View Full Version : Rat Race (bad language)

January 26th, 2011, 03:53 AM
Hi. I'm Wayne. And this is my day so far.

I woke up at 5 AM As usual, the sunlight beamed into the cave where I live (luckily the entrance faces east), and brought me round naturally. No silly alarm clocks for me.

There was shiny layer of dew on the grass outside.

I yawned, stretched, farted, and pondered the dream about killing my grandmother I always seem to have on Thursday nights. I also had the sniffles.

There is a slight hole in the cave roof where water leaks into a natural rock bowl. I washed my face, looked at my reflection, and removed a tick which was trying to bury itself in my neck.

"Morning, Wayne," said my roommate Gary. "Have that dream about your grandmother, again?"

I told Gary, that yes, I had had the dream. I had repeatedly run over the old biddy with an electric grass mower this time. The previous Thursday I had thrown her on a tire fire. The thursday before that I had strangled her with a keffiyeh scarf

"Kinda messed up, bro."

Gary has been my roommate for three weeks. He doesn't pay any rent because he's a hedgehog. Come to think of it, I don't remember putting an advert in the paper or anything. Gary just turned up one day and we'd shared the cave ever since.

I then set off on my way to work. Twenty minutes of woodland hiking later, I found myself at the edge of the motorway, cars whooshing noisily past.

I climbed over the little rail thing and strolled through the traffic, whistling a poppy little tune. I tried to remember what the tune was called as a juggernaught rumbled passed me, ruffling my hair. Was it by Will.I.Am or Cee Lo Green?

Soon, I found myself at Dave's house. Dave has been my friend for years and always leaves the back door unlocked for me, which is useful as I don't have to smash the window with a rock -- this being what causes a lot of rifts between me and other friends.

I treated myself to a shower, a change of clothes from Dave's wardrobe, and a slice of toast. As usual, I threw my dirty clothes into the laundry hamper so Dave could wash them for me later.
By 9 AM I was at work. I said hello to the security guard at the front desk, and rode the elevator with a bunch of other people. Someone in the lift was whispering about crop circles, and ancient runes, and dogmen from the Sirus cluster, but I couldn't see anybody's lips moving.

No matter how hard I looked everyone seemed to be staring at the closed doors in complete silence. No doubt trying to ignore the madman and his insane rant.

Crazies today are getting better and better at ventriloquism, I thought to myself, shaking my head.

I then spent the next two hours working at my computer. This time was split equally between compiling spreadsheets of company statistics, answering various emails, and googling the name Karen Gillian 97 times.

I spent my morning break standing by the water cooler and holding a cup of water. I don't drink the water, of course, as the corporation spikes it with various mind-bending agents intended to make you more pliable to suggestion, coercion, and conformity.

It was at this point that my immediate manager came over and began to talk at me. I think his name his Gargantuan the Destroyer (which is possibly Turkish.....not that i'm prejudice).

He wore a pinstripe shirt, a black tie, and trousers that rode a little high at the bottom so that you could see he was wearing clean, white socks.

I didn't understand 79.5 % of what he was saying but nodding, laughing when he laughed, and saying "It's a bloody disgrace, state of this country" at the right moments managed to convince him that I was part of his agenda.

The whole time he was talking I couldn't help but stare into the gaping, darkness of his open mouth. And wonder at what twisted, bacterial creatures lived there. Did they have organised society? A fair justice system? Art? Culture? Or did they fight to the death in arena's governed over by an effeminate dictator?

I had finished all my work by 1 PM. So I spent the rest of the day pressing the F5 key while staring at Karen Gillian's Facebook profile and trying to ignore the millions of tiny camera's they've installed in my cubicle.

These camera's are a great source of frustration to me . There is one in the small digital clock to the right of my keyboard. One in the monitor. One directly above me. One in the cactus. One in the phone. One In my coffee cup, stapler, hole punch, pencil, etc, etc.
I periodically masturbate in a concerted effort to convince them that I don't know they're watching. To confuse them, I sometimes do a Google image search for diabetic, male giraffes, touch myself, lick the screen, and cry.

Sometimes if I close my eyes I can see the overweight, wheezy security guard they've hired to watch my every move. He's sat in a dark underground room, bathed in the glow of a thousand monitors, all looking at me from a different angle, like an army of flies.

This security guard (I've named him Steve) notes everything, I do or say in a tiny log book with a big red pen.

I can't say for certain what the purpose of all this is. but I know it has something to do with Big Oil, Walt Disney, scientology, and a shadowy, ancient, middle eastern, religion that worships the philosopher Hillel.

At around three PM. People are milling about, talking, and glancing nervously at the clock.

Blake is a funny little man who works two desks over. He wore his hair slicked back, and always has a different novelty tie. Today's was a satirical cartoon about the recession.

He was on the same induction course as me last year, when I joined the company, and for some reason he thinks that makes me his friend.

He wandered over and asked if I'd like a pint with him after work. I said that I would. As a general rule of thumb you have to drink something on Friday: liquid ether, menstrual fluid, crude oil, panda blood. Pints are just the safest option.

Blake then hung around, and talked about the various girls around the office he wanted to copulate with. I mirrored his letch smile with one of my own.

Even though he always talks about having sex with women Blake had this look in his eye, as if he wanted to fuck me hard down the back of some dirty alley. Desperate, lonely eyes.

And then it was three pm. People started to collect there things and move in a long, shambling, mass exodus through the building toward the exit.

I heard snatches of conversation as I was sucked into this throng.

"......It was fucking huge......."

"........bastard was cheating on me........"

"..........I'm not saying Jews are greedy but........."

".........I would shag Obama something rotten......."

All the while Blake managed to stay at my side like a parasite wearing cheap, generic deodorant, chattering away. The same generic, random vocal detritus as everyone else.

I couldn't wait to get home, talk to Gary about philosophy and history and bukkake.

But most of all, I couldn't wait for the weekend to be over so I could do this all again next week.