“Use your fist and not your mouth”

Is not just something you’d tell a hooker, but the thought has been cavorting in my head for the last few days (in its literal sense, not the hooker sense, you filthy bastards).

I suddenly seem to be surrounded by people who warrant a fist in their respective mouths.

There’s the female co-worker who starts screaming when the pest-control folks land up in office, and who leaves a large, half-eaten bowl of curd to rot on her desk every fucking morning.

There’s the techie client and his little Hobbits, who’ve been chewing my brains for 6 hours a day for the past 10, about due-diligence documents and tinkering with the ROFR clause in some financing agreement (you’ve got it coming, bitches. I’m billing you for each miserable minute I’ve had to spend with you!)

There’s that misbegotten BRT Corridor to pass through to get to abovementioned Client’s office. That’s 2 hours of shifting from 1st gear to 2nd and back to 1st in my clunker, which, by the way, is starting to sound like a cow in labour.

There’s my pesky younger sibling, Archie, who was busy measuring the WC in my loo at 6:30 a.m. This, by itself, is not so odd, considering her future profession. But I’d had a large dinner the night before, and the urge to, er, download, was unbearable. So consider yourself lucky, sis. You almost got a sock in the jaw back there.

There’s also the usual choir of bill-collectors, assorted canines and felines and bovines, mosquitoes, door-to-door salespersons, traffic policemen and my boss, who ensure that I do not have a single misery-free moment.

Where’s my 12-gague?

Also, isn’t this song perfect for an Obama campaign tune? (i.e., of course, if Obama was the violent, bitchy sorta fella)