You Look Like a Toot.

Dear coworker,

You look a little bit like a fart. I know that probably doesn't make much sense to you, because...well, who looks like a fart? How's that possible, right? But seriously, you look like the physical incarnation of a fart. If the fart were to put on a funny hat and a big grin, that would be you.

And please, don't misunderstand, it's not that you smell bad or anything. And it's not just your face, or your stature, or any one particular thing about you. You just have a certain je ne se poo, as the French might call it.

I don't mean to be mean, but I'm saying this because I believe honesty is the best policy. And so that you'll know why I laugh every time you walk into the room.

"Ha ha. Fart person," is what I'll say.

Your coworker


The More You Know (The More Annoying You Become)


Did you know that carrots used to be purple? And that the orange variety we know today wasn't cultivated until the late 16th century?


Do you give a shit?

Still no?

Great, now remember exactly how you feel at this moment the next time you try cramming a dozen equally forgettable factoids into my ear holes whenever there's a lull in the work day. Because your "fun facts" are just regular facts dressed up in a boring Halloween costume. And it's November, you asshole.

Matter of factly,
Your coworker


How's That Novel Coming? (The 777 Challenge)


How's that novel of yours going? Pretty good, yeah? You must be almost finished by now, I bet. Since you've been working on it for...boy, how long's it been?...four, five, sixteen years?

Well, I'm sure it's gonna be lovely. And I'm really glad you shared some of it with your coworkers. You don't remember sharing it with us, you say? Well here, have a look:

You know that moment when you rip off a band-aid where your face scrunches up all tight and the air gets sucked in through your teeth? That moment is frozen on his face. It looks painful and terrific.

I compress his wrist even more, proving that my lack of muscles won't hinder my ability to inflict seismic amounts of pain on his limbs. I try to restrain a smile as I watch him writhe in just the right amount of agony, but it's impossible to stop. 

"Now, I'll let you up as soon as you apologize to my friend over there and promise to behave yourself for the rest of the night."

I should be wearing a cape right now.

That, my friend, was taken from the attachment you sent out to everyone on your work mailing list. I'm assuming from the title "Youth By TKO" that this is that young adult novel you're working on a la "The Outsiders" or something. But I think what you meant to send to everyone was the census spreadsheet for Youth Population by Area. Because, unless your novel also contains key demographic information for where we should be selling our products, I don't particularly care whether your protagonist breaks somebody's wrist.

Besides, that sounds sadistic. Who writes shit like that?

All the best,
Your coworker

**Special thanks to Jenn Thorson for this blog idea.


Stop 'Spooking' in Puns


I know today is Halloween, but stop trying to awkwardly insert the word "spooky" into everything you say. It's not a pun if you just drop it into the middle of a sentence that otherwise has nothing to do with that word...or anything else that's ever existed as a thought.

A pun is a clever manipulation of words that suggests it has multiple meanings and can be applied in a humorous way. A regular phrase with "spooky" attached to it is you failing to understand why no one ever wants to take long bike rides with you. We'd probably try to swerve into heavy traffic just 'cause, hey, you can't die in your nightmares, right?

Here are a few more examples of why all your pets probably commit suicide:

  • "Did you see the treats Karen brought in today? They're spooky-licious."
  • "Stapler? More like spook-ler!"
  • "You guys, I think my tie is haunted. I guess the dress code today is spooky casual! I mean business spooky! I mean--hey where are you guys going?..."

So...moratorium on the bad puns, ok?

They're ghastly.

Happy Halloween,
Your coworker


Working Hard, Staying Late to Make a Superman Omelette

Hey Boss,

I saw the little note you left for me in my break room mailbox. Ya know, one of those little "warning slips" you leave people when they do something wrong like clock in late or have an unexcused absence. Or, in my case, stay late to help hold back the hellish avalanche of stress and anguish that has been sliding down the Mountain of Manageable Workloads for the last few months.

