Ms O'Brien

Self importance that Colonel Gaddafi would be proud of in a daughter

The bitch on the right gives good 
indication of inbred Anne 
O'Brien’s mentality.

An absolutely unsettling encounter did I have with “head pharmacist” Anne O’Brien in this outlet of Boots the Chemist, Half-Moon St, Cork City.

And after seeing a seemingly endless amount of reports telling of egregious paedophilic, emotional, and physical abuse being perpetrated on people around Ireland it was galling to experience Ms O’Brien acting like a sink-estate thug.  

This lady acted like a snarling imbecile and made it clear she liked to throw her weight around; from what I saw on two occasions, she’d be very likely to physical attack someone.

And as if to put the tin-hat on it she has a sense of self-importance that Libya’s Colonel Gaddafi would have been proud of in a daughter1.

This imbecilic half-witted bitch aggressively and caustically refused to exchange – or give a refund – a faulty product I had purchased there two days earlier. And while refusing she wore a sneering grin that’d do drunken sink-estate thugs proud as they beat up and robbed an old age pensioner.

O’Brien, the mongrel, would look 
like this if she donned a habit.

I can’t understand how this moron could ever have qualified as a pharmacist; I can only imagine that grade inflation or cheating must have had something to do with it – I suspect it must have been grade inflation as she hardly has the nous to have cheated.

If this person had been born in Ireland thirty years earlier she’d have been a nun instead of a pharmacist because back then they didn’t have grade inflation – at that time a nunnery was the only place that’d have inbred hermaphrodite cunts like her.

Anne O’Brien wouldn’t have been attracted to just any run-of-the-mill nunnery; she’d have most definitely opted to join the Magdalene Sisters. As a member of these scumbag-cunts she'd have been in her element; and would have ruled her fiefdom with an iron-fist.  

I think O’Brien needs to use one of these every other morning.

She’d have drained the last ounce of sweat out of the laundry’s slaves and, without doubt, profits would have increased while she wielded the whip. And considering that O’Brien probably uses a cut-throat razor to shave her mug every morning she’d have got a sexual-kick out of beating the young girls – having an endless supply of captives to beat and bully would have imbued Anne with glowing contentment.

This Boots' “head pharmacist” was actually taken aback (real typical of the inbred Pict natives in Ireland's south-west) when she realised I wasn’t going to accept her abuse. She got very upset and displayed an unstable aggressiveness when I read aloud her name badge and indicated that I’d be contacting Boots’ management, and the Irish Pharmaceutical Society about her atrocious carry-on.  

I suppose she couldn’t believe that a commoner could be so uppity as to make complaint about her – imagine a member of the lower classes not accepting abuse from this dumb-headed inbred Irish cunt.

Anne O’Brien made a written reply to my complaint – which I received via the Irish Pharmaceutical Society – which was so bad grammatically and in layout that a 10-year-old child would have written better.

O’Brien would enjoy bullying 
in a place like this.

I encountered this lady sometime afterwards and what a petulant display she put on. Her lower lip was jutting out like a sulky demented child; and the fidgetiness and aggression she showed was off-the-scale.

I think of Anne O’Brien when I hear Boots the Chemist advertise that they're dispensing medications that were formally prescription only. You'd be advised to think deeply if offered a choice between having this inbred Neanderthal dispense your medications: it would probably be no more dangerous to take a chance with a witch-doctor in an African jungle.

________________________________ 1An interesting and believable tale from Cork tells how O’Brien, when she first saw this review, lashed out with her fist which cracked the computer monitor and cut her knuckles – unknown whether it was Boots the Chemist’s monitor or her own. She’s then supposed to have stormed into the local Garda Station and whinged and whined about the perfidious commoner who posted it – it might have been KoalaBear she complained to; him and her would have a lot in common, the foremost probably being provincial Irish mongrelism.