as you, dear readers, are painfully aware, i hate my job. i hate my job more than my celluloid being can handle. i think it is against both man and god to hate a job this much.
but today’s reason for why i hate my job so is that it prevents me from posting up a picture of the office rapist. i was going to anyway because let’s face it, getting sacked would be a blessing. but those in line of rapist fire starting saying ” no! you can’t DOOO that!” so you will all just have to wait for that happy day when i am re-employed for an actual photograph.
however, to wet your buds, here is a commentary from mahta, who as you all recall, is in medical school. this makes her an expert on the human form:
“why does he have his fingers open like that, like he’s getting ready for a vaginal examination?” and a full 24 hours later, “i am still not ok after seeing his photograph,”
office rapist has many names. i alternative between Testicle Face and Mr. Rapist. you may think is harsh indeed but i’venever come across a more disgusting creature. the man lives on the constant verge of rape. even S Factor wasn’t quite as vagina-clench worthy as TF. and yes, he does look like a giant testicle: bulbous, hairy, attached to a dick (the rest of him). his body acts akin to a gender radar, a heat-seeking missle. must-find-ba-gina.
the rapist component to the name is thanks to his smooth way with the ladies. he has let loose such classics as,
1. “i only need to go out with a woman three times cos by the third date, i’ve already fucked her”
2. “you know why the ladies like me so much? it’s cos i’ve got such a big dick” [maybe this explains the primate walk he has, much like an orangutan, if you can picture an orangutan scraping his massive fists behind him as he walks]
3. and my personal favourite, “the trick with getting a woman to go out with you is to keep at it. don’t take no for an answer. eventually, she will get tired and say yes to make you back down.”
fucking charming. so “no” is not-so-secretly, “ooooh yes try it harder”.
i just vomitted in the back of my mouth.
picture the scene: Testicle Face (and if you are imagining an overgrown member of male genitalia, you wouldn’t be far off the mark), would sit across from me at the office bar, in the lunchroom, on the way to make coffee and STARE. the motherfucker would just stare at me with a glazed balls look on his face. at his zenith, he would stare at me for a good 20 minutes, alternating between face and crotch, terrifying all those around. if i would be walking around the office, the fucker’s eyes would be on me, no doubt trying to decide which would be the best way to tackle me to the floor.
and did i mention how charming the asshat is? he appreciates good food (“did you make that? yeah…i like women that cook. you’d make a good wife”) and is hygienic (“i see that you like to clean…yeah, you’d make a good wife”). but my favourite trait is how learned he is. he always likes to tell us ladies how lovely we’re looking – in a voice last heard on Rescue 911 – and tries to rub our backs in a supportive fashion if we’ve had a bad day. deep shudder. his blatant misogyny knows no bounds. it’s much like watching a national geographic special: Douche Bags: In Their Own Habitat!
things came to a head – a BALLS head – when he tried to impress me with his smarts. trying to engage me in a tête-a-tête after a typical leftist rant (me, not him. christ, not him), i was dazzled with a,
“you know, you’re not the only one who reads books! i’ve got an A level in sociology!”
i was about to respond with typical grace and point out that sociology is about as useful as wank on a stick when Testicle Face performed an act so shocking, no human could have foreseen it:
in front of everyone on the office floor he rubbed himself up and down and said, “there’s more to me than this beautiful exterior!”
well, sir. as you readers may know, i don’t take kindly to this behaviour. and by ‘don’t take kindly’, i mean that had we not been in the work environment, i would have ripped off his balls and fed them to him – so that when he shits, he shits his own balls. here i want to take the time to point out a little something about the misogynyst bullshit that is the work environment. in a normal social situation, if you are bothered by a man, you tell him to get bent, in varying degrees of civility. however in the work environment, this is a HR disaster waiting to happen. instead, if you say anything at first, you are the crazy bitch of the office; if you try to use tact and curtness, you must bear it out and be made to feel like a cheap rag until your efforts take hold.
but they never take hold with the Testicle Face sort! these assrashes only understand brute force…which is what i tried to employ the friday night after the infamous rubbing incident. having informed him that i was “not up to listening to any of his shit” that morning in the office, he decided to rectify the situation with his usual rico suave maneuverings. once the friday night office crowd began to disperse, like a hyena on the plains, he made a beeline to his target.
TF: “aaaright? is it alright for me to say hello to you now?”
me: “no!” [turning back to my gin]
TF: “not even in a friendly way?” [what other way was he suggesting? the paul bernardo way?]
me: “i have enough friends!”
TF: [moving in for the kill] “oy! oy! what is…”
me: [shoving a finger up to his face in that it's-friday-night-and-i'm-looking-for-a-fight manner] what EXACTLY is it that you want from me?!”
i must have been a menacing sight for then my boss jumped in and physically separated us as if i was going to claw up his face. and by damnit, i was. there’s nothing like a cocktail of gin and late-night misogyny to get my goat a-going. i am seething that i was not allowed to settle this as you would “in the street” for it is only through this harsh talk that the Testicle Faces of the world understand. joy to the thought to deflate his overtly bulbous ball-face, bursting with blue, thanks to his frustrated existence. vile loathsome being.
the bar scene meant that a “talk” was to be had on monday with my boss, his and the TF in question. as of now, he is never to speak to me again, lest i report him. but i see him walking by me everyday, glancing over on his way to the lunchroom. i see his bulging vein of a ball-face, casting its putrid gaze towards the female population in the office. but i promise you, readers, that if another encounter is ever to take place, a report there shall not be. instead, i’ll guarantee a street wrath, the like of which that Testicle Face has never felt.
you know, sometimes i say to myself, “self, can this country become any stupider?” and then i’m smacked in the face with something like this and reply, “yes. yes it can.”
for the ages. here’s a good idea: let’s show women’s top three concerns, boozing, bras and men, and reassure them that breastfeeding wont upset them any further. innit.
again, let us picture the scene: your body has just gone through the most traumatic experience it will ever have to endure, save maybe for an evening of entertainment involving the words “anal” and “probe”. concerned about what your man thinks about your boobage? DON’T BE. hell, he’s probably never seen that cup size filled out without squeaking plastic involved. need to bond with your man? looks like you already did a pretty good job of that. he doesn’t like the look of your new ready-to-feed breasts? NOT HIS PROBLEM.