Since you have no intentions of melting that ravaging cascade of snowy terror, it's fallen upon the already-frostbitten shoulders of your employees to stop it. And I don't think we should be punished for putting ourselves in harm's way.

Let me ask you: did Superman get a warning slip for "destruction of public property" when he ripped a streetlight out of the ground to use in his fight against whatever super villain happens to be in those comic books? No! Because in the end, Superman stopped [insert appropriate super villain here] from destroying the entire city! In the grand scheme of things, that streetlight--or the fact that one quarter block of the street won't be adequately illuminated--doesn't seem like such a big deal when you consider how much worse the situation could've been. For instance, no one in the city would've been able to see anything if they'd been killed by that aforementioned super villain. Because dead people can't see shit. So...there's that.

And do you really think John McClaine ever got a warning slip for anything he did in any of the Die Hard movies? Hell no! And that motherfucker launched a car into a helicopter! My point is: sometimes you have to break a few eggs to make a delicious, fluffy, stress-free work environment.

In this case, those eggs happen to be the twenty five minutes I stayed late to ensure my job was completely finished and didn't get left for someone else to "clean up." So, ya see, even if I'm breakin' eggs, I'm still making sure I take care of the egg mess. I'm careful all the yolk gets into the pan, I wipe up any splatters, and I even use one of those disinfecting wipes on any excess stickiness.

I am a fucking omelette master! And I deserve a raise!

What I'm trying to get at here--amazing metaphors aside--is that if you think someone should be penalized for not being a worthless sack of omelette fodder and actually trying to help you, then you good sir, are a jackass.

Clocking out,
-- Your employee


Nicknames Part 2: Nickname-ier

  • Dude-ness
  • Dude sauce. 
  • Doctor dude. 
  • Duder.
  • Dudesmith.
  • The Lewd Dude Who's in the Mood to Chew Food
  • Jake
One of these things is perfectly fine to call me. The others...not so much. Can't you stop pretending to be in a early 90's SNL sketch for a few minutes out of each day? We'd all really appreciate it.

Besides, didn't we already have a conversation about this topic?

- Dude out.


It Turns Out I Hate Your Taste in Everything


Do you remember what happens at the end of that Tyler Perry movie? No, not that one. The other one. You know, the one where the guy dresses up like a fat, old, stereotype? No, not the one with Eddie Murphy. Yeah, you know the one.

And what are the lyrics to that Taylor Swift song? No, not the one about her ex-boyfriend. The one about her other ex-boyfriend. Yeah, the douchey one. You have that album, don't you? Of course you do. Because it's one of the most awful things to ever bumblefuck into existence. And you're an avid collector of that genre.

Now, I know that my tastes aren't exactly classy (though I will defend my love of cheesy, 90s pop rock to the grave), but...C'MON? T-Swift? T-Perry? T-he Office Season 7? How is it possible for one person to not only endure that much awful, but actually claim to enjoy it without bursting out into fits of uncontrollable laughter/rage??

I'm willing to overlook your fondness for Two and a Half Men, because you're one of 800 million viewers to somehow fall under the trance of mediocre jokes about relationships and child-rearing that didn't already end up on Everybody Loves Raymond. Speaking of which...you still watch Everybody Loves Raymond? Even the cast of Everybody Loves Raymond will turn the channel if it comes on TBS on Sunday afternoons.

Michael Bolton. "Cotton-Eye Joe." Zach Braff movies. Kristen Stewart. NASCAR. Those are my top 5 reasons for wanting to punch you in the decision-making part of your brain.

I mean, don't you ever get the urge to watch a Tarantino movie? Or listen to Simon & Garfunkel? Or...not recite the lyrics to Josh Groban's entire discography? At the very least, stop trying to force those interests onto your coworkers! We will never like them for the same reasons we will never like waking up to find sores on our genitals.

I'll make you a deal: go one shift without starting a sentence with "Here's why country music is so genuine..." and I'll gladly throw away all my Gin Blossoms' albums.

