Don’t mess with fucking fools. In fact, if you can avoid them outside the workplace, I would advise you to do so. Especially ones who go to Chicken Cottage.
"Please make a choice out the following menu……."
Why can’t they just pick up the fucking phone and answer? Surely to all that is Holy…
Yes, yes, you’re going to say that it’s the same everywhere in the world, but, no, actually, it’s not. It is incomparably worse here in Holland. Over in the US or UK or India, you have nice people working on the switchboards, decent citizens just doing an honest day’s work, trying their very best in what is, let us be honest, an unenviable job on the whole. Yes, it has to be said, you have it easy over there. Not like here.
No, here, in Holland, things are very, very different.
I have it on very reliable evidence that, amongst the barren, forbidding, very flat wastes of Drenthe, obscured from view by the most up to date aerial camouflage, there is a camp dedicated to the breeding of a humanoid species. This species, or sub-strain, if you will, (for there is no significant progression or delineation noticeable in the resultant breed that could merit classification as a species per se), are given human shape for one reason only. And that reason is to operate telephones for large Dutch companies.
Every month, the wagons of a large corporation or national concern will roll into the camp yard to pick up finished product. It is then that the humanoids are given names, (for "men" it is always Henk or Bart, whilst "women" are usually designated as Monique or Edith), a set of clothes and an address of a safe housing estate on which they can live. Oh, and there’s another thing. Those baffled at the rapid developments of soulless housing estate projects such as in Nieuw Vennep or Beverwijk now need be baffled no longer. This is where the humanoid populations are quartered.
As these humanoids only need light maintenance, and are in no way violent, they can be safely left to their own devices. Once every six months a guy from the breeding camp’s maintenance department will come round and check the microchip (inserted below the left buttock; look out for the saddlebags of fat in the humanoid’s arse area, protecting the chip from adverse weather conditions) to see if it is still functioning properly. This microchip contains information about food to be eaten (mainly packaged goods and processed meats from Aldi) and rejuvenation activities (mostly listening to Sky radio; an activity that is heartily approved by the camp directors as an excellent mental laxative, and one that can only augment the humanoids’ natural ignorance and idiocy).
The stage is then set for the humanoids to do the task they were created for, to man the phones in large corporations, and spread confusion, gloom and despondency in right minded people, like my good self. The tasks they carry out as a matter of routine involve connecting bemused citizens to the wrong departments, especially to little used nooks and crannies such as Antique Phone Maintenance, or Pigeon Breeding (under twelve’s subsection). Or simply subjecting the caller to Marco Borsato or Celine Dion. A little known fact is that, during these aural torture routines, gasses and fumes from Febo kitchen waste disposal units are piped down the receivers, rendering the caller inert and irritable. However their coup de grace is the manipulation of the fast-talk capacity each humanoid possesses, namely a speed up device inserted just behind the left ear, that allows them to talk at a bewildering speed, leaving the caller dazed and punch drunk.
It is usually at this point that you, the sane, reasonable, God-fearing, tax paying, child bearing and non-fetishistic sex practising member of (what you once supposed was) a democracy, give up on your quest for a refund for poor service; thereby saving the company (who had, as usual, plundered your bank account for 10,000 euros in non-existent taxes) the expense of re-embursing you and apologising. All across the flat lands, boards of directors greedily rub their hands together, counting up the booty stolen from you, counting up the money saved by employing humanoids (once the first payment is meeted out to the breeding factory, there are no further payments, for humanoids don’t really need money. They use tokens at Aldi and rarely find a reason to spend money on anything anyway), and deciding that yes, it is high time to buy a new yacht.
You have been warned.
Next month’s rant: Bloody Idiots and Fucking Fools.
Don’t mess with fucking fools. In fact, if you can avoid them outside the workplace, I would advise you to do so. Especially ones who go to Chicken Cottage.