Shithead
Was it the fact that Shithead was South African?
Was it that his breath stunk of shit?
Was it that the cnut had a deluded image of self importance that made my toes curl?
Was it his little charlie-chaplinesque scruffy suit with the bottoms all frayed were he dragged his gimpy feet along the floor?
Was it the desire to shoot him in the head with 7.62 round whenever he talked of his martial arts skills?
Was it the fact that the classless cnut thought he was too the manor born?

Surprisingly, it was none of the above, although they didn't help.

It was his inability to hold on to thought concerning anyone but himself for more than 6 seconds. I used to *work* with the cnut and he constantly mixed those of him around him with each other, to the extent that he would tell me things about other peoples life's that were actually about me that I'd told him in confidence.

Before I met him, I used to bound into work, whistling and clicking my heals and having a real glad to be alive day.

This cnut made me want to hide under the covers everyday. When I saw his stupid, thin lipped, freckly face, I felt sick. Sick of my life and sick of his. I developed red mist. I was filled with hate directly in proportion to his stupidity. I wanted him dead. Painfully.

The closest I cam was when a lad in the office had plumbed his own air con unit through the office ceiling. It had started leaking, and I could see water slowly dripping near shithead. I was hoping for electrocution, but was filled with great joy when I watched the ceiling start to bow, more and more, until the whole lot collapsed on shithead.

Shame it was only water and not piss.
( Piper Alpha is being a grumpy northerm bastard on:, Thu 29 Apr 2010, 13:34, Reply)