The longer I live in a city, the more people I see walking around who seem to be important purely because of how they dress. Whether it is the suit they wear or by their designer briefcase they swing around without a thought for other commuter’s knee caps. Only this morning on my way to work did my knee get lambasted by some massive prick’s outlandish leather bound briefcase. Thanks for trying to maim me as I made my way to work without even a hint of an apology – I’ll keep my eye open and be sure to boot your ankle when you barge past me in future at 7.50am at the train station. You complete penis.
As much as I hate the stupid suited chaps that cause chaos during rush hour, I can’t help but think there’s a part of me that’s pretty jealous. Not only do they all get to ride first class on the trains – yep, they don’t have to sit next to the masturbating disabled man like I do, but they also have a genuine excuse to own a briefcase. Now I know what you’re thinking; briefcases are shit. Wrong. Briefcases are by far the most undervalued accessory that a male can boast. Being 7% homosexual, I’m never shy to sport a ‘manbag’ which despite the names attempt at being rugged is simply a massively crap handbag. Handbags though are without doubt, brilliant. You can lob it all in there – you’re keys, your wallet, the latest edition of Nuts and your strawberry Lipsil. I can’t lie though, I can’t pretend I look good sporting my manbag… but a briefcase, wowsers, that’s a sign of when you’ve really made it. It screams ‘check out my important job where I can afford to buy a small leather suitcase for all my important papers and my Parker pen’.
This week I’m proud to announce (I think) that my brother has got himself a new job and thus, joined the elite group of men that are privileged enough to carry a briefcase. It’s an exclusive group commonly reserved only for bankers, businessmen and solicitors. One day, I’ll have my very own briefcase; one that smells of rich leather from a prize cow. One day.
What’s more impressive than my brother’s new job was the kind donation to him from my father. My father’s worked for many a year and as a reward for his 25 years service he was presented with a luxurious briefcase – the finest of leather, from the mother of all cows that smells like the most amazing sexual intercourse ever performed. There was one slight downside to it though… since being awarded with it in 1999 my father has never been able to open it. Well, he did once but only to look inside and then locked it forever forgetting the code. It’s been in the bottom of his wardrobe ever since. So, hearing the news of my brother’s success my mother, teamed with my brother’s wife made the excellent effort at cracking the suitcase’s code. The code was 3 numbers long, with each number ranging from 0 to 9. Whilst they hardly needed an enigma machine, that’s still a pretty hefty code to have a go at for two would be safe crackers. That’s a total of 1000 combinations. Time consuming hell!
When I reached my parents house the pair of them were just about at the end of their tether as they sat on the sofa fiddling with the numbers on the case. They told me that they’d just spent the last 4 hours trying to crack it. They also claimed that they’d worked through the entire 1000 combinations without any joy and that it would be locked for good. They’d even rang the local locksmith to see if he’d be able to fix it for them, such was the love for the sexual briefcase. £40 he quoted, and even then that was only to open it – it would probably knacker the lock up for eternity. I couldn’t help but query whether they’d ACTUALLY worked their way through the entire set of combinations, but they were adamant they had.
Now, both my mother and my brother’s wife are reasonably intelligent and I’d trust them with most things… but part of me didn’t quite understand why it wouldn’t open. So, I printed off the entire list of combinations to work through myself and took the briefcase in hand rolling the digits round to the beginning of the 1000 combinations – 000. I looked for a minute at it to establish where the catch was in an attempt to release the lock and promptly located it at the side of the numbers. Easy. With that, my mother piped up “we went through all of the numbers and then pressed down here”. I retorted “well mother, that’s wonderful but that’s just for decoration. THIS is the actual catch that releases the lock”. I flicked the catch and CLICK. In one foul swoop and after 4 wasted man hours trying to open the beloved briefcase, it was open. There never was a code to break after all; it was still at its factory settings. Shit the bed – two supposedly educated women, two massive failures at life.
In that singular moment I lost all respect for my brother’s wife and my very own mother. So now I’m not only related to a fully fledged briefcase wanker… but two stupid bitches to boot. I’m adopted, I swear.
You can find even more witticisms from Teddy over at the Calm Down Dearest page on Facebook. Just make sure you dash back over here every Wednesday, ok?