- Your coworker


Indoor Voice

Dear Alesha,

You don't have to yell! I am right here! Take the decibels the fuck down or I will stuff your mouth full of earplugs.

Yes, I understand that earplugs are supposed to go in your ears. Just...it's ironic. 

Now go back to work you crazy, window-shattering hooker!

Thank you.
Your coworker


A Happy Hour With You Is an Oxymoron


I know, man. I know. We need to go get some drinks after work at that new dive bar downtown with the really good wings and the waitress who "wants your hog." I get it. You really want to go. And you have no other friends.

But I really have no intentions of going to a Happy Hour with you. Ever. Partly because I'm all set with my hepatitis levels, but mostly because the thought of sitting next to you in a public place while you loudly proclaim to passersby that you get "more ass than a toilet seat" is as appealing as literally giving you one of my testicles. Seriously, take one if it will get you off my case about this.

In fact, I'll give you both of them and one month's rent if you promise never to use the phrase "locked, cocked, and ready to rock" again while we're near people with ears.

"Happy" tidings,
Your coworker


You Say Fun Run, I Say Humdrum

Attention Colleagues:

I have no interest in participating in the Charity Fun Run next month. I know it's for a good cause. I know it would benefit my overall health to train for it. I know it's supposed to be a team building exercise. (Yes, it's a pun. Shut up about it.)

I know, I know, I know! But still...no.

It's not that I have anything against you all, per se, it's just that I have absolutely no desire to see your pasty legs running around in short shorts, nor do I want you to see mine. That's what we call mutually-assured destruction of the eyeballs. And I won't be a part of it.

If you all leave me alone I'll donate five bucks to each of you. That way we all win.

- Your Lazy (And Proud of It) Coworker


Re: Fwd: Fwd: FWD: FWD: Why is kitty so grumpy???


Stop clogging up my inbox with needless emails of every outdated internet sensation you can scrounge up with your grubby little fingers and your sticky keyboard.

When someone sends you that picture of the adorable little kitten with the intentionally misspelled caption (in ALL CAPS, no less), don't pass it along to every unfortunate email address in your contact list. Instead, think to yourself, "who should I share this with that wouldn't want to cause me large dollops of harm because I just wasted 1.8 megabytes of their computer space with this slapdash attempt at cutesy humor?"

Those three letters, "FWD," might as well stand for "Fucking Waste of Delivery." Nobody wants to open anything that starts out that with that giant warning sign. So don't bother.

Since you seem like the type of person who might still think I'm "just joshing around," please allow me this moment of bluntness:

If you forward me one more YouTube video of a "dancing" baby, one more picture of a rodent on skis, one more lolcat, Rickroll, or Epic Fail, you can be sure that the only response to those emails I'll ever send is an embedded video of me purchasing a large gun, an attached photo of a bullet with your name on it, and the link to your home address via Google Maps.

Your coworker


Music to Absolutely No One's Ears

Hey Rhonda,

So, I understand you're a music lover, eh? Well, perhaps more accurately, I hear you're a music lover. Hold on, even more accurately, I've been given undeniable proof of your musical affections courtesy of the unrelenting, shrill, off-key renditions of Top 40 hits you perform every Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday. Or, for all intents and purposes, every goddamn day of the week.

What is that? What's going on? Explain yourself please.

Maybe you're just misunderstanding the concept of the radio. See, it's this thing where musicians--fancy word for "song makers"--put their music so it can then be played on the airwaves---fancy word for "invisible sound lines"--and then be shared with listeners across the world. And, so far, it seems like a pretty decent model of distribution. They don't need your help. It's doing just fine.

Now I understand, with the advent of internet radio and bit torrents and cloud players, that you want to get in on this next generation of music marketing. You may think you've stumbled upon a way to make popular music even more popular. (And that process somehow involves the keen sense of timing accompanying your not-at-all disturbing pelvic gyrations.) But let me assure you, it's just not the case.

When you shriek along with that "hot new Bieber track," it doesn't make me want to listen to Justin Bieber any more than I already didn't. It just makes me want to punch you in your voice box until it spits out a cure for the audio herpes you've given my earholes. And don't get me started on the whistling...

