Saturday, February 05, 2005
The Sucky Jobs I Have Had, Part III
Angus Ogg Bank
Even today, I find it hard to believe I pissed away nearly two years in this profoundly dysfunctional institution. They were famed across London's financial district as the bank that employed people who had no business being employed in banking. Among other quirks, they paid a bagpiper in full Highland dress to play the Last Post at six pm every evening. Also, anyone caught riding in the lift without wearing his jacket was fired on the spot. I'd say the only redeeming feature of Angus Ogg was the people. I'm still friends with some of my co-workers from those days.
The managers, however, were all assholes, except one, who was a moonbat instead.
During my tenure at Angus Ogg, Princess Di smacked into a Parisian underpass and became Princess Di-ed. And there was great wailing and gnashing of teeth among the servile regophiles that infest London. The day after Diana got mashed into pulp, this moonbat manager came to me with tears in his eyes and said, "xj, you're clever, explain it to me: you go all your life believing in God and then something like this happens. How is this possible?"
Just so we're clear: this wasn't some overpromoted kid. This was a mature man, a father of children, an executive of a large corporation. He had presumably heard about the genocides in Rwanda and Cambodia and Stalin's gulags and the whole two world wars thing, and probably at some point somebody had brought up the fact that there were these guys called the Nazis that had murdered, oh, six, seven million people in cold blood, and yet the only thing that had ever caused this moonbat to doubt his faith in a benevolent God was a car wreck involving a dumb, useless ditz whose only achievement in life was to marry a big-eared hippy who had the hots for another woman, cheat on him with an even bigger loser than Prince Jug-Ears, and give birth to a dork with a swastika fetish.
Diana? To coin a phrase, "Screw her".
Even today, I find it hard to believe I pissed away nearly two years in this profoundly dysfunctional institution. They were famed across London's financial district as the bank that employed people who had no business being employed in banking. Among other quirks, they paid a bagpiper in full Highland dress to play the Last Post at six pm every evening. Also, anyone caught riding in the lift without wearing his jacket was fired on the spot. I'd say the only redeeming feature of Angus Ogg was the people. I'm still friends with some of my co-workers from those days.
The managers, however, were all assholes, except one, who was a moonbat instead.
During my tenure at Angus Ogg, Princess Di smacked into a Parisian underpass and became Princess Di-ed. And there was great wailing and gnashing of teeth among the servile regophiles that infest London. The day after Diana got mashed into pulp, this moonbat manager came to me with tears in his eyes and said, "xj, you're clever, explain it to me: you go all your life believing in God and then something like this happens. How is this possible?"
Just so we're clear: this wasn't some overpromoted kid. This was a mature man, a father of children, an executive of a large corporation. He had presumably heard about the genocides in Rwanda and Cambodia and Stalin's gulags and the whole two world wars thing, and probably at some point somebody had brought up the fact that there were these guys called the Nazis that had murdered, oh, six, seven million people in cold blood, and yet the only thing that had ever caused this moonbat to doubt his faith in a benevolent God was a car wreck involving a dumb, useless ditz whose only achievement in life was to marry a big-eared hippy who had the hots for another woman, cheat on him with an even bigger loser than Prince Jug-Ears, and give birth to a dork with a swastika fetish.
Diana? To coin a phrase, "Screw her".
