Written by Skoob1999
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Saturday, 27 August 2011

image for Letters To The Editor - From Disgruntled Employees The Sword Is Mightier Than The Pen. It Just Is. Trust Me.

Dear Editor,

To any readers who think their boss is ruthless, they ought to meet mine. The man is an absolute tyrant. He makes no bones about pointing out my, or my colleagues' shortcomings, and has even been known to scream abuse into people's faces. And what's even worse is that his breath frequently smells of chewing gum and a nice Chianti. This man's behaviour is positively Dickensian. He's even been known to resort to physical assault, in a fit of pique. And yet he's revered. I just don't get it.

David DeGea,

Carrington, Greater Manchester.

***

Dear Editor,

That's nothing.

My boss is a really irritating pinhead, who keeps insisting that he's absolutely clear about everything, and keeps on twatting on about sending clear messages to all and sundry, when he clearly has no idea what the flip he's talking about. Clearly, evasively, murkily or otherwise. In about the month of May, in 2010, I had some degree of faith in him. That's when I first started working for him. Since that time - and let me be perfectly clear about this - the man's an absolute crystal clear cunt.

Nick,

Westminster.

PS - Sorry for calling my boss a 'cunt' but it was the worst word I could think of at the time of writing.

***

Dear Sir,

I am disabled, and I work for a doctor, and not only is he insane - he keeps stitching bits of dead bodies together with fishing line and trying to electrocute them back to life - he is also extremely cruel. I suffer from an extreme case of curvature of the spine, and every day, without fail, he will ask me if I've got the hump, or tell me to give the kids their football back, or start running around his surgery shouting: "The bells! The Bells!" He's a pain in the arse. For two bits I'd boot the bastard up the bollocks and tell him to stick his fucking job up his arse, but then they'd stop me dole money for six months. So I've had to settle for getting me mates from the village to lay siege to his castle with flaming torches and set fire to the bastard.

Ygor

Transylvania.

***

Dear Sir,

This letter has nothing to do with anything. I do hope you publish it, because I took the time to write it out, so even though it has nothing to say, it should be a worthy addition to your letters page. If you decline to publish it, then you are an imbecile. I shall take my letters elsewhere in future, where they may be ignored by a better class of person.

Celia Haddock

Southampton.

***

Dear Sir

What the fuck is a 'disgruntled employee'? Is it somebody who works for an employer who has removed the employee's gruntles? And if that's the case, WTF is a gruntle?

Clive Waller

Wales.

***

Dear Norman,

Your dinner is in the oven. Sorry I couldn't hang about, but your wife drove her car up the driveway just as I was putting on the rubber bondage gear, so I had to do a runner out the back kitchen window. God knows what this has to do with being a disgruntled employee, but the thong was chafing me inner thighs and I had to write something.

Sherry

Maidenhead.

***

Dear Editor

Disgruntled employees? You're having a laugh are you not? Speaking as an employer, quite frankly, I find the notion laughable. Are these 'disgruntled employees' by any chance of the same ilk as the ones who religiously throw a sicky once a month minimum? I bet they are. I offered a month on full pay to the first employee who could throw a sicky with the correct spelling of diarrhoea. So far, I've had no takers. And that was back in 1971. Writing 'the shits' on a sickness form just doesn't cut it these days.

R Branson

Heathrow.

***

Got something you want to get off your chest? If it isn't a cystic growth or something, we'd be glad to hear it. (But not see it - especially if it's a cystic growth - all that pus and shit - quite frankly we don't need that.) We like a laugh in our office. So just send it to the usual address (text messages cost at least £500) and we might read it before we go down the pub. If you're lucky. Truth is, we'll probably just bin it. To be on the safe side, like. I mean, you never know...stalkers and that...

It's a funny old world.

Very few of us get out of it alive...

The story above is a satire or parody. It is entirely fictitious.

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