Oh, ya know what? Fuck it. Let's talk about the whistling.

There is a time when whistling along with a song is permissable. And that time is when the song you're whistling along with features actual fucking whistling! That's it! When that Flo Rida song comes on, go ahead, let loose, go nuts, do your thing. Do it any other time and you only prove that A) you don't know the actual lyrics or B) you have nothing else to fill the vast voids of communicative silence in your life because you can't be bothered thinking of words to speak. What's next? Growling? Oinking? Elbow clapping? It's a slippery slope...is what I'm saying.

So if you'd be kind enough to leave the singing and/or whistling to the people who get paid to sing and/or whistle their songs on the radio, that would be swell. Then you can get back to doing whatever it is they still pay you to do. (I wanna say soap refiller?)

- Your coworker


Private, Public, Pubic: A Tutorial.


You know what I don't get to see enough of these days? Your balls.

Thanks so much for remedying that today you disgusting, hairy, Sasquatch of a man. For future reference, the public bathroom isn't the best place to scope out "your situation." Maybe venture into a stall next time.

I truly hope your balls get violently ill from heat exhaustion. When's the last time a razor visited that general area, anyway? Did the Bulls still have Scotty Pippen? That shit's not a cloak of invisibility, either, if that's what you were hoping for.

Do me two favors: 1) downgrade those fellas from a fleece sweater to a light t-shirt and 2) start applying for as many other jobs as possible. Maybe something in 70's-themed porn.

Your coworker


Those "Family" Photos of Yours

Hey Mike,

How's the family? It's been awhile since I've heard anything about the clan.

I bet little Darin must be, what, six feet tall by now? I tell ya, if that kid doesn't turn out to be a starter for the Knicks I'll be downright shocked! And I'm sure Emma's 5 going on 20, right? (Hopefully she's not begging you to buy her makeup just yet!) Enjoy 'em while they're young Mike because, trust me, before you know it they'll be going off to college and getting married.

Speaking of which, how's the wife? You guys still taking annual trips out to the beach? I swear every time I'm in your office I see another picture of you guys having fun in the sand, trouncing around in your matching white outfits. Living the dream! Am I right?

Literally, though, you're kind of living a dream. Seriously. Wake the fuck up, man. Those family pictures you have spread all around your office...they're not pictures of your actual family. (If you even have one, that is.) They're stock photos that you grabbed off the internet, right? I didn't realize it at first, but I'm fairly certain each and every family portrait you have in your office was pulled off Getty Images. And I can prove it:

See? Boom! Those are the two you have featured most prominently. You make sure to point 'em out to everyone 4 to 6 times a day. And, sure, you bear a passing resemblance to the "dad" in those photos, but when you get up close you can plainly see the guy has much better hair, a much smaller gut, and he's Italian. And if you had just left it at those couple of pictures, I'm sure you could've continued fooling everyone in the office. We would've all just been like, "Yeah, that Mike really gets out to the beach a lot, huh?" Even though you never seem to have a tan...

But there's more:

First, let me say props to you on sticking with the outdoor theme. That was good. But picking a more handsome man to emulate may have been your downfall. And, although I don't look at the world strictly through a colored lens, how did you not expect people to notice that your wife and your son suddenly changed ethnicity? Really man, the glare doesn't hide that. (Oh, congratulations on the baby you never told anyone about, by the way. That makes sense.) But, of course, it gets much worse than that:

I see what you were trying to do here, stuffing everyone into the background so that we'd really have to squint at the people to notice that all of them are black. If someone questioned it, you could have turned it around on them and labeled them racists, and they would have backed off for fear of being named the office bigot. But I don't think that's an option with this one:

C'mon, dude! Now I just think you're trying to get caught. You're practically daring people to point out how incredibly Asian this family is! Unless you come from a long line of Changelings, you're just being obnoxious. I realize you're a big Bruce Lee fan, but you can't think watching Enter the Dragon a few times has actually turned you into one of his kin, do you?

