• Gemma Catherine Malak

The Diary of Jenny McFluff: The Interview


“Would you fuck off from up my arse!?” I yell in the car mirror for the fifth time. Bloody Audi drivers think they own the pissing road. Well I’ll show the sanctimonious twat whose boss. He’s probably got a micro-peen (that’s a penis of cocktail sausage proportions in case there’s any confusion!)


I step firmly on the brake of my purple Nissan Micra and slow the car down to 20 miles per hour. “Take that Nobby!” I shout to the mirror and give him the V sign. I don’t have anger issues or anything, but God damn Audis are always the ones driving right up my butt hole. Although if Mr Audi knew the state of said butt hole after last night’s curry he’d probably think twice—It’s like a lava pit down there.


I’m on my way to an interview, but I’ve got just enough time to annoy this nob head.

He is getting frazzled, I can see him shouting something at me and waving his hands about erratically. “Keep your toupé on Cranky Pants.” Goodness, even my five year old would be more mature about having to slow down. It was actually on my speed awareness course (which was boring as arse) that you have to slow down when an annoying Audi driver is right up your bum, I’m only obeying the rules.


Oh Shit—literal shit. Last night’s curry wants to make quite a speedy exit by the sound of my tummy gurgling and the burning ring of fire that has suddenly taken my mind off Micro-peen behind me. I’m going to have to pull over and free myself of this curry fireball; there’s no toilets in the vicinity but there is a wooded area and the situation is quite desperate. I wasn’t in the girl scouts for nothing! Learned a thing or two about calls of nature in the middle of nowhere.


I pull over, and Micro-peen speeds past me, he probably thinks I pulled over to let him pass, which has annoyed me no end. But enough of that, I need to GO! I’m almost hopping my way into the wooded area with desperation and as soon as I find a suitable tree area with reasonable coverage, I pull my pants down rather clumsily (as I’m wearing a pencil skirt and stilettos) and squat into optimal position of not getting poo on my shoes. The flow of lava bubbles out quite rapidly—and noisily. Thank Christ there’s no-one around to hear it. I close my eyes because on some level, I think if I can’t see anything then maybe I’m invisible and I’m not actually shitting in the woods on my way to an interview.


It’s bloody Louise’s fault making me order a vindaloo last night. I search in my bag for some tissues, but there’s only those year old tissues that have formed into shreds—that’s not going to do for this project! The bag which usually contains fucking everything in case of an apocalypse now has not a tissue in sight! The closest thing I can find to wipe my singed arse on is five Murray Mint wrappers.


For fuck’s sake, it’ll have to do. So, I make the best of a bad situation (or a bad curry) and bury the Murray Mint wrapper evidence in a little hole I’ve dug out with a stick. I straighten up and smooth my skirt down as if I’m a totally civilised member of society (questionable!) and when I turn around there are twelve small faces looking at me, all wearing all-in-one waterproof suits and galoshes. Then a young, male teacher makes his way forward with a friendly raised eyebrow expression.


“Are you lost?” He asks.


“Oh no ha ha ha, I’m fine, I was just looking for my…my….stick!” I say, picking up one that’s just by my foot and noticing that there’s a shitty Murray Mint wrapper on my stiletto.


A stick Jen, really?


I mentally face palm myself for being such an epic A-hole. I need to get out of here before that teacher notice’s that I have left a lava pit full of shit just on the tree behind me.


“Perhaps that isn’t the best attire for walking in the woods.” The teacher says gently.


“Oh yes, anyway must dash, lovely to meet you.” I shout back as I scurry away as fast as I can, stilettos picking up leaves as I go.


I get back into my car, a little dishevelled but still in time if I rush to the interview. As I turn into the next street I get stuck behind a black car, going slow. Ironically it is an Audi, but definitely not speeding this time!


“Come on, come on. I’ve got an interview to get to!” I shout at the back of the car in front. Then I clock the registration plate. It’s bloody Micro-peen and he’s waving at me and smiling in the mirror, what a colossal tit.


I drive behind him at 15 miles per hour all the way to my interview and now we are parked at the same car park. Is this a mother fluffing joke? Don’t tell me he’s being interviewed for the same job, that would be beyond weird!


I dash into the building, but Micro-peen has got in there first. The receptionist with eyebrows the size of the Roman colosseum takes my details and gives me an odd look.


Ok slug brow Rita! Sorry if I’ve only got piss-poor pencilled in lines because I plucked all mine out in the 90s—Andrea Corr has a lot to answer for!


I don’t know what her problem is. Never mind, someone is now taking me into an office where I can talk some professional bullshit and hopefully land the job!


The smile on my interviewer’s face falls, as does mine. It is Micro-peen, bloody Micro-peen! He too, gives me an odd look.


“You have something stuck to your shoes—and…” He gestures to my skirt, which I now notice has the slight smear of shit on it. Fuck. My shoes accumulated rather a lot of leaves from my nature adventure so now my stilettos look like a pair of woodland slippers.


Somehow, the Murray Mint wrapper has stuck its way back onto my heel.


“I think I’ve changed my mind about the job—Would you mind putting this in the bin for me, thanks so much.” I say, handing Micro-peen the shitty Murray Mint wrapper as I turn and walk out.


Didn’t want the job anyway.


© 2020 Gemma Malak

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© 2020 Gemma Malak