Anyone in the forum work in advertising sales? If so, can you please tell me: is it obligatory to have the IQ of a senile hamster to get on in that field?
The gimps responsible for selling ad space for the mag I work on are, to a man, complete and utter morons of the most mind-bogglingly imbecilic proportions. As acting production editor on our bumper double Christmas issue, I was told to include X number of pages of adverts in the flatplan. "We really need to hit that figure to make our monthly targets."
So kindly tell me what the fuck you are doing on press day, when I have to get 128 pages to the printer by 6pm or incur standing charges at the rate of £1,000 per hour, leaving the office en masse at noon to have your fucking Christmas fucking party WHEN YOU STILL HAVE TWO PAGES OF ADS TO FILL, leaving me to scrabble around to find content to go in those pages, AS IF I DON'T ALREADY HAVE ENOUGH ON MY FUCKING PLATE, YOU UTTER, UTTER CUNTS.
C***s D****r - you in particular, you brain-dead maggot. You'd better hope I never bump into you in a dark alley, cos if I do, I shall rip your spleen out through your eyeball socket, then scrape your skin off with a blunt teaspoon for good measure.
Just how many fucking times do I need to ask you to keep me informed of the ad situation? Is it really so fucking difficult to pick up the phone or type a little email to let me know when an ad books - or when a booking falls through, which seems to be more often the case when you're in charge. I have constantly updated you with all the information you need over the past week to help us both do our jobs. When that ad booked on last thing on Monday, I instantly updated the flatplan and sent you a copy. Just when exactly were you planning on telling me that I'd booked it in as the wrong page type? I suspect the answer is "Never". In fact, I have a strong suspicion you didn't even look at the flatplan I sent you, so you wouldn't ever have known it was the wrong page type. And why was it the wrong page type? Because that silly girl you sent round to tell me it had booked told me the wrong fucking page type. And because I didn't find out until a day later, when I contacted YOU to find out what the fuck was going on, it meant that editorial pages had to be redesigned to fit the ad in - ie just what we needed, more fucking work.
So I sent an email to you, CCing your line manager, politely repeating the request to be kept informed to avoid this kind of error in future. Did I get an apology for your fuck up? Did I even get the courtesy of an acknowledgment of my email? CAN YOU EVEN FUCKING READ, YOU POND-DWELLING IMBECILE?
No. What I actually got was two days of total radio silence. Un-fucking-believable. The next time I heard from you was today, about ten minutes before you were due to leave to go to the pub, telling me that you didn't think you were going to sell those ad spaces.
Well, fuck you, you piece of shit. I've tried playing nice, now I'm going to show you that I can play dirty. Very dirty. Once I have cooled down enough to type the above out in more professional terms, I shall be communicating the long list of the ways you have annoyed me over the past week to the Publisher, the Group Publishing Director and the Advertising Director. And yes, I am very well aware that the imminent organisational reshuffle of the whole company means that your division is being absorbed into another and everyone's job is potentially on the line. Maybe you should have considered that a bit more when you were out having lunch in expensive restaurants last week instead of at your desk, on the fucking phone, trying to sell that fucking ad space.
I might have more sympathy if I hadn't been working late in the office every fucking night for the past two weeks while you are never to be seen in the office after 5.30. The last two nights, I've got home at gone midnight. It's not even like I get a fucking bonus for doing my job. I just do it because it's my job.
You. Must. Die.
d.
