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All posts for the month October, 2016

7. Sal Oberon Gets Right Royally Shafted in a Middle Management Kind of Way

Published October 25, 2016 by saloberon

Sal Oberon sat and surveyed the scene: the two drones were perched on the edges of their tight arses in front of him, practically falling off the precarious instruction manuals underneath them, and one intoned, ‘But really, Mr Obiwank, we have to follow The Rules.’

Sal Oberon sighed at length. ‘The Rules’ were ingrained in the air. One of the drones, as tight-lipped as she was tight-arsed, put on her best serious face. Sal Oberon resisted the urge to tell her to shove her rules as far up her tight-arsed crack as she could possibly muster. The other drone could only mindread as poorly as the first, fortunately or unfortunately. The invisible Rulebook floated around in the tight little room like a squeaky bad dog fart . . .

No-one at The Gathering at the fag end of the forest showed that they understood a single thing in the story that wasn’t The Rules. Sal Oberon looked around hopefully, but the array of frowns and officially concerned faces around him suggested he might as well go and slam his own bollocks between a couple of masonry blocks for all the good he was doing here. Nevertheless, stupidity or bloody-mindedness contrived to drive him to give it one more push.

‘You do know The Rules aren’t real life, don’t you, right?’

The assembled of The Gathering mumbled and grimaced at one another. Sal Oberon picked something out of his ear in a manner that he hoped might be nonchalant but was really just a way of stopping himself from punching everyone hard enough in the face to knock a modicum of sense into them.

‘Look, The Rules are just a control thing. They let the controller feel important. What’s the point of this controller if they don’t have anyone to control? Right? Someone controls the controller, and so on and so on. Freedom, fellow Little People, is freedom from other people. That’s all.’

Sal Oberon looked around hopefully again. Some of The Gathering were uncomfortably squeaking on their indoctrination-padded undergarments. Sal Oberon blasted on with an increasingly resigned attitude of ‘well, just fuck ’em then’.

‘So, when your common or garden Shyster Magnet (that’ll be me) gets told in no uncertain terms that he can’t let some pixie piss in his garden by the Forest Overlords, and the pixie promises to shit daily on the doorstep of yours truly because he’s pissed off he can’t piss in the forest without prior permission, Sal Oberon reflects that The Rules can go take a running jump . . .’

Sal Oberon surveyed the scene and no-one got his rampant analogies, it was clear. He waved his hand dismissively.

‘Fuck off, the lot of you. There should be Rules about people like you not understanding about not complying with The Rules and so forth.’

The Gathering of the Little People duly fucked off, not at all getting the intended irony, and Sal Oberon scraped out his Tale Weaving equipment to hammer out a therapeutic stream of largely offensive swear words and bile.
 
 

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6. Sal Oberon and the Equality of Opportune Doom

Published October 22, 2016 by saloberon

Dear Mr Obiwank

Re: your communication dated September 2, nominal year of Our Overlord 2013, to wit, quote:

Dear the Council, Fuck off. Regards, S. Oberon.

We have, regrettably, been unable to administer timely response due to regrettable circumstances which have, regrettably, resulted in us being forced to periodically give a shit (or, regrettably, seeming as if this were, in fact, the case). This is, you should be aware, entirely your fault.

It should be additionally noted that, due to incorrect addressing of your complaint, we have been unable to reply in a SMART-targeted, timely fashion. It should be appendagely, additionally noted that any further complaints correspondence should be directly addressed to the Complaints Officer by name (please note that the names of Council Officers are not released due to data protection protocols).

We regret the lament inherent in your communiqué, Mr Obiwank, and we sincerely trust that we, The Council, might one day muster the requisite wherewithal to give a shit.

Warm regards

The Council
 
Sal Oberon folded the neutrally-coloured, logo-embossed paper back into its pasty aubergine-tinted envelope with the crinkly plastic see-through address panel peeling itself from the edges. He stared with pointed effort at the nameless drone of a Council clerk sat at the pale beige and rounded, safety-cornered, utterly uncluttered desk in front of him.

