The halogen light on the designer’s desk was beginning to scour his eyes. Without taking his gaze from the laptop screen, he reached up to push the light away from his head. As usual, the casing of the bulb had attained a temperature normally experienced within scientific crucibles and minor suns, thus scorching his fingers without prevarication.
“Jesus pigging shitty bastard fucking fuckholes” the designer announced, less quietly than was absolutely necessary.
As if passing comment, the laptop chirruped its ‘new mail’ chirrup. Sucking his stinging fingers, the designer used his other hand to pull up the new communication. He frowned. It was from some yokel doughnut wanting a free poster for a local Americana festival. How, mused the designer, the fuck could it be Americana if it was set in the heart of Olde England?
The sender had requested inclusion of a logo which was attached. Through narrowed eyes the logo seemed clear enough, but when those eyes were widened, it became clear that the file was made up of a few dozen pixels at most, and would come out on the final job looking like a retarded child’s grubby fingerprint.
“Cunty bastard twatty shitbag wankpots” the designer commented, more quietly this time.
He frowned again as he realised that this would provoke a delay in the damn thing making a suitably swift exit from his in-tray, as he would now have to wait for the cock-bucketed whimpering knob-headed festival organiser to make contact with the basket-tossing pig-faced troll of a logo-creator in order to get the matter sorted.
“Jismy buggering turdbuckets” he whispered.
Clamping his teeth together with suffi cient force to make them squeak, he began to type, each finger jabbing with a force that he felt would be more appropriately directed into the leprous eyes of the venal festival organisers. Less than two minutes of this frenzy, though, seemed to advance the matter to his satisfaction.
“That would be totally cool. Can you get hold of a higher-res version of the logo, though Matey? That one will look a bit pants”
He pressed ‘send’, sat back, and belched.
