Jerry McGuire and The Postal Service

Sometime last week, to my subsequent chagrin, I had the most recent in a long line of Jerry McGuire moments. I know I shouldn’t have done it, trend setters, I might have been better off marching in to the director’s office and re-enacting the “show me the money” scene, but sometimes, you know, I just can’t keep my mouth shut. Even when I know it’s not going to do me any favours.

In a grotesquely pathetic little parody of Jerry sending around his memo about how to make the world of sporting agents a more touchy-feely sort of place, I sent an email around the office about the obscene wasting of paper that goes on.

I know what you’re thinking, yes. Why shouldn’t I speak up about the gross disregard for one of the most easily preventable environmental abuses we commit? I’ll be the first to admit, I’m far from the most diligent of tree-huggers, but it’s not hard is it? My household bin could quite easily go three months without ever getting full, unlike the neighbour’s, which is overflowing with shit every single week as it sits on the curb. The fucker sitting at the next desk goes through an endless cycle of fucking plastic, disposable cutlery and zip-lock bags, used once, and then tossed aside. He’s doing right now. Why? Because he’s an arsehole? Well he is, but not wilfully. He just doesn’t fucking think about it… or, rather, he refuses to be mindful of it… yeah, maybe he is a wilfull arsehole after all.

This is precisely why I should have known better. Perhaps this makes me just as bad in my own way. I know, it’s all very well making my own small effort, but couldn’t I be helping other people to make their own small efforts? I could. I could also bludgeon myself with a brick wall, or maybe even take the crop to that horse carcass I have lying in the back bedroom for just such an occasion. But, no, I send around one little email – which no doubt everyone had a snigger about while I was out to lunch – and now I sit here in increasingly aggravated silence.

Apathy, trend setters, it’s the national fucking sport. And I work in the public service, the old guard, the can’t-be-arsed champions of the world. There’s no place here for an environmental conscience, or for that matter, a work ethic. Jesus, they can’t even be arsed making a decent cup of coffee, but would rather sit around drinking Nescafe Blend 43 on its third run through the microwave. It’s like snorting shitty back-yard crystal meth through a bit of rolled up toilet paper, when you could be licking uncut cocaine of a twenty-four carat gold plate.

I am all for people having different priorities, as long as you’re not harming anyone else… and all that. It’s great that we actually have a recycling bin in the office – despite it being desperately sad that it’s great that we have a recycling bin – but I really have a hard time sitting by and watching the thing get its daily reaming. (See what I did there? I know, genius). I’ve said it before, I’ll say it again. It’s not fucking hard people. Use your fucking heads.

On a side note, I’ve heard it said that “not suffering fools lightly” is an excuse for intolerance. If so, then I ought to enter the next Intolerance World Championships. There’s just no fucking excuse for shitting up this planet because you can’t be bothered thinking about it. If you do, you are an idiot, and I have no time for you. At all. End of discussion. There was no discussion? Then why are you talking? Shut the fuck up.

Now, I suppose that I didn’t, in all honesty, expect my McGuire to actually make a difference, but I now find myself on the verge of joining disgruntled postal workers everywhere and marching in here with an implement of deadly fucking force (preferably something blunt and heavy) and going all Tyler Durden on these mutherfuckers.

In the world of Google, is it necessary to print out a copy of the map of the restaurant for the Christmas party – the Christmas party that the government is too fucking cheap to pay for by the way. Must be all that extra money they’re spending on paper – for every single staff member, whether they need it or not? And if you are going to, wouldn’t you print it larger than the three fucking blocks surrounding the place? Oh, shit you forgot to include the contact details for the restaurant? No matter, just collect every single copy of the map – without asking – throw them the FUCK out, and print every. Single. Staff. Member. Another. Fucking. Copy. Of the same thing, now with a phone number at the top.

I despair.

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~ by Gethin A. Lynes on October 25th, 2011.

One Response to “Jerry McGuire and The Postal Service”

  1. […] which might have something to do with how long it is taking me to make my pointless – I said something about intolerance, about not suffering fools lightly. It’s a strangely dichotomous existence, […]

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