say my name, biatch

To whom it may concern, you know who you are. I didn't read the e-mail until very very very late so I didn't absorb all the details, but here goes:

El Gran Goos
Born under a lettuce leaf in outer Mesopotamia in the year of the Aadvaark. Schooled with a strap right across *his* back, he found early success in arranging sandwich ingredients in alphabetical order. After a rapid rise to the position of OIC Dust (and Mites), he finally found fame as the bloke you hang your hat on when you're home (or away). After a spell in the regions, and then the hospital, he can now be found building sand castles and ordering around people smaller than himself. Loved by all that have never met him and avoided assiduously by those who have, his life goal is to be a paperweight. Wet wet wet.

Ham n'eggs
Awarded honourary degrees in anthropology, chicken-sexing and obfuscation before the age of 5, his first job was to sort the wheat from the chaff, the sheep from the goats, and children from their legally appointed guardians. He was so successful at this latter task that he spent nearly a decade behind reinforced glass and barbed wire, just so the rest of the team could meet their targets. A short spell in the bovine industry saw him turn his talents to driving genuine God-fearing country people out of their ancestral properties while simultaneously preaching to them the virtues of starvation and recycling air. Never short of an opinion on damn near everything, his contribution to *the project* will be to render the minutes meaningless. Obsessive about *family values*, although his own offspring are notorious for being rude to their elders.

Neither of this pair is to trusted with anything more significant than the biscuit tray. "Outcomes?" "Results?" "Never met one I couldn't avoid!"

People have less to fear than they think.