Industry people

My half-cousin twice removed was saying yesterday how he wants to be an industry person.

I told him if there’s one kind of person I unequivocally hate then it’s fucking industry people. Dirty-nosed, pin-striped, fileofax-weilding, no-talent, art-raping idea thieves.

Make’s me want to start shitting into padded envelopes and posting them round to all the industry offices. Even though I know full well that they’ve got some volunteering cock-sucker of an art school graduate who’s sole purpose for existing is to make regular trips to Nero for skinny decafe what’s-the-fucking-point lattes and to spend around 3 hours a day filtering all the incoming mail so as to make sure all my envelopes were spotted before they reached their intended targets. Poor little wannabe fuck-job.

The way that I’d do it would be to drop my load on a sheet of A4 grease-proof paper, fold the paper in half secluding my secretion in the belly of the fold, then carefully stuff the folded paper into the envelope, seal it with gaffa-tape, and beat it flat with a table-tennis bat. 

This way when the package is opened and it’s contents tipped out onto the desk, 

the paper should unfold upon landing revealing a filthy, stinking, toothless, corn-ridden, Rorschach butterfly smiling back at him. 

A virtual mirror of an industry person’s heart.