The Tomato Gestapo.


But first, make sense of this 'friggin' email:

Email subject line: Goodies in Frig nearest wall in kitchen.

Content of Email:

Stephen

Said to inform those who are interested that there are Mini pies, sausage roles and quiches in the above frig.

Cheers

Zo?




I desperately need to bitch. About this guy at work who acts like I'm stupid. He speaks exageratedly slowly and clearly as if I'm too dumb to understand, and it FUCKING PISSES ME OFF. I hate him. I'm going to have to email the agency and tell them the truth - that I don't like it here. I'm bloody getting paid shit to call people and confirm their places in RSA courses, and remind restaurateurs to send in paperwork. All fucking day.

Oh, and unfortunately Vanja thinks I don't cut up tomatoes finely enough. We had tacos last night. She just could not get over it. I asked her "who gives a fuck?" and well really, who DOES give a fuck? Jesus. Shit! It's the Tomato Police. Better watch how you cut up those tomatoes, otherwise Santa might not come this year/you might go to hell, or what's worse, limbo, which is an empty white room with nothing but a chair to sit on for the rest of eternity. Hell it is.  ¶ 13:15