Thursday, March 02, 2006

Modern Life is Rubbish

Modern Life is Rubbish

What's the most hateful invention of modern times? I was sitting on the toilet at work the other day considering this very question. Job done, I glanced to my right and saw the answer staring me in the face.

Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the Tork T-Box, bog-roll holder of choice to the corporate world. And there it sits, malevolently hiding the end of the roll behind evil plastic teeth, the company's representative in the cubicle telling you two things:

"We know you steal the bog paper. We'd like to see you try now", and "Are you still here? You're not paid to shit - get back to work!"

Speaking as a toilet connoisseur, it devalues the whole done-ing a poo experience, with its penny-pinching attitude to bottom care. The mega-sized rolls they use are of the cheapest quality imaginable, guaranteed to tear under the slightest tension and lose the end up in the gubbins. And there you are, scrabbling around once again, trousers round your ankles, trying to find the end of the roll as the evil plastic teeth nibble away at your wrist.

Tork T-Box. Damn you. Damn you to hell.

Now: I am certain the T-Box is only the very tip of a huge, looming iceberg of banality and crapness forced onto us by people who think they know better. I feel a poll coming on. A poll to find the crappest, most hateful invention that blights our lives.

Suggest-me-up, then - preferably with reasons for your choice - and in the coming days I shall openly mock a select few, before presenting the coveted Golden Turd to the most deserving. Sod it, I won't even bother with the gold paint. No matter how much you polish it, it's still shit.

The 2006 Turd Award is born.

Situation normal: Vote-NO!

Today, I shall be mostly yanking myself furiously into a jar at Dorchester County Hospital, an act which is far less fun than you will imagine. And as usual, I've said far, far too much. So: you will have to make do without a Thursday Vote-o for tomorrow's Scary Story while I lie in the recovery room, tended by scantily-clad, lightly-oiled nurses.

In which case, when tomorrow's story appears, blame Wrath of Dawn, for she has chosen. Complain, and face her wrath.

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