There’s this game at
work. It’s called “Who’s the fucking
busiest?”
I say “game” – it’s more
of a default conversational belch.
I say ‘It’s called “Who’s
the fucking busiest?”’ – but no one calls it that. No one admits to even playing it. But they do.
The rule is this: If someone asks you “How are you?” and you
say “Fine” then you lose. Because FINE
means NOT BUSY. And the person asking
secures the higher ethical ground in the context of the ethics of “BEING BUSY”
BEING THE ULTIMATE SACRIFICE IN STOIC MARTYRDOM.
To have any chance of
winning, you should answer, “Busy.” But
no cunt wants to know HOW busy you are.
You saying BUSY is a gauntlet thrown down, to which the only counter is
to OUT-BUSY you. “Tell me about it!” the
first protagonist will respond, paradoxically NOT wanting you to tell them
about it, but instead to LISTEN to THEIR boasts of being busy. Metaphorical cocks-at-the-urinals time. “Yeah, me too. Busy as fuck.” Because as we all know, ‘fuck’ is a busy
thing isn’t it.
The BUSY-OFF begins like
two bulldogs in a barrel of raw beef.
The accomplished game-player will reel off a list of ALL the things they
HAVE to do, because of course being busy is about the quantity of tasks and not
the length of time it takes to do any of them.
After five minutes of listening to this mundane list of massively
unimportant nuggets of information, you start wondering to yourself, “If you’re
so fucking busy, why do you spend five minutes telling me what you have to do
instead of fucking off to do it.” And
you know you’ll not be the only recipient of that self-pitying spiel that day.
God help you if you ASK
someone to do anything. “I’ve not got
time to do that. I’ve got to blah blah,
blah blah, blah…” – five minutes of fucking blah-blah-blah-ing like a blahcunt
from Cuntsville, New Blahdom. You could’ve
done it by now, you think to yourself, listening like an inert carbon-based
lump of disinterest.
These sort of
self-contradictory, self-lauding aspirants to globally-honoured stoicism are
the last people you should ever tell ANYTHING about your leisure interests or
experiences to. Don’t light that touch-paper
with “I did a bit of gardening at the weekend” because you’ll get back, “Wish I
had time for gardening!” – the implication being that you aren’t busy, because
you did SOMETHING ELSE.
I remember the reaction of
some colleagues to this blog. “Fucking
hell, you must have a lot of time on your hands.” Because of course, it takes HOURS! And it’s not like I do it to relax, do
I? I can’t be busy enough.
“You must have nothing
better to do!”
Well, I kind of think that
doing this is A LOT better to do than spending your life in a permanent state
of one-up-man-ship moaning and boasting in this irritatingly cuntfest of a game
called “Who’s the fucking busiest?”
Now fuck off, I’m busy!
