(no subject)

Could somebody please arrange for a large object to fall on me before 10 am tomorrow, killing me instantly and stopping me from having to go into work?

I've just come back after a week off, and oh, the fucktardery. I actually have stomach cramps at the thought of going in tomorrow and spending another day trying to decipher the slack-jawed, drool-smeared blathering that make up the emails I get from my team, let alone comprehending the grunts and shrieks that comprises their attempts at verbal communication. And even when I do manage to work out what the hell they're asking me, and give them the answer which a five year old with basic reasoning skills could have discovered for themselves, they're too busy yammering away to each other or mashing the keyboard with their webbed hands to take it in. "Froodle, how do I send a request off for Group Meters?" Well, if you hadn't just spent twenty minutes slobbering all over your desk as you yelled "witticisms" - and I use sarcastic quote marks - at your equally worthless friend on the other side of the goddamned call centre, oh God shut the fuck up, you might have heard me explain it. Four times.

There's a new girl whose incessant screeching is rivaled only by her breath-taking stupidity, and when you read that statement, bear in mind that her voice habitually reaches such a skull-shattering pitch that there are banshees who cannot stand to be in the same room with her. Add to that the fact that my manager took me aside today and told me that she was moving to another department and her replacement would be none other than Cuntrag, she of rage-inducing emails and the uncanny ability to get even the most chilled-out Phone Monkeys back up with her complete lack of manners, and you have some idea of why I would rather fall into a pit of hungry rats than set foot in the House of Gas again.

Speaking of Cuntrag, today she launched the "ingenious" notion of the Advocate Progress Tracker. This is basically a spreadsheet where we make little checks every time we review a case, or close one, or open a new one. Cases that, by the way, are actually on the computer system. But no, Cuntrag must have her patronising little paper forms to "track" how much work we do, because clearly we are lazy and must be scrutinized at every step - OH WAIT! That's actually not true at all! I guess Cuntrag is just a controlling busybody.

And then, of course, there are the customers. Extra-special douchebag points this week for the asshole who screamed at me for ten minutes over the fact that he tried for an hour to make a payment online and was somehow too stupid to manage it, the jizzstain who bitchily demanded to know where she was calling, and on being told "Leeds," then snottily demanded if that was "Leeds in Yorkshire", as if somehow I was conspiring to trick her into speaking to a non-English-based call centre despite the fact that I am extremely easy to understand on the telephone and, just to satisfy your ill-bred racist ass, my name and accent are both quite clearly English, and the pompous wanktard who cut me off in the middle of asking "How can I help" to proclaim "No, I'll tell you what I want." Um, no. You will listen to my dialtone, you snotty cow.

(no subject)

Could somebody please arrange for a large object to fall on me before 10 am tomorrow, killing me instantly and stopping me from having to go into work?

I've just come back after a week off, and oh, the fucktardery. I actually have stomach cramps at the thought of going in tomorrow and spending another day trying to decipher the slack-jawed, drool-smeared blathering that make up the emails I get from my team, let alone comprehending the grunts and shrieks that comprises their attempts at verbal communication. And even when I do manage to work out what the hell they're asking me, and give them the answer which a five year old with basic reasoning skills could have discovered for themselves, they're too busy yammering away to each other or mashing the keyboard with their webbed hands to take it in. "Froodle, how do I send a request off for Group Meters?" Well, if you hadn't just spent twenty minutes slobbering all over your desk as you yelled "witticisms" - and I use sarcastic quote marks - at your equally worthless friend on the other side of the goddamned call centre, oh God shut the fuck up, you might have heard me explain it. Four times.

There's a new girl whose incessant screeching is rivaled only by her breath-taking stupidity, and when you read that statement, bear in mind that her voice habitually reaches such a skull-shattering pitch that there are banshees who cannot stand to be in the same room with her. Add to that the fact that my manager took me aside today and told me that she was moving to another department and her replacement would be none other than Cuntrag, she of rage-inducing emails and the uncanny ability to get even the most chilled-out Phone Monkeys back up with her complete lack of manners, and you have some idea of why I would rather fall into a pit of hungry rats than set foot in the House of Gas again.

Speaking of Cuntrag, today she launched the "ingenious" notion of the Advocate Progress Tracker. This is basically a spreadsheet where we make little checks every time we review a case, or close one, or open a new one. Cases that, by the way, are actually on the computer system. But no, Cuntrag must have her patronising little paper forms to "track" how much work we do, because clearly we are lazy and must be scrutinized at every step - OH WAIT! That's actually not true at all! I guess Cuntrag is just a controlling busybody.

And then, of course, there are the customers. Extra-special douchebag points this week for the asshole who screamed at me for ten minutes over the fact that he tried for an hour to make a payment online and was somehow too stupid to manage it, the jizzstain who bitchily demanded to know where she was calling, and on being told "Leeds," then snottily demanded if that was "Leeds in Yorkshire", as if somehow I was conspiring to trick her into speaking to a non-English-based call centre despite the fact that I am extremely easy to understand on the telephone and, just to satisfy your ill-bred racist ass, my name and accent are both quite clearly English, and the pompous wanktard who cut me off in the middle of asking "How can I help" to proclaim "No, I'll tell you what I want." Um, no. You will listen to my dialtone, you snotty cow.