Judge it

Judging…the Telkom Directory Enquiries operator

Don't Believe a Word I Write — Wed, 05 Oct 2011 12:52:29 +0000

Ever since Telkom Directory Enquiries ceased playing a panpipes version of “Annie’s Song” by John Denver a couple of years ago, I’ve started feeling more fondly towards the rather useless state communications provider.

Today, however, this temporary state of a lack of ill will on my part, came to an abrupt end, following a conversation I had with a Telkom Directory Enquiries operator:

Me: I’d like the residential address of Joe Shmo, please

TDEO: In what area?

Me: I think either Johannesburg or Pretoria

TDEO: I have some Shmo’s in Johannesburg, what is the residential address of the person?

Me: I don’t know, I am asking YOU for the residential address.

TDEO: I have a PE Shmo, a ZR Shmo and a KE Shmo in Johannesburg.

Me: But I am looking for a Joe Shmo; a J Shmo.

TDEO: I have a J Shmo in Johannesburg.

Me: Great, please give me that person’s residential address and I will call and check if that is the correct person.

TDEO: Telephone number to follow… *disconnects call*

Judging…Do It For God emails

Don't Believe a Word I Write — Sat, 04 Oct 2008 13:23:12 +0000

This piece of shit arrived in an email inbox I probably should not be looking, i.e. not mine, exactly. Which is just as well, because if this arrived in my personal inbox, I would have been compelled to email the offender immediately, and remark that her god must have been handing out cow manure for brains on the day he/she/it created her – that could be the only explanation for her choosing to pass on such a piece of aggressive tripe.

God has seen you struggling (with something),
God says it’s over. A blessing is coming your way.
If you believe in God send to ten people,
please don’t ignore, you are being tested.

Right, let’s analyse.

Firstly, it is interesting that whoever composed this email had to specify that God has seen the recipient struggling ‘with something’, as opposed to struggling with, say, nothing. This indicates the level of intellect at which this email is being pitched – hillbilly crack addicts.

Nextly, just because God says that the struggle is over doesn’t mean that the double knot in my shoelace is going to untie itself…unless the blessing is full set of more nimble fingers. I don’t suppose that would be a blessing ol’ God would be too prepared to bestow, being a touch to close to mutantism and all that ala “The Chrysalids.” Next thing you know, you could start saying things like God loves gays, blacks, pre-marital fornicators and Jews, which we all know is just not true!!!

Thirdly, the line “if you believe in God, send to ten people.” Right, so here’s a chance to prove to all your unlucky friends and colleagues that you believe in a personal, involved God who loves you and everything about you, and appreciates you passing on his word to unsuspecting souls who have spreadsheets to complete rather than wasting time reading junk like this. But if you believe, you have to, right? You must feel proud of your pride.

Enter, finally, the concluding line of this abomination of a blessing: “please don’t ignore, you are being tested.” Alright!! So that bit about God helping you etc etc really is just bollocks – if you neglect to pass on this email because, say, your company has a rule against spam, or anything that tests the gag reflex, you will burn in the worst kind of hell imaginable. Because, as always, this is a test. It’s not about offering comfort or help to anyone; it’s about allaying your fears that you will be struck down by an invisible force that wants to end your struggles, but only if you pass his/her/its inane tests.

Ahhhh, it’s all so clear. Please be sure to pass on this email to everyone you know – I am god and that’s my test for you.

Judging…Rihanna

Don't Believe a Word I Write — Mon, 15 Sep 2008 13:38:45 +0000

I should have done this a long time ago, but clearly have blocked the horror that is Rihanna from my mind, in order to preserve the functioning of my ears. Last night, however, I was blindsided as I lay on my couch with the tv remote control out of reach. Thus, when Rihanna’s moan-fest of a song and music video “Take a Bow“ began playing, I could not simply reach for the remote to turn off the tv.

