Friday, July 22, 2005

the update in which I use a lot of parentheses (for a change....)

Remember this?

I'm taking some steps which won't do a damn thing othere than make me feel less like a sitting duck and more like...a sitting duck with delusions of immortality?

The next step is submitting my details to my home and contents insurance policy, which doesn't even cover public liability, but hell, it's more proactive than hiding under the bed.

The president of the soccer club in question is all about beating his chest with his fist and claiming to be 'working so hard on this aibee' to which I say, 'The fuck? Why? It's out of the club's hands and is being looked after by your insurance. That's why you pay insurance (the unverbalised subtext here being 'you idiot') so you don't have to look after the details. Capiche?'

Lesson time on how insurance works: Say you hit a car with your car and you need to pay for the other car's damages. You submit a claim form to your insurance company and *poof* it's no longer your concern because your insurance company has the details and effectively takes the rap for you. The exorbident premiums are not because the policy is so pretty and embossed, it's to avoid any possible headfucks. But the president has gone over all hairy chest and shit and is apparently Looking After Things.

So anyway, Joe (which is a codeword for 'moron') promptly freaked the fuck out when I called him to collate the (so not private and confindential) details of his insurance that I need to submit to MY insurance. (which, btw, is what the fucking lawyers for his insurance company suggested I do, as they'd like to sue me and without insurance? Blood, stone, and etc. Then Joe calls them 'my lawyers' which, guess what sunshine? they are not, because if they were your lawyers, you could instruct them, which you cannot) (also, I'm surrounded by idiots) A move which, according to him, puts me 'out there' on my own, which isn't news to me, and only serves to prove he and his three musketeer-esque speech was as full o' shit as I suspected.

In other news, I'm wearing a pair of jeans that are threatening to deprive my brain of oxygen. It would appear the 2% lycra in this particular denim isn't as forgiving as I'd hoped it would be. (if my brain functioned AT ALL on progesterone, this could lead to an interestng discussion about hope versus unrealistic expectations, but it doesn't so it won't)

2005-2007© aibee