Please [fucking spastic bastard] sir, can I have some more?

Being generally angry has its funny moments, you know. Like the other night, when I was infuriated at the prospect of loooooong work hours with stressfully short deadlines, and I was working with a few colleagues in the office.

At 6:30pm we placed a dinner order with Mr Delivery, from which I’d ordered the exceedingly simple dish of ‘fish of the day’ with side salad plus Appletiser. We all ordered from Ocean Basket to facilitate “speedier” delivery – even the poor vegetarian who was with us succumbed for convenience’s sake.

At about 8:30pm, the food arrives. At this point, Ant is quite furious – slides taking longer than expected, stomach grumbling, so the fact that the delivery dude walks in without apologising for his lateness puts him on a bad footing already. Ant digs through the bags, opening all the food containers to find the alleged ‘poisson du jour’ (noting, along the way, that the poor soul who ordered sushi was going to have to reassemble the delicate Japanese creations, their contents flung to each of the eight corners of its box). Prospects of a happy meal (and no, most definitely not of the McD type) rapidly decline… Could this be the box, I thought, reaching a decidedly two-dimensional container right at the bottom of the bag?

The R60 content of the box was a piece of hake with dimensions of about 10cm x 5cm x 1cm, crumbled into unappetizing little pieces. “At least the salad will be decent – that never fails” I thought. Except, there was no salad to be found. The dimwit had not brought me half of my meal, which was destined to be puny from the outset.

Social etiquette collapses at this point.

Ant [yelling]: where is my salad, for fuck sakes?

Dude [nonchalant]: what salad?

Ant: the one I ordered, the one I paid for, the one I waited 2 hours for!

Dude [still unconcerned, fumbling with the invoice]: oh. It’s not here, they didn’t pack it.

Ant [high-pitched screaming]: I don’t care what they did, I’m not Ocean Basket’s customer, I’m your customer! Don’t you check the orders before driving over at a snail’s pace? Don’t you care that they might get it wrong and you won’t earn your tip?

Colleagues back out of the room to avoid the awkwardness of the situation. They’re already tucking into their complete, albeit deficient, meals!

Dude [finally registering my earnest fury]: … … … …

Ant: You didn’t even apologise for arriving late! Give me the name of your manager right now!

Dude [still no apology, hands over the number]: … … …

Ant: Mr Manager, I am shocked at the pathetic product and service I have received [blah blah blah, rant, scream, swear etc]

Mr Manager: I’m terribly sorry, I will have [incompetent fuckwit] deliver your salad immediately.

Ant: By “immediately” I trust you don’t mean two hours.

Loud crashing noise of the phone speaker/mouthpiece thingy being slammed back into its cradle.

After sending the dude off (still with no apology) I had a rethink about how badly I wanted delivery dude’s sperm/snot/urine in my digestive system, and concluded that the salad might not be worth it. Mr Manager, how ever, did not call his driver to tell him not to return, but when he did, I was ravenous enough to overcome the vulgar thought of eating this man’s excretions, and hey, I’m still here to tell the tale.

I’ve noticed a lot more cooperation in carrying out instructions from my juniors who witnessed my attack – so all things come to a good end, I suppose.

Aside 1: on leaving the office last night, the security guard told me to ‘have sweet dreams’. Bizarre man, bizarre. I didn’t, by the by.
Aside 2: on Thursday evening, I have a slim chance of being voted in as the Vice Wop of our Wop society – Woplanders beware! Mwahahahahahahahaha!