I thought Rihanna’s uncontrolled, nasal warbling in “Unfaithful” was the worst that she could get. I was wrong. Enter….”Take a Bow.” A sort of R’nB, soulful ballad wanna-be, this song just takes inane to a whole new level. For your amusement, please find stapled below with a staplegun some of the lyrics:

Oh, How about a round of applause, Yeah
A standing ovation
Oooooo, Yeah
Yeah, Yeah, Yeah, Yeah

You look so dumb right now
Standing outside my house
Trying to apologize
You’re so ugly when you cry
Please, just cut it out

Grab your clothes and get gone (get gone)
You better hurry up
Before the sprinklers come on (come on)
Talkin’ bout’
Girl, I love you, you’re the one
This just looks like a re-run
Please, what else is on (on)

Look, anything after Will I Am sounds positively Shakespearean, but when lyrics which could have been compiled by a Singaporean orang utan are what SAVE the song, one has to question if there is any intrinsic value in creating a song such as this one. Rihanna has one of the whiniest, most bovine-like singing voices I’ve ever come across. How anyone can think this woman has talent is beyond me. Her singing could easily be employed as the chief torture technique in any Saudi Arabian prison.

I would listen to Michael Learns to Rock everyday for the next 10 years if it meant Rihanna would never release another song.

Judging…Pseudo Soup

Don't Believe a Word I Write — Mon, 08 Sep 2008 11:14:21 +0000

My colleague is currently in the work kitchen making his lunch. This is allegedly soup. From what I’ve seen, this ‘soup’ contains the following:

1x small tin baked beans including the accompanying sauce

3 x tablespoons tomato sauce

4 x vigorous squeezes of worcestorshire sauce

1 x generous amount of milk

Much salt and much pepper

That. is. not. soup.

That is a mixture of some ulcer-creating ingredients designed to sear a hole in one’s oesophagus upon ingestion. Just because one can drink it doesn’t make it soup. For all the appeal this concoction holds, he may as well have thrown in the tin can as well.

Judging…An Olympic Games Commentator

Don't Believe a Word I Write — Tue, 19 Aug 2008 11:57:41 +0000

Last night, I watched a Brazillian man taking part in some event in the Beijing Olympic Games. At some point, the Brazillian athlete faltered in his event, and was captured berating himself on film. This prompted the commentator to say, “I wish I could understand Brazillian right now.”

Because in Brazil they speak…..Portuguese.

Obviously someone furiously whispered into his ear piece that he sounded as dumb as we viewers regularly maintain commentators are, because he tried to recover by asserting that yes, in fact, Brazillians speak Portuguese…not Brazillian.

This is not all that dissimilar to when people ask if I speak “Jewish”. And I know of an individual who was asked if she speaks “black”.

Sigh.

Judging…This Judge

Don't Believe a Word I Write — Fri, 15 Aug 2008 10:34:00 +0000

Say you’ve been accused of rape – more specifically, 39 charges of rape and 33 of indecent assault. Would it be reasonable to postulate that you’d committed at least one or two of these crimes? Especially when there’s a line of victims/survivors outside the courtroom, ready to testify against you?

What do you do to try avoid conviction? Do you plead ‘not guilty’? Do you try convince the court that you are clinically insane and thereby not responsible?

Not in this court, noooo sirree. All Tsediso Letsoenya had to do was tell his lawyer to tell the judge that he was “sick to death of hearing the same stories about himself over and over,” and thus was deserving of a postponement for a few days.

When the judge told the court that, in fact, they were all working very hard, and no, he couldn’t have a postponement, the defence went away to sulk. On their return to the courtroom after a longer tea adjournment (specifically ordered to allow the rape-accused to rest), the defence lawyer then told the judge that his client now had a terrible headache, and needed to rest.

The judge postponed the case to Monday, leaving the traumatised queue of rape survivors to worry about having to present evidence on another day.

Judging this judge and prosecutor, for putting the rights of an alleged rapist ahead of the +/- 70 people he allegedly terrorised.

Judging…Conference Lunches

Don't Believe a Word I Write — Mon, 04 Aug 2008 10:55:00 +0000

Saturday was spent at an all-day conference at a swish hotel in Joburg/Sandton. The content of the day was somewhat interesting, if largely incomprehensible – at one point, the esteemed doctor sitting next to me actually drew a picture for me and explained what we were seeing on the screen. Truly, he drew!

The judgement part of this little tale concerns how people behave at lunch during such conferences. Off we trooped downstairs to the very upmarket restaurant of the hotel, where name tags informed us where to sit (my surname was spelt incorrectly) and what we had preordered.

I sat down.

On my left was a man who refused to glance my way – even once - throughout the meal. On my right was a woman about 10 years older than I am. Opposite her (diagonally across from me) was another woman around her age – clearly acquaintances. They refused to speak to me, despite my very obviously listening to their conversation on occasion. Next to her on the left (directly opposite me) was a dear, sweet doctor. And next to him on the left was a woman who worked for the company which sponsored the day – she’s around my age.

