Sunday Bloody Sunday

Excellent weather today. The swarm of wasps in my computer room, buzzing angrily around me as I type, are desperately trying to get out and enjoy it. I can assure the reader that their anger is as peaceful as the Utopian universal bliss that social justice warriors insist would envelope the planet if we all just did what they tell us to in comparison to my own at this moment.

It’s been a cunt of a day. There is no other way to put it so don’t get offended. I am using that word in the correct context and thus it is not rude or politically incorrect or misogynist or likely to ruin the lives of your children (who utter it all the cunting time behind your backs anyhow). If you didn’t like reading it, sucks to be you. Imagine if this was radio and you’d heard it?

Wasps

I first noticed wasps a couple of weeks ago. Seven of them dead at my window.

Given the synchronicity with a trash mishap that day I assumed that the wasps were my own fault. My office window is the one in the house that first gets the sun in the morning. Thus, I surmised, these were refugee wasps who had been trapped from the previous day, headed towards that window when they woke up at first light, and died of starvation at it. The numbers, I thought, must have been due to my laxity in cleaning away the corpses.

As I walk around barefoot indoors and am allergic to wasp stings I do not particularly wish my floor to be carpeted with them. So I cleaned it.

I didn’t find any more until last Friday morning, two days ago. Four more of the little mofo’s corpses. Then this morning, three live specimens, one after the other. All dead now, brutally squished. So I decided to investigate, and within an hour had discovered where they are coming from – a tiny hole in the lamp fitting under their heavily-populated nest in the attic.

It’s Sunday and this is Switzerland so there’s no chance of getting anybody out today. Only services deemed essential may open in Switzerland on Sundays. Which means, Police (most important of all), Fire, Ambulance, Public Transport, Chemists, Television, and of course Prostitutes mostly imported from Ukraine.

It will in fact be Tuesday before I can get anybody out. I know this because it’s happened before. Two years ago, when it was my bathroom they were invading in similar fashion. Which I also discovered on a bloody Sunday and had to wait two days for them to be extermined – by gas.

Talking of which, as this is Switzerland where you have to pay heavily for everything you get, if the pest control geezer farts while he is here, he will charge me an extra $50 on the bill for the 7% methane content.

The last invasion was actually just over two years ago. I know this because I just dug out the two-year gaurantee the pest-control company gave me to find it expired two months ago. Why the fuck I bothered searching it out when I could have guessed it’d have expired I don’t know.

But that’s me: The eternal fucking optimist. A silly wanker, is what my second wife used to call me. Maybe she had a point. idk. smh.

Sunshine and Beer – An Option

So I decided I’d enjoy the sunshine instead. Walk to the petrol station a couple of km away, the only shop permitted to open in this town on a Sunday, and buy a case of beer and two-hundred fags to smoke while drinking it. Just in case any SJWs are still reading, no that does not mean I plan to massacre homosexuals. Simmer tf down.

On the way back I am confronted with this example of corproate irresponsibility presented in the form of trendy tech-obsession.

Writing A Letter

Once back home I pop the beer in the fridge to chill, an activity apparantly denied to me this day as I then had to write a strongly worded letter to the firm’s CEO and research his registered business and home addresses to send registered copies to. For Twitterfication I also had to walk back to his place of buisness to put a copy of the letter on the errant device and take some more snaps.

I took some photos to further illustrate why this is necessary but I can’t show them yet for reasons that will be explained, perhaps mansplained, below. But I can reveal the contents of the letter.

To Whom It May Concern


I am leaving you this note to express in the strongest terms my 
objections to your negligent use of this piece of commercial 
hardware that you own and operate that is possibly criminal in 
nature. 

I have watched this low-quality piece of junk milling about your 
lawn for the last couple of days so I am not surprised to see 
where it has ended up. I have taken photographs of the scene to 
keep in my records. 

If you look to your right there is a main road, unprotected from 
your equipment should it decide to drive itself out into it. The 
speed limit on this road is 60kph. If we assume that the drivers 
using it are, unlike yourself, aware of the duty of care and 
complying with their obligation under the law, in their case the 
laws of the road, traffic is approaching each other at a combined 
speed of 120kph. The equation for kinetic energy e is e = mv2. Do 
the math, then imagine a child being hit with that force. 

Fifty meters to the south of you the circus is in town. Which means 
the road outside of your dangerous unsupervised piece of equipment 
is teeming with families fully expecting to have a nice day out, 
safe and secure. They are blissfully unaware that you are putting 
their lives in danger, and I feel compelled to warn them. 

