today i signed on

as i stand here monologuing my day, the strange and mentally disfigured occupants of the bus cue look at me with cautious bemusement. miss im-so-pretty-and-i-know-it chats away on her phone to another airhead who was probably cloned from her earlier. pink yoga pants, a large man's sun glasses covering half her face and bra pushing out all that she has in a grand gesture of plumdom. 'fuck you creep' she says in her little whiney, im-sitting-on-rare-gems-and-your-not-getting-any voice. 'i don't know, some creep' she says to her phone. looking a little bit disgusted with me. never mind, here is the bus, late as usual. i wait for the old dear to get on, boy those legs have seen better days 'whats that my dear?' she asks 'i was just saying its a nice day' i reply. she smiles a sweet little smile, which i return and goes up to the driver to get her ticket. i bet she was a goer back in the day. ok my turn 'return to Cromwell street my good man' i say 'three pound fifty' he asks 'there you go fella' i say as i give him a twenty 'nothing smaller?', he asks. i just shake my head no, he looks at me bit plain like, lights are on but no one home. he digs around with a huff and puff pulling out all the change he can find. he will be on the news next week, i can see it now: home invasion, family killed, pet dog stuffed into washing machine. 'you what son?' he asks, i ignore him and walk towards the back of the bus. the jail bait still on her phone yapping away about ballshit and whether billy the rebel will fiddle her fairy. 'fuck you' she says with a copy pasta of the expression she gave before. later she will be bleeding her heart out to my fake Bieber look-a-like profile on facebook, creaming her panties for my well place words and innuendos. never prepared to do any of that for real of course as she is too fridged and precious. right, gonna sit on the bus quiet like and snooze as its so boring...

so at the job centre, my monologue continues... waiting for some dipshit to come and call me over to sign on. i watch the job centre staff buzz around like gassed bees, gassed by their own beaurocracy and simple but over complicated jobs. this place was built to give these morons jobs, otherwise they would be those guys that collect all the trolleys at the supermarket. one of them looks up, comical timing. classic dumb, cow-walking-into-the slaughter-house-oblivious-to-the-surprise-within look on his face. 'Mr Jones?' ok thats me, so i say 'yes i am here squire, ready for your review' which he replies 'hmm, yes take a seat' looking over my rap sheet. 'what was that?' he asks 'nothing. i am making a documentary, a blog type thing for ebaums world' i say back. his blank face says it all. i try and explain it differently. 'listen mate, aliens have told me i need to monologue everything i do otherwise they are going to stick a probe up my ass. you best go along with it' he stares at me for a while then asks me what i have done to look for work. i explain 'well i saw this job for CEO for Marks & Sparks, i applied for that, ummmm, there was a job for gynaecologist, i applied for that' he is not sure if i am mad or taking the piss, he signs my book to get rid of me. I get up and give him a small bow. 'tarrar bovine office dweller' i say as i walk out. great, thats that done for another 2 weeks, time to spend my earnings down the pub.
Uploaded 09/02/2011
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