Call Me 'J'.
Oh Jason. How many ways can I hate thee?
Your dreadful dreadful swagger, your awful winks and ticks and perplexing hand gestures, all of which I am sure you consider to be ‘street’.
Your appalling insistence upon speaking in Ebonics. When you felt like it. Except when you didn’t remember to. Those times when you remembered that you went to a perfectly adequate school funded by the flawed but essentially good British educational system and not from some hell-hole in South Central L.A.
And that you are not ‘Straight Outta Compton’ but actually ‘Not Too Far From Your Mum’s House In Gateshead’.
Your hair. Oh dear God man your hair. Did you pay money for that? Did you?
If it were meant to do that it would have done so already.
But it’s when you talked. That was the icing on the cake. A cake made of your own shit.
Dear readers. The following exchanges are 100% factual.
Jason: Lunch eh? No I’m not going anywhere. [No-one had asked him] Need to check my shares. [He is 22. Stares at his PC screen in a lofty manner. EVERYONE leaves the building.]
Another day.
Jason: Did I mention I have a controlling share in Newcastle United?
Odd. No. You didn’t.
Another day. I am walking to the tube with Curvy Girl. She glances behind me.
CG: He’s coming.
Me: Who?
CG: ‘Call Me ‘J’’
Me: [I dare not look] Fuck off.
CG: He is.
Me: [I can’t look for fear of meeting his eye and then acknowledging his existence] Walk quicker. I’m not getting on the tube with him.
CG: I can’t. Not in these shoes.
Me: You’ve bought shoes you can’t walk quickly in?
CG: [As if such a thing were rational and it is me who is insane] Yes.
He is gaining on us.
Me: I’ll give you a backy if it will get us on a train before he catches up.
CG: [Glances at my overall build] I don’t think that will happen.
Me: Fuck. FUCK.
Jason: [He’s caught up] Dudes.
Me: What?
Jason: ‘Sup?
Me: Right. Hello Jason.
Jason: Call me ‘J’.
Me: No.
Jason: [Oblivious] Off home yeah? Sweet. Aight. Bin looking at my property portfolio myself.
Have you? From your mothers box room? Must be tough maintaining your empire and your board.
Jason: Yeah right- [Despite the fact that neither of us have acknowledged his presence] thinking of adding some offshore stuff. Maybe Greece. [Can’t get more off-shore than that. What with it being a different country you TWAT] Got some interest in some clubs there.
You’re getting confused dear Jason. You WENT to some clubs there that you FOUND interesting. Probably with your Mum.
Easy mistake to make for someone with a silly haircut, no sensible bearing on the real world and no obvious friends
Later.
Jason: It’s all good Tired.
Me: What?
Jason: Sweet, man.
Me: What?
Jason: ‘Sup?
Me: I really don’t know. You came over here.
Jason: So you probably heard about it all then?
Me: What?
Jason: Well. You’re a family man so you’ll get it. Why I ran him over and that. Because I couldn’t see my kid. Only just got out of jail, so this is my last chance really. You’d have done the same if it were your kid.
Me: What?
Jason: My own son doesn’t know what I LOOK LIKE. But I don’t go on about it like some. Just get on you know. Tried to get custody. Her new fella wouldn’t have it, I ran him over, went inside. Do what ya gotta do innit?
Me: Right. Jason-
Jason: Call me ‘J’
Me: No. So, you were on the doorstep, trying to arrange access to your child – assuming any of this is true – were unsuccessful in your doorstep negotiation and then coaxed your ex’s new bloke into standing still in the middle of the road whilst you carefully manoeuvered your CAR – I notice you get the bus into work – OVER him?
Jason: You wouldn’t think it to look at me.
Me: No. I wouldn’t.
Surprisingly, according to his C.V. his previous employ had been at a call centre for T-Mobile and not at Her Majesty’s Pleasure. Puzzling.
Later:
Jason: My brother was in Iraq [He didn’t have a brother] and one of his mates was hit by a car-bomb. Terrible. He had to identify both halves of him.
Me: What?
Jason: Yeah man. He had to identify both.
Me: Ok. So the head and torso – with the absence of hips or legs – alone on a slab were not enough to prove that you ‘brother’s’ ‘friend’ was dead? That he might have been faking it? He had to identify the severed legs and whatnot to prove that the man wasn’t just taking the piss and fancied a sicky?
Jason: You’ve not been in combat-
Me: Like you.
Jason: You have to identify each body part. So they know where to put everything.
