The Spy Who Loved Mutilated People

The other day, for some odd reason, I remembered the talk we’d been given before work experience back when I was in secondary school. The talk pretty much went along the lines of:

“Well, I have a friend who lost his hand because he didn’t listen to the supervisor when he was doing his work experience and had it minced by the meat grinder,”

...and:

“I have a friend who had his face reduced to a bloody pulp because he didn’t wear his mask while he was doing his work experience and had it flayed by the box-making machine.”

Her message didn’t really get through to me because I was sitting there thinking: “Where the fuck did you get all these friends, you bizarre woman?”

I mean seriously, is that what she spends all her spare time doing, going into pubs scouting out all the mutilated people she can get her hands on? Does she see a guy in the street with a stump instead of a hand and go: “Ooh! A mutilated guy, I think I’ll go and befriend him!” Then, when she finds out he had it amputated because of some kind of horrible malignant hand-tumour and not because of a work-experience accident, she stops returning his calls and it all ends up with him outside her house shouting: “Why won’t you talk to me anymore?” and her leaning out of a first-floor window screaming: “You weren’t injured during work experience! I don’t need you! Get away from my house you fucking cripple!”

Perhaps she spends her evenings on YouTube looking for CCTV footage of horrible workplace accidents to satisfy her insatiable mutilation-based desires. Then again, perhaps she only gets off on it if it happens to teenage boys. The fucking peado.

These people make me sick.