Friday, January 14, 2011

Worst ... Aid ... Ever!

Now that the beta-blockers that the doctor prescribed for me to control the crazy physiological manifestations of my utter OUTRAGE (even the HEO ducked for cover, and the building was almost evacuated) at the sight of my first 2011 payslip last week have kicked in, I am now able to put my no longer trembling fingers to keyboard to compose my first post of the year.

I’m not going to write about the changes to my take-home pay and the attendant austerity measures I must adopt in my lifestyle. I may die in the pro...........

..... hmm. That light was very bright. It gave me a migraine.


Earlier this week, a friend who is currently in college asked me if I would like to participate on a first-aid course currently being undertaken by herself and other members of her class. Given the cost to non-students, I politely declined, saying also that a similar course is periodically offered at work free of charge.

I’ve never done a first-aid course at work. It’s a useful skill that can, for once, be used in the real world outside the Civil Service.

The problem is, if I did do the course in work, I would be listed as a first aid practitioner (and possibly defibrillator operator) among others on the Department’s Intranet.
What if I actually had to do something? There are a lot of fairly unhealthy looking types in the Department. You can hear them wheezing, puffing and panting on the stairs. Their red faces serve as emergency lighting. Most of them have bad teeth, skin problems and are challenged in the niceties of personal hygiene. The others are arseholes. The very thought of having to give mouth-to-mouth or defibrillate the bare chests of any of them makes me want to puke.


... I might just have the power to decide whether they live or die! To play God! BWAHAHAHHAHAHAHAH!

Imagine! A prostrate, purple-faced psoriatic EO with week-old sweat stains under his arms, or a cyanotic CO whose smugness suddenly seems to have left her...with only me... ME! as the one to grasp them and firmly reinstate them on this mortal coil. Or a talkative CO with an annoying voice struggling to breathe, necessitating an emergency tracheotomy with an old biro to keep the airway open – sure why not rip the vocal chords out while I’m at it?

Endless possibilities for evil, violence and fun, while helping to keep employment levels down. Helping the public sector employment statistics for the Croke Park agreement.

Although, knowing my rotten luck, it’ll end up being me prostrate on the floor, especially if there are any more cuts or tax increases. Well, at least I have nice skin, good oral hygiene and shower and change my clothes daily. I’d have some chance of surviving, I suppose.

Anyway, happy new year and all that, motherfeckers.

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