Random
Source Code
Random
Aka the Fauxfessional. Really just sums up a wannabe who pretends to have the credentials to take on any profession that catches their eye at the time. Their resume is full of junk that waffles on about absolute bullshit, touching excessively on being a 'team player with excellent communication skills'. The term 'fake it till you make it' has become their life motto and talking out of one's ass is just a natural reflex.
As a fofessional team player, I believe that I have the rare skill of going above and beyond the highest realm of creativity to really excel as a senior copywriter for your beautifully reputable company, which I have heard so much about through my elite networking circles.
The dick at work who dresses like she belongs in some crappy Peter Rabbit novel or Sylvanian family kitset with the chronic flaunting of knitted granddad vests, military boots or some rigid Docs, unshaven legs and the color palette of primarily earthy tones for whatever bullshit reason. She looks like she should be hibernating with a mole or scurrying around with a hedgehog under a toadstool.
If there's one colleague that's highly emotional, it's Beatrix Wokester and her earthy antics.
Bloody Beatrix Wokester gave me snake eyes after I took her applicant's payment but didn't know to ask for her height.
When you decide to go for a peaceful Sunday solo walk by some lake or similar body of water, only to be shook by the realization that a gongregation of noisy plebs have decided to do the same. Weaving in and out of hordes of Lululemon legging fanatics clutching those oversized sippy drink bottles, mass-produced chihuahuas, numerous Chinese extended familia groups with chids jacked up on Pokemon candy, a plethora of idiots who can't control their dogs and kids, alongside obnoxiously fat pushchairs that come startling close to pushing you off the damn path into the mud or bush.
Holy reck, this bicycle should get off the damn path instead of taking up precious foot traffic space already taken up by the bloody Sunday Gongregation!
After witnessing the excessive Gongregation from hell, I am in dire need of intensive therapy.
The typical over 50s female with scraggly hair, overall disheveled appearance, husky voice like she smokes 10 packs a day and that overwhelming air of look-at-me-I'm-a biker-chick persona. The type who will never learn your name if you're ethnic and totters around like a drunk scarecrow, whatever that means.
the pure definition of hot mutton mess are types like Megan or Leigh.
hot mutton mess sounds like a cheap open sandwich you'd buy from a budget food truck but in fact, it actually defines a person.
A combination of dead-boring and yuck. A flavor profile that is not only foul, but also does nothing for nobody. Can be used to describe people, jobs, suburbs, the government and anything that crops up in life in a negative sense.
after today's team meeting where the aim of the game was to guess celeb's real names, I can confidently confirm that the new manager is vanilla coked.
she is so fucking vanilla coked up, that wokester bitch who glared at me.
getting vanilla coked is one way to end your life.
Self explanatory, really. Getting a divorce from the stuffy, smelly wokeplace that reeks of sweat and old cheese, your vanilla manager and your scummy colleagues. Most importantly, leaving behind the shitty outdated systems from the 90s' that leaves your mind more numb than a frozen ballsack. However, one exception to this act is the fact that you must win multiple gazillions in the lottery to actually feel deserving, liberated and be able to afford to breathe.
a legitimate reason to do a U-turn and go home before your shift even starts is because you've decided to go through with a workivorce.
after filing for a workivorce, my bank account is looking dry... hopefully the lottery gods will answer my prayers...
What you want to look and sound like, but don't.
I'll never be hip and skinny and white and pose and be edgy like the Eurythmics.
Eurythmics shits on all the shit that comes on the radio these days.