Revenge Fantasies and Rain on my Parade.

I've been having a stressful couple of days, workwise. Actually, they shouldn't have been stressful- it's not as crazy round here as it can be and my new über-organised system is working out well. I'm on top of things and it feels fiiine. There's nothing like feeling organised, competent and efficient to put a swing in your step and a smile on your face, is there*?

One hitch: the Evil Boss**. Man, That woman is a beyatch. This is not just my opinion btw, this is someone that everybody dislikes intensely. She's a bully, and when she's stressed or feeling under pressure she makes it her mission to make people miserable. And apparently I'm her new favourite target.

Now, I know what you're thinking, why not just ignore her, and treat her like the petty little nuisance that she is? I just can't seem to do that. She's like a tapeworm that gets under my skin and niggles at me. Freakin' niggler.

So this morning was spent in a huff, stomping around and planning various ways of performing murder. Stabbing in the face, jumping up and down on her stomach, and shoving a live octopus down her throat were all very satisfying. There may also have been some ninjaesque swordplay, but then again isn't there always? I wish I could rise above this and be adult and mature but damn I want to hit her with a shovel.

I think that would be satisfying***.

I offered to make her some tea earlier, but she declined. Obviously she realised that I was planning to gob in it.

*Well, I suppose there's sex, chocolate, fab shoes and heaps of money, but it's a close call.
** See earlier post here . May include bitterness and anger, not for sensitive readers.
*** you know, until the arrest and trial and prison and stuff. Although I'd totally be the prison psycho¹.
¹apparently I no longer suppress my anger.

I know the Feeling...

It hasn't happened to me, and I hope it doesn't. I think I've been lucky in that my little blog isn't wildly famous*, or particularly offensive (well, as far as I can tell). But I've noticed that as soon as a blog starts getting a little more well-known, the haters start popping up.

Some of them are the more rational kind, who object to a specific post, find a statement offensive, or perhaps just dislike the writing style. Whatever the case may be, they present their arguments in somewhat more measured terms, probably because they want to strike a balance between getting their (annoyed) point/ opinion across, and seeming like some sort of harping fishwife loony.

Which brings us to the harping-fishwife-loony quotient of the blog-commenting population. With their misspelled, spewed invective and ranting diatribes, there's more than a whiff of the Springer** about them. See, they'll take personal offense at everything the blogger says, and spam the comments section with vitriol, of the "your so fat + ugly + stupid, why r u people even reading this sh^&, U R A LOZER PIG FRIED SPINACH EVIL, I h8 this blog u r a waste of air in the internet, ppl if we stop rdng nw s/he will hav 2 quit!"***variety.

They will then copy-past this comment a few dozen times. Every day. Ad infinitum. Over the protests of the people who are actually enjoying reading that blog. It's some sort of modern conundrum that people will force themselves to read blogs they hate, seemingly for the pleasure of getting their hate on. Because as far as I know, it's all still voluntary... right?

*yet...my plans for world domination have been laid and include ice-cream..but more of that later, minions.
** as in Jerry, not as in the dogs. Dogs are cool. Although I expected Springers to be more... bouncy, frankly.
*** sic.

I'ma Slap A Beyatch.

My boss (well, one of them), tends to get supercritical when she's tense. This means that if I've missed a detail or left out even the most infinitesimal of things (one of the participants didn't have pen!! How did you manage to MISS that!!!??), I get bitched at in the most condescending manner possible. All my faults-real or imagined- are brought up. Past infractions have included:

• not serving tea in the correct silver service manner
• not regulating the airconditioning temperature carefully enough
• the photocopier producing copies that are too light
• not taking enough photos, taking too many photos, taking photos in the wrong area of the exhibition, being too obtrusive while taking photographs, using flash.

The problem is I keep learning from experience, and not making the same mistake twice. Ferinstance, after the great "there were no evaluation forms" debacle of last week*, I made sure to copy double the amount of forms, put them right in front of her, clear a space around so that they are easy to see, and then tell her them about them, twice.

Which means that she has not so much to critique. Win-win, you'd say, right? Nah so much. This morning, she came in, handed me a letter it took her 4 weeks to type, sighed, and started complaining about how untidy my office was, and how it offended her. She was adamant: Surely I had enough time to maintain a decent level of tidiness?

Short answer, uh, no. Also: it's my office, not hers. Her office is large and has cupboards and a window and is nice. Mine is a cupboard, where everything is stored. There is even a kitchen sink, rusting noisily in the corner. our offices are far, far away from each other. 7 Cubits at least. She spends an average of 8 minutes in my office a week. How do my piles of paper become her issue?

I'm totally going to make her look fat in all the photos I take from now on.

* there were, and they were right in front of her, but whatev
**MCBeeeeyaaaaaatch!

If it's worth saying...

it's worth saying right.

Since I've been back, I've become a lot more aware of (and a lot more annoyed by) the South African inability to pronounce things correctly. This inability is coupled with a downright stubbornness, or perhaps it is a dogged, nay mulish contrariness that amounts to a refusal to say it properly: " I am a South African, and that's how I say it." Oh, well that makes it okay then.

No, it doesn't, so there.

If it's a bona fide Seffie* word, then by all means, then there is a Seffie pronunciation to go with it. Borewors, moer, rooibos, jol, kif, boep and poes are all lovely words that we often teach to foreigners, so that we can laugh at their pronunciation.

However, words that are not South African, or southafricanised, should be pronounced correctly, because that is just what you do. That is why dictionaries have pronunciation guides, and don't just say: "oh fuckit pronounce it however you want, we don't care!" Most places in the world, if you don't even bother to try to say it right, you come off as some sort of redneck.

And so children, please repeat after me:
purr-sjoh, not pyew-joh.**
sjee-von-shee, not give-enn-chi.
renn-o not renn-orlt

And for god's sake: One Rand, many Rand. Rhymes with canned (in English) and runt (in Afrikaans). Not Plant.

Okay?

PS To the person with the "BIAACTH001" vanity plate: spellcheck, you 'tard.

* this is a Saradiaism, if I'm not mistaken.
** Oh how this one annoys me.

Atrocious Displays of Vulgarity

5 things that are neither funny nor clever:

1. cellphone screensavers: oh, you're the number one bitch? you like a hot stud on your phone? or maybe a stripper? because, god knows a two-centimetre stripper makes even the strongest knees weak.... see also -->
2. "funny" ringtones: ah, your phone farts. or moos. or makes orgasmic groaning noises. how original. I wish to fellate you immediately.
3. "baby on board" stickers. because I was going to prang your car, but now I can't, damnit!
4. dolphin tattoos and belly rings: you are a wild and untamed hellcat. you're a tigress between the sheets. You prowl the streets, a crazy rock chick, blasting your Offspring into the night. Another Klippies and coke, please!
5. T-shirts with "witty" statements, or designer names: Gucci doesn't make t-shirts. and If they did they'd cost 500 dollars and be artfully ripped. You are not a princess. I'm not scared of this bitch biting. One tequila two tequila three tequila bore. My little Princess is your little whore. I get it, you're a hardcore bitch/ pimp and you like to drink a lot.
   

I admit it. I'm a) elitist and b) a snob. I don't see a problem with this.