Listen, I'm not pointing this out to be rude or to insult you or anything like that. I'm honestly quite worried that you might be a pathological liar and, worse, you think you're part of some outreach program that employs only the blind. Let me assure you this is not the case. We all have pretty clear vision and we can all see that you're looney as fuck.

Do yourself a favor: take the photos down. Or at least be more consistent about it.

Say hi to the "kids" for me,
Your coworker


The Smell Smelled 'Round the World


I think you left a part of yourself in the bathroom this morning. And it's the part of you that smells really bad. You might want to go back and take care of that.

Your coworker


Give Me Some (Office) Space


Let's get a few things straight:

  • No, I don't have a case of "the Mondays." It bums me out to no end when you keep suggesting I do.
  • I don't know what "PC Load Letter" means, or if that error message even comes up on our printer. In similar regard, I have no idea why it tells you there's a paper jam when there is, in fact, no paper jam.
  • We don't have anything called TPS Reports around here. Please stop complaining about them as they are fictional and, thus, not worth complaining about.
  • Whatever the hell it is you keep mumbling about your stapler...just stop. No one can understand you. And no one knows of your stapler's whereabouts. You probably just lost the goddamn thing.
  • Yeah, I guess Michael Bolton is a no-talent ass-clown. I don't know what else you want me to say on the matter.
  • And dear God, if you don't stop telling people you're going to "show that chick from Logistics my O-Face," HR is definitely going to fire you for sexual harassment.
Garrett, what I'm trying to say is this isn't Office Space, all right. No matter how badly you want your shitty cubicle job to be a quirky, endlessly quotable movie, it's never going to be. I suggest you face the fact that this boring, dead-end job of yours is just that: a job. Nothing more. It doesn't star the underrated and incomparable Ron Livingston. It doesn't have a surrealistic ending where everything works out fine for the main characters despite all their felony-worthy shenanigans. It ends with you eventually retiring...or dying, since you have that heart thing. And it lasts a hell of a lot longer than two hours.

Replace the Post-Its with my urine and this will be you if you don't shut up.

Fuckin' A,
Your coworker

P.S. Stop trying to stick those annoying pins on me. I don't want any of your stupid fucking "pieces of flair." It's not funny and if you prick me with one again it's going straight up your pee hole.


Keeping It PG


It's been brought to my attention that you don't appreciate certain words I've been using around the office lately--you know which ones, but just in case there's any confusion, let's just say they rhyme with "pluck," "other pluck," "pluckin' zit," "glass mole," and "zit sticker."

I'm really, really sorry to have offended you with this salty language. I know it's uncomfortable to hear sometimes and it's certainly not professional, but I want you to know I'm working on toning it down. Really! In fact, preliminary estimates suggest my harsh language has decreased by at least 10 percent since you first brought the matter to my attention. That's progress! And it can only go up from here.

Having said that, I feel that I owe you not just a simply apology, but also an explanation for my cursing habit. Allow me to explain. Contrary to what you might think, I was raised in a good, Catholic household that reenforced positive moral attitudes. My parents sure "raised me right," as you might say. And I like to think that deep down, I'm still that good, God-fearing, church-going kid.

It's just that sometimes I can't help but let an occasional Devil's word slip through the cracks. Usually it's out of frustration, like that time I said...and I'll edit for foul language again..."Where the pluck is that pen I loaned you last week, Gillian? You must be a real glass mole to think I would just forget about my other pluckin' pen! Pluckin' zit, Gillian, it was my favorite pen!" Again, I'm sorry about that. You caught me on a bad, writing utensil-less day, and I let my anger get the best of me.

I've also been informed that you're not a huge fan of the dirty jokes I tell in the breakroom. Something about the "physical acts described" in them that makes you want to "scrub your eyes and ears out with acid" to remove the images from your memory. And while I'm flattered that my descriptive language was able to leave such an indelible mark on your psyche, I'm also sorry for not being more mindful of who was in the room at the time.