The sweet doctor tried to make some conversation. The blonde woman next to him lectured me as if I had just two brain cells. She kept saying things such as “how do I put this simply?”

It was frigging terrible, and it made me wonder why these sorts of events bother with a sit-down lunch, instead of just plopping a few chairs and tables around and providing trays of food, so that people can just hang around or pretend to be busy during this break.

I therefore judge the formal lunch at a conference. Meals are meant to be occasions to be enjoyed and relished – this was just an exercise in torture.

Judging….Family Businesses

Don't Believe a Word I Write — Fri, 01 Aug 2008 13:06:00 +0000

I'm tired of working for a family business. My boss is ok, however his son is an absolute nightmare. Sonny-boy is, theoretically, the office manager….if by "office manager" one means "person who farts around all day, waltzes in 1.5 hours after everyone else and leaves an hour before everyone."

To continue this definition further…

Sonny-boy is an "office manager" in the vein of the one I've just described because he:

1) Freaks out when something goes wrong with the computers, e.g. a virus. This is somewhat concerning for the rest of the office because this man is, allegedly, the IT person.

2) Complains that he doesn't have enough time to do his work, but continues to work at least a third of a day less every, single day than the rest of us, and refuses to stay later

3) He goes out with his daddy for lunch on print day, instead of doing the work he should have done last week to prevent the delay in printing we're currently experiencing.

4) He tries to pretend he's my boss at times.

5) He's one step away from a comb-over

Hmm, point five is not really why I loathe him….but it sure doesn't help.

Judging this arsehole.

Judging…My Painful Relative

Don't Believe a Word I Write — Fri, 25 Jul 2008 10:36:00 +0000

My relative phoned me at work a few minutes ago sounding marginally more frantic than usual. The cause of the hysteria was a notice warning of a “new hijacking scheme” doing the rounds, which she kindly insisted on faxing to me. She ordered me to stand by my fax machine in order to await delivery of this sacred document, and promptly hung up (I feel palpable relief when I no longer have to speak to her)

Out pops the following:

“Don’t flash headlights at any car with no lights on!!

If you are driving after dark and see an on-coming car with no headlights on, DO NOT FLASH YOUR LIGHTS AT THEM! This is a common Bloods member “initiation game” that goes like this:”

Blah blah….flash lights at target….chase car….blah blah…. shoot and kill people in first car….hunna hunna…don’t flash lights.

I think I first heard about this alleged gang initiation rite about six years ago. Could be seven, possibly even eight. But today my relative got hold of this for the first time, and allowed it fuel her fear (and my aggravation levels) to uncharted readings.

However, I cannot blame my relative entirely for my extreme irritation:

- *I* gave her my work telephone number, thereby allowing her to bypass the wondrousness of cellphone caller ID

- *I* did not tell her that I have seen this warning about 3 zillion times before

- *I* did not pretend to be in the middle of something vital when she called

- *I* have not changed my name, address and telephone numbers in order to avoid her tracking me down.

Therefore, I judge myself in this regard.

Judging…Non-conversations

Don't Believe a Word I Write — Fri, 18 Jul 2008 11:50:00 +0000

This is the dialogue I’ve just been subjected to by two of my colleagues:

Dickhead: Where have you been?

Scatterbrain: huh?

Dickhead: Where have you been?

Scatterbrain: huh?

Dickhead: Where….have….you….beeeeeeeeen?

Scatterbrain: At a client x x x x with (racist colleague who divulges too much about her sexlife).

Dickhead: Where?

Scatterbrain : At a client x x x x with (racist colleague who divulges too much about her sexlife).

Dickhead: What? Huh?

Scatterbrain: Huh?

Dickhead: What?

I SWEAR I am telling the truth here, word for word. These idiotic people talk AT each other, and don’t bother to listen to the responses. How do their spouses/children live with them?

My non-conversation woes don't stop there. I attempted to have a conversation with a non-responsive Spar cashier earlier this week:

Me: Hi!

Arsehole Cashier: *shoves groceries with undue force to the packer

Me: Thanks very much

Arsehole Cashier: *Glares at me while swiping my credit card with undue force*

Me: Bye!

Arsehold Cashier: *Staples my eyelids to my face while punching me in the stomach*

(Well, you could tell that's what she wanted to do, anyway)

Next time I get aggressively ignored, I'm going to accuse the ignorer of sexual harassment.