Me: So your brother easily identified his mates LEGS? Separately from the rest of his body? He was given a big pile of LEGS to choose from and said ‘That’s him!’
Jason: [With impressive bravado] YES.
Me: Ok.
Later:
Jason: I could be a serial killer. If you’re going down for one murder, might as well take as many with you as you can. They can only give you ONE life sentence. And I’ve studied this. I don’t even fit the profile. They’d never catch me.
To my knowledge they never have.
Your dreadful dreadful swagger, your awful winks and ticks and perplexing hand gestures, all of which I am sure you consider to be ‘street’.
Your appalling insistence upon speaking in Ebonics. When you felt like it. Except when you didn’t remember to. Those times when you remembered that you went to a perfectly adequate school funded by the flawed but essentially good British educational system and not from some hell-hole in South Central L.A.
And that you are not ‘Straight Outta Compton’ but actually ‘Not Too Far From Your Mum’s House In Gateshead’.
Your hair. Oh dear God man your hair. Did you pay money for that? Did you?
If it were meant to do that it would have done so already.
But it’s when you talked. That was the icing on the cake. A cake made of your own shit.
Dear readers. The following exchanges are 100% factual.
Jason: Lunch eh? No I’m not going anywhere. [No-one had asked him] Need to check my shares. [He is 22. Stares at his PC screen in a lofty manner. EVERYONE leaves the building.]
Another day.
Jason: Did I mention I have a controlling share in Newcastle United?
Odd. No. You didn’t.
Another day. I am walking to the tube with Curvy Girl. She glances behind me.
CG: He’s coming.
Me: Who?
CG: ‘Call Me ‘J’’
Me: [I dare not look] Fuck off.
CG: He is.
Me: [I can’t look for fear of meeting his eye and then acknowledging his existence] Walk quicker. I’m not getting on the tube with him.
CG: I can’t. Not in these shoes.
Me: You’ve bought shoes you can’t walk quickly in?
CG: [As if such a thing were rational and it is me who is insane] Yes.
He is gaining on us.
Me: I’ll give you a backy if it will get us on a train before he catches up.
CG: [Glances at my overall build] I don’t think that will happen.
Me: Fuck. FUCK.
Jason: [He’s caught up] Dudes.
Me: What?
Jason: ‘Sup?
Me: Right. Hello Jason.
Jason: Call me ‘J’.
Me: No.
Jason: [Oblivious] Off home yeah? Sweet. Aight. Bin looking at my property portfolio myself.
Have you? From your mothers box room? Must be tough maintaining your empire and your board.
Jason: Yeah right- [Despite the fact that neither of us have acknowledged his presence] thinking of adding some offshore stuff. Maybe Greece. [Can’t get more off-shore than that. What with it being a different country you TWAT] Got some interest in some clubs there.
You’re getting confused dear Jason. You WENT to some clubs there that you FOUND interesting. Probably with your Mum.
Easy mistake to make for someone with a silly haircut, no sensible bearing on the real world and no obvious friends
Later.
Jason: It’s all good Tired.
Me: What?
Jason: Sweet, man.
Me: What?
Jason: ‘Sup?
Me: I really don’t know. You came over here.
Jason: So you probably heard about it all then?
Me: What?
Jason: Well. You’re a family man so you’ll get it. Why I ran him over and that. Because I couldn’t see my kid. Only just got out of jail, so this is my last chance really. You’d have done the same if it were your kid.
Me: What?
Jason: My own son doesn’t know what I LOOK LIKE. But I don’t go on about it like some. Just get on you know. Tried to get custody. Her new fella wouldn’t have it, I ran him over, went inside. Do what ya gotta do innit?
Me: Right. Jason-
Jason: Call me ‘J’
Me: No. So, you were on the doorstep, trying to arrange access to your child – assuming any of this is true – were unsuccessful in your doorstep negotiation and then coaxed your ex’s new bloke into standing still in the middle of the road whilst you carefully manoeuvered your CAR – I notice you get the bus into work – OVER him?
Jason: You wouldn’t think it to look at me.
Me: No. I wouldn’t.
Surprisingly, according to his C.V. his previous employ had been at a call centre for T-Mobile and not at Her Majesty’s Pleasure. Puzzling.
Later:
Jason: My brother was in Iraq [He didn’t have a brother] and one of his mates was hit by a car-bomb. Terrible. He had to identify both halves of him.
Me: What?