That being said... What the fuck, lady?

You're 36-fucking-years-old! How have you been alive for that long and not gotten used to these types of fucking words? Have you lived under a goddamn rock for your entire adult life? What kind of shit do you watch on television? The local church services on Public fucking Access? Is your bedroom still covered in fluffy pink pillows and posters of unicorns eating cotton candy??? You're a fucking grown ass woman, Gillian, it shouldn't shock you to hear the F-Bomb once every three weeks. I'm allowed to use words like that on occasion because I'm old enough to rent a car you naive asshole!

And let's face it, you're not exactly the best moral compass for this office. Did you forget that I was the one who caught you fucking Brent in the janitor's closet? (That's not the hole God intended for that act, by the way.) So fair warning: don't get too high on that horse of yours, because I have the Polaroids to knock you right the fuck back down.

Oh, and stop muttering the word "fag" under your breath when you see Stewart. It's offensive.

Eat shit and have a lovely day,
Your coworker


I'd Rather Walk


For the last time, no, I will not carpool with you to the company picnic. Do you really not remember what happened last time?

Oldsmobile Alero after brutal car accident

And that was before we even got out of your driveway.

So, I don't care how many Safe Driving classes you've been forced to take since then, I'm not putting myself within thirty feet of you or your vehicle.

Choosing Life,
Your coworker

P.S. You still owe me one unsoiled pair of khakis.


Thumb + Butt = Unacceptable Workmanship

Boy, all this work stuff's pretty hard, huh?

Yep. It sure is.

What is this whole work thing, anyways? I mean, isn't this whole concept of  labor just something perpetuated by the man to make us forget about the truly beautiful and enlightening things happening all around us? And aren't there so many more things you'd rather be doing than working? Working for the man?

That's probably not how you pictured yourself when you were a kid, right? As some office drone or clerical robot or the faceless recipient of boring responsibilities and mindless tasks. And yet, here you are, trapped in a world that demands hours upon hours of monotonous effort if you want that paycheck at the end of the week. If you want that money for your motor carriage payments. If you want those dollars for your drinking habit. If you want that cash for your canned vegetables and your club sandwiches and your cones of cream. You have to work for it.

I know it's not pleasant to hear. It's like raping your earholes with a bag full of brutally honest dicks, isn't it? But sometimes the truth stings. Well, if that little nugget of truth was an unwelcome and unlubricated intruder, you're going to want to brace yourself.

This work thing you're supposed to do...we all have to do it.


I know--


Stop it. Stop interrupting. I know you're flabbergasted by this revelation but just, please, let me continue this note and stop shouting at all the words. Thank you.

Anywho, as it turns out, those crappy, soul-crushing things you have to do every day are the same crappy, soul-crushing things that we've all been doing for quite a while now. The key difference here, of course, is that we legitimately do these things, rather than simply complaining about having to do them. On that note, I don't think you fully comprehend how the complaining process works. If you're not going to do the things you're complaining about having to do, then do you really need to complain about them? (This isn't a riddle. The answer is no.)

Ready for another mind-blower? All those tedious tasks that get under your skin, they don't go away when you shout at them, no matter how many obscene words and gestures you use. They're still there when you walk away in a huff and they're even still there when you clock out half an hour early. And guess what? They have to get done at some point. And your coworkers--the responsible ones who complain about doing stuff while actually doing that same stuff--are the ones who pay the price for it.

Clearly, a solution is needed. A reward system? Could we do something like that? How about we put together a nice little reward system? You know, like in kindergarten with the gold stars and the juiceboxes and whatnot? I'm all about giving kudos when they're due, so let's say that for every day of honest-to-goodness work you do, I won't stomp in one of your internal organs.

See? Now you're not just earning a paycheck, you're adding years onto your life, too!

We'll put this into effect immediately. Tomorrow, if you're a good little worker, I'll spare your kidneys. And we'll just play it by ear after that.

