Many questions about life and trouble at work

Bronwyn battled and rattled about the house searching for the answers to life’s questions. She’d given up on searching for the really big ones. Well, not given up exactly she had already accepted and applied an atheist, sceptical, cynical view to those major concerns. She still had many questions about life and her trouble at work.

What rattled her cage most today was how humanity would survive this pandemic. The Covid-19, Coronavirus, or even the silent enemy as that mentally damaged man keeps saying. The fact that when he isn’t named it doesn't seem to stop the audience from knowing who he is and it speaks volumes for the imbecile. Please make sure to vote that fucker out.

Bronwyn, or as lazy typists and bad spellers might present - Bron, was terribly perplexed. She was amazed and yet not surprised just how the agreed to medical advice (provided around the world) would be ignored by the growing in number of completely unwashed. They stank, their ideas stank, their ammunition vests stank, their automatic weapons slung over their backs stank, their vehicles stank and their misspelt signs stank.

Their innocent children did not yet stink, even though they were carrying signs. They would of course, their parent’s bigoted and misogynistic views, their racist approach and plain old dumb ass ignorance would not take long to take hold.

Their love of Jesus and disdain for all the other Gods is proof to that, the famous observation in that where you’re born and to whom, dictates the God you have chosen for you. Of course every one who is assigned a God is miraculously assigned the “ONE & ONLY TRUE GOD”.

Anywho, Bron wandered about the house, looking out the window, in each room, cupboard, nook and cranny, searching for answers. The Apple computer running at full speed on her desk offered none. The tv blaring out in the other room, none. The neighbours dog provided offered a smile to Bron’s lips, but no answers. Her birds and the one’s who often attacked them when she wasn’t looking screamed and chirped and although coming very close, also offered none.

There were other troubling concerns that faced Bron, she worked with some seriously vague inept Muppets. In fact the real Muppets were clever and when assigned a job to do, did it. They didn’t fuck about being bewildered, deferring, hiding, ducking / weaving  and avoiding a resemblance of decision making, they just did it.

Bron was also a big stickler for facts and although she really enjoyed fiction, tall tales and stories, films, tv and some good old fashion fantasy she needed accurate detail and fact. Rather annoyingly she seemed to get less and less of either at work.

It was either a deliberate or blindly accepting fashion that her work place seemed to struggle with this basic need for accuracy. So much so that Bron was ready to explode. What was pre-pandemic perfectly coiffed hair now dragged about behind her like a wild goat her as she tried to figure out a response.

The tv provided her with a response. She’d murder the whole fucking lot of them.

Well not all, just those that really drag the bottom. Those so low down they actually look up to the bottom and wish they could reach such lofty heights. They’d be considered as sharp as the by-product of an inner city Pub’s urinal. The outcome of regular maintenance and wash down after a world rugby game.  They’d be labeled as the deodorant cake, the piss, the fag ends, chip packets and used condoms, swimming about waving for their life, as they swirl around on their way even lower. Way down into the sewer system with their peers.

“Wow” ... thought Bron. I better calm down, fag ends isn’t really appropriate nowadays. She did wonder how the murdering would work. She’d seen enough tv and films to cobble together a fool prof plan. Those who’d been caught thought they had one. 

Everyone that didn’t get caught did. 

They’d be the ones Bron would emulate, not the fools who approach Fun Stoppers posting as hit men in pubs. No Bron would approach the local Rotary Club that had professionals of all sorts, real people with real backgrounds and she’d ask them. They ran a sausage sizzle stall as well.

“Fuck no” … she laughed. She needed to find someone who could really prepare the deed, do it dirt cheap and keep her right out of any suspicious connections. Other than this writing that Bron had worked on, she would be completely unconnected. She was typing away on what wasn’t so much a manifesto but simply a work of fiction, a release, an airing of ideas and a sharing of concerns. 

Bron did that a lot and now while almost locked in, aside from when she went out, she wrote a lot more. She was concerned about how much giving a shit she did and how unhealthy it was. Giving a shit was not a trait rewarded at her place of work and she was very slow in understanding this less than productive mindset.

Her colleagues could and did understand and they simply sat back quietly while Rome burned, the analogy of Rome would only really apply if someone was fiddling. There wasn’t even any fiddling going on, just blindly avoiding any exertion, application or outcome. No-one seemed to give a shit.

Life at work was like the pub’s urinal, it smelt bad, the contents spilt out onto the punters shoes, always emptying itself, being cleaned out and then filled up with piss and new cakes the next day. Some days the rugby was on, some days nothing. Bron wondered how to relieve herself of this situation so she had a wee on her way around the house. She always had the best’est thoughts when siting in the bathroom. She’d ring the Fun Stoppers themselves (anonymously of course) and ask if they could recommend a hit man. 

Or maybe Bron could try harder and be like the others. Just learn to not give a shit that was really the only option. Probably easier than organising the mass murder of a few annoying Muppets.