Come into my office, Alfred J. Stuffnuckle and Amelia J. Haggish[sup]1[/sup]. I have some things I want to say to you.
You first, Alfred.
I have never, in my entire life, met someone as thick as you. And that’s saying something. I know your brain must a tiny, delicate little thing because, for its own protection, it’s been encased in a three-inch thick layer of bone. And not just bone. No, bone that’s been reinforced by some sort of “developed in the space program” alloy that’s strong enough to withstand both vacuum and logic.
I am willing to have a go at “difficult.” I am not, however, going to waste my time on the impossible. And, listen to me here fuck-knuckle, I’ve been working on this equipment for four years now. You, on the other hand, wander past occasionally and have difficulty telling whether the computer is on or off. When I say something is impossible, I don’t mean “it’s difficult”. I don’t mean “I could do but I just don’t want to be bothered”. I mean impossible.So don’t you tell me what’s technically impossible. Just because you don’t understand it doesn’t mean it can be done.
And you, Amelia, you can stop thinking that you’re getting out of here scot-free. You’re not. We have a copy deadline around here for a reason. Sure, when you bring something in to me two fucking hours after deadline, I can do something with it. I can write an ad in thirty seconds and produce it in another sixty. However, the resultant ad will be about as good at attracting people to our client’s business as an offer of week-old fucking roadkill. Even if you are happy with standard of work, I have a little more pride. See, we take the client’s money and then we do an ad that works for the client, not something thrown together at the last second.
Even if you must bring in late copy, have the decency to apologise for fucking up my plans to get out of work only an hour late.
Cease and desist your inane, random, time-wasting fuckery. If you don’t, I will haul both of you down to the golf course, strip you stark-bollocky naked and use your arses for golf tees. Considering their construction, and the fact that
a) I've never played golf before; and
b) I will, by then, be in the sort of mood that would make Saint Francis of Assissi use fluffy little baby bunny rabbits as the ball in a game of polo;
I can reassure you that the experience will be repeatedly and extremely painful to you. I’ll take the time and effort to make sure it is so.
Both of you can consider yourselves warned, for the first and final time.
<tavalla picks bits of scenery out of her teeth and starts looking for her blankie and a cup of chamomile tea>
Thanks for listening.
[sup]1[/sup][sub]Sorry if I’m stealing anyone’s handles here, it’ll be the worst kind of coincidence if I am.[/sub]
