You think you’re so fucking cool, don’t you Businessman. Marching down the street with your blue-tooth fucking headset in so people think you’re mental, and talking to yourself and shit. Think you’re so fucking tops. You’re a busy dude, you’ve gotta go crunch those numbers and keep an eye on the ol’ Dow Jones, don’t you.
You haven’t even got the tiniest spare moment to reach into your pocket to get your phone, you need to have it strapped to your face because you’re a businessman, and you need your hands for other shit like holding top secret files and shaking hands with the CEO and photocopying. You’re an important guy. You’re probably thinking about other time saving processes. Maybe you’ll tape a litter-tray to your arse so you can shit while you broker some fucking deals. Maybe XenCorp Limited wouldn’t have missed out on acquiring CorpCorp Co. if you weren’t launching a rocket and reading The Kite Runner at the crucial moment of the negotiations.
TIME IS MONEY, BUSINESSMAN. You’re losing Yen every-time you take a leak? Find a bottle. And some string. You clearly don’t care about looking like a dick because you’ve already got the blue-tooth headset and you’re wearing a suit jacket when it’s 30 fucking degrees outside.
And anyway, who’ll be laughing when you successfully complete the merger and streamline processes whilst maintaining efficiency and send a fucking fax. You’ll be laughing all the way to the fucking bank, talking to Johnson from Marketing (You guys probably play GOLF on the weekend) on your blue-tooth douche-bag fucking headset and you’ll submit some fucking invoices to Finance and generally go about being an all-round tit-face, looking for a bigger, less-greased pole to stick up your arse.
But no, you walk ahead Businessman. Walk the fuck ahead in your stupid heeled shoes that makes me think there's a fucking Centaur coming up behind me. Sweat buckets in your suit jacket as you plough through pedestrian traffic with powerful strides to further indicate your corporate authority, and overall wankiness. You’re probably late for a business critical meeting with Head Office about Project: Swordfish. You have every right to barge pass people, blaring into that stupid fucking headset about profit and loss spreadsheets and carrying the one and the end of financial year inter-departmental two-man sack-race social day for employees and their family.
Don’t let me stop you Businessman. I’m just holding my phone up to my ear. I have time to reach into my pocket to facilitate my incoming calls and I haven’t been able to get my secretary to program the voice recognition software for me. Obviously I haven’t got any serious business shit going on, because I’m walking casually talking on the phone and trying to open a bag of chips. There’s certainly not countless Euros at stake on my successful consumption of these Arnott’s Shapes.
So go right ahead, Businessman. Storm ahead of me, yelling about the DPL reconciliation that needs to be done by Monday lunchtime with excessive volume, just in case some people within a two-block radius hadn’t quite worked out what a giant cock you are. That’s fine, Businessman, bump into me from behind and make me drop my Shapes. They’re just Shapes. Fuck, you’re probably in the process of trying to buy Arnott’s. I totally understand. You’re an important guy, I get it, and we both know that stationary cupboard isn’t going to fill itself up. We’re cool.
At least we were, until I saw you half an hour later WORKING IN A FUCKING MOBILE PHONE SHOP. FUCK YOU, MOBILE PHONE GUY! YOUR MANAGER IS TEN YEARS YOUNGER THAN YOU! YOU’RE NO MORE A BUSINESSMAN THAN I AM A UNICORN! YOU OWE ME A PACKET OF FUCKING SHAPES.