CatSpace

Your life is worthless; you should go to Switzerland and end it with euthanasia. Here is my reasoning.

Two classes of people work behind the counter in the post office, immigrants and failures. As you are not the former, you must be the latter. I am neither, therefore I shall use the next three paragraphs of my time to boss you to within spitting distance of your death.

Most normal people, when they go to work, do what they are contracted to do. There is a tacit understanding between employer and employee about what takes place when a worker is at work. Can you guess what it is? That's right, it's work! You are expected to fulfil your duties to the best of your ability in exchange for the minimum wage, which enables you to ram tins of baked beans down the parched throats of your defenceless, famine-stricken, salt-poisoned children and your worn out whore-bag wife. You do not go to work to sit in your office and masturbate, nor do you go to work to throw things at customers. However, it would appear that you, Mr. Post Office man, are above the law, and you feel that you should be allowed to enable your family to continue polluting the gene pool in exchange for nothing. I find this attitude disagreeable in the extreme.

"Ah, but Mr. Cat, it was friday afternoon" I hear you bleat. Shut up. Around me you are not allowed to speak, above the age of 16, unless you have a GCSE in English. That should be legislation in my opinion, but even though it is not, you can enforce it vigilante-style by backhand slapping, nay stabbing, anyone who spouts crap without the relevant documentation to prove that they are capable of stringing a coherent sentence together from time to time. Now that you are silent, I'd like to know why you feel it is acceptable to bunk off friday afternoon simply because you can't be arsed to post my packages? I certainly do not find it acceptable to find you, having just risked life and limb in the rain on the death bike, sitting in your office with Playgirl hiding your trouser tent whilst you casually point to a sign that says "Closed". You are open for another half hour, you bitch. Your front door says so. You are lazy and deserve to die.

Perhaps death would be too good for you, though. No, I'd like to see you suffer properly for your crime. I would ask you which limb you valued the most, and then remove the other three with my bare hands. From your remaining good limb I would dangle you, before unleashing a swarm of scorpions onto your body. Whilst laughing, I would them begin to immolate your skin square inch by square inch, until you beg for mercy. Being the nice guy that I am, I would show mercy, shooing away the scorpions and extinguishing the raging inferno blistering your epidermis, and I would allow you to hop home to your family on your remaining good limb (assuming you chose to keep a leg; you're kind of fucked if you kept an arm) in time for tea. They would be glad to see you, but maybe a little shocked at your medical condition. I hope you have health insurance.

When I want to post my packages, I should be allowed to. I take precedence over your undeserved little half-hour holiday. The sooner you accept this, the more fulfilled your totally unfulfilling life will be.

In other words, I was late to the Post Office today.

<3
S.Cat