Jason: Yeah man. He had to identify both.
Me: Ok. So the head and torso – with the absence of hips or legs – alone on a slab were not enough to prove that you ‘brother’s’ ‘friend’ was dead? That he might have been faking it? He had to identify the severed legs and whatnot to prove that the man wasn’t just taking the piss and fancied a sicky?
Jason: You’ve not been in combat-
Me: Like you.
Jason: You have to identify each body part. So they know where to put everything.
Me: So your brother easily identified his mates LEGS? Separately from the rest of his body? He was given a big pile of LEGS to choose from and said ‘That’s him!’
Jason: [With impressive bravado] YES.
Me: Ok.
Later:
Jason: I could be a serial killer. If you’re going down for one murder, might as well take as many with you as you can. They can only give you ONE life sentence. And I’ve studied this. I don’t even fit the profile. They’d never catch me.
To my knowledge they never have.
posted by Tired Dad at
11:06 am
20 Comments:
It sounds to me like you LIKE talking to these people, old boy. Otherwise, why on earth would you give them the time of day? Simply call him a cunt (apologies to any of the lady persuasion reading), kick him in the nuts and wander off.
Or, and this is a much under-used tactic, simply push him over. It is impossible to retain any shred of dignity once someone has pushed you over. If you need assistance, manouevre him to a convenient low desk or an assistant/colleague on all fours who can help you with leverage. I tell you, old pal, pushing twats over is the way forward. I'm off to do it now.
Cheery-pip!
I dunno....I'd be telling someone about this guy. He's freaky.
Sounds like he already IS a serial murderererer.
Call him "J" ffs before you join the ranks!
I do believe you have nut attracting pheremones.
I think it was whilst sniggering at the Iraq / body parts / identification sequence that I first thought, 'Ah well, I guess this makes me a bad person'.
On the one hand Dickie your advice for Jason the Twat is correct. On the other hand if Tired didn't endure the 'delightful' conversations with people like Jason the Twat then Tired wouldn't have any material to blog about.
Do you think it is possible he might not be telling the truth some of the time? You seem a little sceptical ...
I'm glad somebody else attracts nutters.
Got four at the moment. One wants to be called Mr T. He is white and bald and skinny and wears jam jar glasses.
I may invite him to one of our BBQ's this summer for entertainment value.
Maybe you should just give him a big hug.
If you kick him in the nadgers as per advice, he would then start teling tales of how he went 5 rounds with an 8ft psycho to save an old lady said psycho was mugging and how the psycho kicked him in the nuts and the Police gave him a bravery award and asked him to join the local plod IMMEDIATELY as he is so cool and brave and...................
Personally I think he is either lonely or has a mental illness.
you should tape this sh*t n send it 2 ur hr anonymously
(human resources) do u have that ovah there????
aww..
thats so sad..but sort of sweet ( in a i would never date or talk to him but stories about him make me feel pity for him..way)
the mother in me wants to smother him at birth
I had a class once with a guy like that..claimed to be a navy seal..
even though he was fat and wore thick glasses.
poor guys
I really like J. I'd like to extend to him an invitation to a party. Because good quality comedy is soooo hard to get these days.
Worcestershire too far from Gateshead?
Shame.
:-)
this is exactly why i stopped dating 22 year olds.
There are a gazillion Js on myspace right now speaking the same shite. Add Bebo and Facebook to that and we're looking at a twat epidemic.
The searching is over. You have found the motherlode of bullshit. Nurture him, TD. He could become better even than Thug.
If his mum's house had been in Northampton I could have mistaken him for a blind date my (now ex) friend had set me up on.
The hardest decision was whether to laugh or cry...
Walter Mitty hasn't got a look in. I know someone similar to "J" except he's old enough to know better.
Maybe he's gay and just wants to be your friend, and thinks macho stories will attract you.
Do you secretly work in Slough, tired?
'Call me J' sounds awfully like that blond chap that hates jelly to me. Try putting his stapler in some and see if it produces a hissy fit.
Oh wow.. This reminded me of a "J" we had at our work.
He was a stereotypical IT nerd who for some reason always carried around a hockey stick (he claimed he played for a club when in fact he didn't - one of our staff was already a member).
The worrying thing is the last lines of the post :
"Jason: I could be a serial killer. If you’re going down for one murder, might as well take as many with you as you can. They can only give you ONE life sentence. And I’ve studied this. I don’t even fit the profile. They’d never catch me."
..and then we never hear from you again. :S
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