Blame it on hormones, but these irritations tend to become fixtures and will always rear their ugly little heads. I therefore climb up on my wee blog platform, so get ready with the list of things that drive me fucking insane.
Address me as M’am and I might just bite yer fucking head off.
I could really have heart failure when someone calls me Deary or Lovie or better yet M’am. I’m not your lovie, dearie, sweetie and I most definitely am NOT your fucking M’am. Did I not just tell you my name when I answered my phone? Call me by my name, demmit. My mum thought long and hard about that name for me – use it!
I get the frikken hiebiejiebies when someone tries to cold call me for better insurance or life cover and they start reading a script from a piece of paper. You can hear it straight away! You can’t fool me, Fuckers. I love to throw these kind of telesales people off their rhythm by asking dumb questions so that they loose their place on their script sheet. Oh I know I’m wicked. Sometimes I interrupt them to tell them to Bugger off but when I feel like really pissing them off, I hold the phone by my ear while they ramble off their prepared schpeel and they are left parched and waiting for answers. I love to announce after 10 minutes that I’m not interested. Telesales is the worst job EVA!
“Free Gifts”. Pleeeeeeeez!
What gift is NOT free?
Take a second and THINK about that one…
Just say “gift”, finished and klaar. Why do marketers try to come in the back door and schmooz us with this Free Gift story? Cosmetic houses are famous for this. Buy R200 worth of products and get a free gift. Then its not free it is? It’s a bonus. This urks me when I see the TV commercials coming on telly with the flash in the corner of the screen and the cheesy bloke announces “But… that’s not all…if you call now….” Urgh! Can I just beat you to a pulp right here and now?
Oh! And those 22 kg anorexic bitches that nibble on a cracker and complain bitterly that they are so fat and that they really need to lose weight. Come girlie, I’ll show you what a fat arse looks like. Just put on yer thong bikini and stop whining that your hip bones aren’t protruding enough yet. I instantly HATE you.
Ex Smokers are the worst. They want to lecture me on the risks of smoking and what methods they used to stop and how long they have been nicotine free. They pull their nose up when someone within a 30 feet radius lights up. They fan themselves to keep the fumes moving in another direction or peg their nose and say “urgh”. Please don’t try and save me. Its my choice. I’m killing myself. So stop inhaling the fucking smoke I paid for!
How about the people who always have a story better than yours? The kind that if you’ve been hi-jacked, they’ve been shot in the head, twice! If you’ve got a headache, they’ve got a flippen migraine. The know-it-all who is full of facts and never ceases to flap their lips incessantly and let spew out all over the conversation at EVERY opportunity. I have a name for these guys - Wankers. What makes them so superior? Like they are doing us a favour by being put here on the planet to out-do us – every time? These are the plonkers that always have to have the last word not matter what.
Isn’t it amazing how much better we feel after a good rant. Now I’m gonna have a cuppa caffine, with a fag and I’m gonna read all your comments about your gripes.
Ready?
Stead?
Go!Source URL: http://gotobeskinnybitch.blogspot.com/2010/10/mid-week-hormonal-rant.html
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