Instead I am warning you. As a business owner you are aware of the 
concept of emotional intelligence. Thus you have controlled the urge 
to dismiss or deny the substance of this letter and you have already 
moved on to questioning the motivations and/or qualifications of 
it's sender. Let me reassure you that blaming the messenger is not 
going to be an option here. I am an Oxford educated English 
gentleman living in your town these last five years and my book, on 
corporate responsibility, is shelved in some of the world's top law 
libraries. 

I know you want to be rich but becoming so by stealing the wages of 
the people you should be employing, and putting the public at risk 
as you do so, is not a moral way to achieve this - even if the 
current pro-business legal environment appears to encourage it. 
Examples do still get made. Do not wait until people have died 
until you become one. 

Do the right thing. Toss that electronic junk and employ one of the 
burgeoning number of out-of-work people in this town to cut your 
lawn for you and pay them a decent living wage for it. They will 
thank you. 

I shall be checking up on your company and if I find that you are 
being taken to court for negligence, for any reason, at any time 
in the future, I shall avail the court of the existence of this 
letter. Lest you think you can evade your responsibilities by 
perjuring yourself that you didn't know or try to blame it all on 
the manufacturer. 

Danke dir für deine verständnis

As I turned to make my way back from my second 2km walk of the afternoon the aforementioned circus ended and as if to confirm my suspicion all the families leaving it were walking in the direction of where the mowbot was lurking. Hardly surprising as they wouldn’t have been able to get to the bus-stop or car-park if they hadn’t.

It meant they were headed in the opposite direction to me so I had a large Sunday crowd to wade my way through. As I approached my home I was almost run down by a car from behind in my own one-way street by a circus-going driver who was driving the wrong way down it.

One of the circus-goers whose own personal safety had, not any more, concerned me and motivated me to act to protect it. Five minutes later, as I opened my first can of newly chilled beer sitting in my garden, three young girls walked past, one of whom tossed her trash onto my lawn. They refused to pick it up when I admonished them so I had to go into hot-pursuit to return their property to them and give them a talking to.

Only one sentance, “your trash does not belong in my garden“, and the poor wench looked terrified, bless her. To show her there was no reason to fear me I stood at my maximum arm’s length when I was giving her back her trash. I noticed one of her friends was holding a souvenier from the circus.

Why do I fucking bother?

Wouldn’t I be so much happier if I could go and sit on the top of the hill and watch all these people flee from poorly-programmed untested attack-bots with miniguns as fighter jets swoop down to bomb their only means of escape? Damn right I would.

Here’s a message from Europe to the President of Russia: Mr Putin, delete this continent. President Trump will partner with you in this, if you tell him he’ll get the contract to rebuild.

Beer, At Last

Finally, I sat down with my beer and wouldn’t you know it, I’ve only gone a bought a case of alcohol free due to the shop’s latest shelf-rearrangement that I failed to take full account of due to the wasp distraction. Then my phone told me my SIM card had been removed, it hadn’t, and I should reboot. I couldn’t. It appears to have lost the photos I took, which is why I can’t show them, along with all my contacts.

After dismantling the damn thing to get the battery out for a cold reboot, it won’t start up no more. I used to get paid rather well for testing software, until the greedy owners of tech firms discovered they could get even richer if they toss people like me overboard and rely on user complaints instead of quality control.

I wonder what their attitude to hiring QC would be if they suddenly found they need to use one of those stand-up desks because an angry customer had stuffed one of their shoddy handsets up their ass and or dumped a box of pissed-off wasps in their luxury suanas?

Fortunately, yeah right, I’ve got an old phone whose own touch-screen stopped working a couple of years ago that can be used to receive calls – woe betide anybody fool enough to call me on it. Oh, and I’ve sacked my proof-reader out of spite and I’m doing what tech companies do: Let the end user do the damn QC. Call it A/B Testing, and they’ll never know.

So if you try to spell-flame it’s actually you that’s just put her out of a job, and she’s six months pregnant. Think about that for a moment. Only joking, I operate this entire domain myself, for free.

It’s the beer thing that’s the worst. How could I have been so stupid?

Sunday, bloody Sunday.

Let’s have some music (and no, not crappy U2’s Boner). Real talent, as opposed to corporate-whorery.

And of course we sign-out in proper fashion. Crucified:

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