‘That’s a pithy little anecdote, Mr Obiwank . . .’

‘Oberon.’

‘Yes. That’s a pithy little anecdote, Mr Obiwank, but regrettably, it doesn’t explain your unauthorised three year absence from normal functioning society, now does it?’

Sal Oberon briefly fluttered his greasy wings, pondering which choice morsel might readily reduce her to a gibbering wreck if she deigned to patronise him one more time, before side-tracking himself by grumbling incoherently.

‘I’m sorry, Mr Obiwank?’

Sal Oberon growled.

‘It’s not an anecdote. It’s a letter. From your lot.’

‘Yes. Indeed.’

‘There’s a lot of apathy around in the Forest. Regrettably. I’ve been out of the loop. Again. Fell into the effluent discharge, overspill from Council HQ, no doubt.’

He flapped the envelope aimlessly. The Council clerk drone raised an eyebrow.

‘Hmm. Indeed, Mr Obiwank.’

‘Oberon.’

‘Yes. Well. Regrettably, it would seem that you need to fill out an Equal Opportune form.’

‘A what?’

‘Form 326b/111. An Equal Opportune form. Council policy, which your unauthorised absence from normal functioning society has prevented you from engaging with. Everyone has the right to be fairly convenienced by officially pointless Council bureaucracy.’

Sal Oberon gently pushed the second letter in his possession, the Unauthorised Absence Summons, across the uncluttered pale beige desk.

‘I’m not paying this nine hundred groat charge. Please feel free to shove it somewhere unseemly.’

The clerk drone raised her other eyebrow.

‘Mr Obiwank . . .’

Sal Oberon sighed.

‘. . . your attitude is regrettable. Please fill out this Equal Opportune form . . .’

Sal Oberon folded his arms and slouched his wings over the edge of the chair. The clerk drone scowled.

‘Very well, Mr Obiwank. We’ll do it together.’

‘I wouldn’t do it with you if you were covered in chocolate and strung up by the nipples underneath a drip tray behind the bar.’

The clerk drone shuffled uncomfortably in her chair before fumbling with the regulation plum-coloured pen and the aubergine-tinted Form 326b/111.

‘Mr Obiwank, what is your self-recognised ethnicity? Pixie, fairy, elf, goblin, imp, mixed-troll . . .?’

‘None of the above. Breathing entity.’

The clerk drone frowned.

‘Mr Obiwank?’

‘Other.’

She wrote in careful plum on the aubergine form.

‘Do you consider yourself either dyslexic, dyspraxic, disabled, dysfunctional, dystopian, or dysenteric?’

‘Dysinterested and dyseased [sic].’

The clerk sighed.

‘Mr Obiwank. Please do take this seriously.’

‘Write it.’

She wrote it.

‘What, Mr Obiwank, is your sexual preference? Straight, bi, semi-curious, homosexual, trisexual, quadrosexual, experimental, or unhealthily abnormal?’

Sal Oberon lifted an eyebrow.

‘Inorganically leaning.’

‘Meaning?’

‘I have a penchant for screwing cotton socks and old rubber boots. Next question?’

The clerk drone rustled the paper and pressed a staple into its corner, just in case it escaped no other leaf attached to it and, more importantly, because it was Council protocol and it needed SMART-focused filing.

Sal Oberon frowned.

‘Are we done here?’

‘That will be all, Mr Obiwank.’

‘Oberon.’

‘Yes.’

‘And the nine hundred groat fine?’

‘I’ll pass it on to the Department of Internal Affairs and Extenuating Apathy.’

Sal Oberon stood up and shook off his wings.

‘Good. Pleasure doing business with you. I hope your tits drop to below your ankles in your old age and that they trip you over in many splendid and comedically karmic ways.’

The clerk drone averted her eyes to ruthlessly file her form.

‘Yes,’ she mumbled. ‘Warm regards, Mr Obiwank.’

Sal Oberon shuffled out of the cubicle, stepped out into ‘normal functioning society’, and sniffed the toxic effluent of squalid forest air, kicking an errant toad in the face, making it croak out of its arse as he went by.