Weather forecasts do not make me straighten up and take heed. Two reasons. One, forecasts are often laughably inaccurate, and, most times, indirectly proportional. Two, if a forecast indeed happens, then it serves no purpose but ruin plans and moods. So when it was fore casted somewhere in the great universal blackhole that it's going to be pouring not just rain but anvils and radioactive porcupines on my thoughtless head I scoffed at it while gargling caffeine and trading clever retorts with virtual people over Yahoo Messenger. This irresponsible disregard of stormy portents comes with a very steep, atrocious price.
The workplace became a suit and tie version of Chernobyl. Conflicts exploded like Nagasaki and Hiroshima. Tempers flew like Frisbees randomly tossed by Beelzebub. Projects got filed in The Great Limbo folder and all the brilliant folks in my side of the battlefield are seething over the incompetence of White Elephants whose only traction to still having the job is either seniority or hiding in the affection and trusting generosity of The Power That Be. Those Fucktards. Those Holocaust-bait Fucking Retards.
One of these Fucktards is an idiot who shall remain nameless because if we assign an alias/name it will assume an identity of a bonafide living thing. As Cosmic Rule of Equality would have it, no matter how inutile single-celled genetic waste a thing is, as long as it has a life, it will claim the democratic right to exist. In this light, instead of the risk of giving a name and due to technicalities, the right to exist 'It' would be appropriate.
It slammed the “Launch The Missile Warhead” button in me a couple of days ago. I shall remain vague here because my intrepid assistant might be reading this and could not resist the malicious glee derived from me smashing It's nonexistent self-esteem and provide my wicked colleagues the link.
Let me tell you something about myself: I am generally easygoing, mild-mannered, and—believe it or not—a stalwart believer in the strange and hypothetical concept called coexistence. Unless provoked. Then I get combative and wouldn't hesitate bitch-slapping touchy-feely, fragile spoiled egos a hundred ways till Good Friday.
It's dumb mistake is not having common sense (a natural consequence of having not more than a fraction of a brain cell) to choose his adversaries well. He poked the peaceful hornet's hive without any forethought that the liege of such hive can get ballistic on his ass. That ballistic liege happened to be me.
Yet a very odd thing happened. The Power That Be approached defensively my well-reasoned and justifiably litigious demand for the fucktard's ribs to be served on platinum platter. I maybe not Carl Sagan but I know my bulb isn't dim. It didn't take a split second for me to realize that the infallible Power That Be is treating the unicellular It with kid gloves.
This makes me all the more furious. I am not naïve. I do believe that despite popular claims there is no justice in the universe. But here's another of my flaws: I am a part-time delusional Spartan. I will not allow a bratty impotent zithead to stand victorious, wielding the shield of gloating incompetence.
As my general habit towards good friends, colleagues and superiors (or anyone including strangers for that matter) I do not pull my punches. My words do not pass through proper condensation and spurt out directly from my warped brain like the Niagara siphoned through a faucet with broken stopper knob. Screw political correctness. PC is for wimps. PC is for polite people. PC is denial/lying/indecision/fear given a pastel coating. To hell with pastels—give me Pantone 185C any day of the week.
Naturally not having a PC filter is a casual passport to alienating people. I do not mind. I'd rather read Proust's Remembrance Of Things Past in solitary confinement than endure Stepford Wives well-manicured proceedings which guarantee the swift erosion of self respect and unavoidable brain atrophy when surrounded by inept cowards.
Which explains why it can be such a lonely spot where I am sometimes.