe, which must get confusing at dinnertime). And I think I know where there’s a speculum. But I absolutely refuse to practice an after-hours cervical smear on a plastic torso unless I am wearing one of those uniforms. It would feel like a heartbreakingly wasted opportunity.
It’s coming up to 4:30 now. There’s only me and Lynn left. I can’t ask her if she’s leaving soon, and it took me so long to type that that it’s now 4:32. Jesus! It’s like working in a cake and diamond factory, and being told you’ll get sacked if you nick all the cakes and diamonds.
Still, at least I’ve got a copy of that “Breast Awareness Is For Life” video. Hopefully there’ll be some manky tits on that. Fuck. It’s 4:39. I give up. I’ve just remembered she hasn’t got the internet at home, so she’s probably look up prices to fucking Malaga or something. And I’ve forgotten my stealing bag anyway.
I’m going home to look at tits.

Spatula Located, Procured
Zoe Doll With Cervix Located
Nurse’s Uniform Located – Right Size?
Speculum Suspected In Crate 10

Working With Nurses

I have just watched someone throw away a video that is shown to registered nurses, informing them how to perform a cervical smear. They threw it away because new guidelines have been issued. I must see this video. Not only will it contain hot fanny spatula action guaranteed, but it will contain out-of-date hot fanny spatula action.
It’s at the bottom of a pile of crap. The woman who threw away the precious video is covering it in out-of-date leaflets about cancer and breast scanning. Boooooring. I’m going to have to offer to take the rubbish box out, so that I can fish out the video. I have to see what it is they did to my mum, that made her come home and say “well, I didn’t think much to that”.
There’s also four midriffs with their cervices right out, and a quite needless anus. Oh God, the woman’s now waving a speculum about, and discussing fanny sizes without pausing to beat herself on the back of the head. This is too much – I want to make all the rude sounds that they should be making.
I’m going to have to stay at work late tonight – wait until everyone’s gone home. I’ve got my camera with me. I’m very excited. I love working with nurses.