Role play is a load of wank
Posted in Old blogger by Twenty Major on January 27th, 2006
“Ok now we’re going to try and put what we’ve discussed today into practice. Let’s try some role play”
Oh Jesus, please let me have some kind of aneurism. Anything but this
“Let me see, I’ll be the employee who’s always late and one of you can be the boss. Erm…Twenty, you can go first.”
“Ok. If I must.”
Fucking cunt, I hate you and your ilk. Fucking twats.
“Right then, I’m going to pretend to just arrive at work and you have to call me over and then talk about why I’m always late.”
“Ok.”
“So, here I am arriving.”
Oh yes, swinging your arms and walking on the spot makes it so realistic
“Right ‘Murphy’, we have a bit of a problem. You’re always late. Why?”
“Dunno.”
“You’re fired, you cunt.”
“Ok, joke over. You can all stop laughing. Let’s try and take this a bit more seriously. Ask me again why I’m late.”
If by ask why I’m late you mean ’smash my face in with a chair’ I’d be much happier
“Why are you late all the time?”
“It’s my daughter.”
“What about her? Is she a paraplegic and you just can’t get her up in the morning?”
“No, I have to bring her to school and she takes so long to get ready what with her breakfast, getting her into her school uniform…”
“Listen here, ‘Murphy’, it’s none of my concern that you chose to spread your vile seed upon the face of the earth when we’d have been much better off if you’d been a Jaffa, but frankly blaming a little girl… how old is she?…”
“She’s 6.”
“…blaming a 6 year old girl because you can’t get to work on time is about as spineless as you’d get, although I wouldn’t expect any less from you. You’re the same cunt who can’t come to work when you have a little bit of a sniffle while your colleagues, who might also be under weather, have to pick up your slack. Remember that time you came into work and after half an hour you went to the canteen to get the subsidised breakfast, which you scoffed like the piggy you are - I mean look at that fucking belly man, it’s a wonder you can see your knob to give it a wash, not that you’d be doing anything to get it dirty. If I was your wife I wouldn’t fucking let you near me - and afterwards you said you had to go home because you felt uncomfortably full. Full, I ask you. You’re a pathetic excuse for an employee, your work is shoddy when you can be arsed doing any, everyone talks about you behind your back. They call your Snowhead because of your dandruff and Stinkface because you stink and you’re ugly it looks like the stink is coming from your face. As well as that people pick their arses and wipe it on your mouse when you go to the toilet. Bob down in accounts does an impression of you which made the whole company laugh when he did at last year’s Christmas party after you’d gone and that promotion we keep talking about? Well, you have about as much chance of being promoted as Osama Bin Laden has of being invited to George W Bush’s steak-out for his birthday bash. In fact, now that the subject has been brought up I’m going to promote Mad Richie - you know the bloke who talks to himself and has that tick where his whole face scrunches up like someone has shoved a bottle of beer up his arse? Aye, he’s promoted and you’re not. There’s a very fucking simple way of not being late ‘Murphy’. Drag your enormous fat arse out of the bed earlier, give your daughter her breakfast earlier, leave the house earlier and you won’t have a problem with arriving late. If you’re late one more time I’m giving you a written warning. Late again, another one. And three written warnings equals you being fired and if that happens I will have a champagne party in the office while you’re still cleaning out that pig-sty of a desk of yours. DO YOU UNDERSTAND?”
“Ok! Very good! Now who thinks Twenty might need to work on his man-management skills?”
I’ll fucking man-manage you in the face with a shovel, you cunt.”