My fucking BMW motor car! MINE! Apparently, when they give you a company car - THEY'RE ONLY LENDING IT TO YOU!
Did any of you know this? Did any of you fucking think you might TELL ME?
Oh, no - of course! Much better to let me get back from my afternoon colonic and find one of the oozingly corpulent clacker-fucks from HR waiting for me with a pile of papers and the threat of legal action.
He said, this sludgy great diarrhetic smear of a person, 'I'm here for the car, Dave. You should have returned it promptly on the day your period of notice expired.'
(Do people in HR have their minds erased when they enter the profession and have it reprogrammed by some jargonistic fascist fuck-ball robot? Or are they just attracted to HR because they're already a sub-spunk fuck-bubble wank-crack who frots themselves mushy over contract law glossaries from a particularly fascist period of Nazi Germany?)
I tried to fight but, frankly, after a colonic I'm a combination of dizzily euphoric and in considerable discomfort, so I just gave him the keys and said, 'You look after her, you hear?' As he walked away, I simply added, 'You cunt.'
What the fuck am I supposed to do now? My life is over! My BMW motor car is my second home! Without it, I can't do a fucking thing! Can you kerb-crawl on fucking foot? Can you visit the drive-thru on a bike? Can you hump broads on the back seat of a fucking skateboard? NO!
This is a fucking insult. This is a slap in the face that crosses the line beyond the fucking pale.
I will return. I will return with a BMW motor car of such high specification, they haven't invented the fucker yet. It'll have a bath in the boot, be capable of time travel and deliver scientifically-perfected blowjobs at the flick of a switch.
They shouldn't have taken my BMW motor car.
Why? Because I AM THE CLIENT, EVEN WHEN I'M NOT!