Hopefully and helpfully,
Your coworker




I'm not going to call you "Dyl Pickle." I get what you're going for (Dylan = Dill + Pickle = Dyl Pickle), but that's a stupid nickname. Stop trying to get that to catch on.

However, if you see Stewart, tell him I'm fully on board to call him Stew Meat. That's hilarious.

- Your regularly-named coworker


Your "Dating" Situation


I checked into that thing you wanted me to check into. (You know, the uh...the "boyfriend" thing.) And it turns out it would cost about $800 just for one night. So you tell me if you think it's worth it and I'll get back in touch with the business proprietor to let him know the when and where.

Now, just as a second thought, you realize that there are cheaper options out there, right? I mean, the "boyfriend" you were looking into was top-notch, Chippendale quality wiener. Not that I'm saying you're only interested in this type of "date" for his Dr. Strangelove, but I'm sure that's an important element. Am I right?

So, the thing is, this "boyfriend" is top tier, Dawson's Creek level of dreamy, too. And that's why the price is so outrageous. (I mean, you didn't think a dreamboat the caliber of James Van Der Beek circa 2001 with a schlong the caliber of Ron Jeremy circa 1974 was going to give up his stuff for pocket change, did you?) If you're genuinely willing to shell out the big bucks, he's just a phone call away.


There are other options out there. Not to sound harsh but...do you really need a Van Der Beek? I've always pictured you more as a Joshua Jackson gal anyways, and trust me, that's still a major step up. I've never seen Joshua devour a rotisserie chicken like it was seconds away from spoiling. (Although, now that I think about it, that might be a turn-on for some guys out there.)

Still, I'm thinking we need to realistically reevaluate your expectations. For example, have you considered the gentlemen who run ads on Craigslist? They seem quite nice, aside from their gratuitous use of words like "bang" and "splooge," and they're a much more cost-effective way to get the job done. Also, there's Danny. Come on, I know you guys have had your differences in the past--and I'm sure he regrets forwarding that picture of your camel toe to the entire office--but I think if you stuck a couple drinks into him he'd be really into it. So, figure $10 at Happy Hour for a Danny or $800 on the dream hunk from the "legitimate business." (Or, like $70 for one of the Craigslist guys. Seriously, that still seems like a steal.)

Anyways, do me a favor and think about it for a little while. Maybe shoot Danny an email and get the small talk going. Then ask him to go out some night and bang.

Let me know what you decide.

- Your coworker (and pimp, apparently)


Curry Keyboard


Next time you toot, could you point it away from my keyboard? I've wiped it down four times and my finger still smells like "used" chicken curry every time I hit the n key.

Your coworker


April Fools?


All right. I'm going to ask you this one time and you'd better tell me the truth...

Did you take my fucking White-Out? Seriously, asshole. I'm not playing around here. I need my White-Out.

I can't find it. And you had access to it. If you have it, give it back to me promptly before I smash your teeth in. Hand to God, I'll do it. I didn't pay $6.99 for the "extra smooth, extra coverage" stuff just to have some dickwad with a Bachelor's Degree in ass-sniffing come along and swipe it.

Oh, and if this is an April Fool's joke, know that my retaliatory response won't involve your office supplies. But it will involve your banging hot wife. I might just have to White-Out her face, if you know what I mean. (If you don't know what I mean, there's a drawing on the back of this note that should explain it better.)

In short, give that shit back.

Waiting with bated breath and clenched fists,
Your coworker

P.S. If you don't have it, please disregard this note. (Still take a look at the drawing, though. That might happen regardless.)


About Your Keen Interest in My Personal Life

Dear Ron,

How are things? This weather we've been having lately has been just beautiful, hasn't it? There's nothing quite like waking up in the morning to a warm breeze and the sound of birds chirping. (Unless those birds just started nesting in your gutters. Good luck trying to rid yourself of that situation, am I right?)

Say, I just heard your daughter's selling those cookies again for a fundraiser. Me and the wife have been craving those little coconut things ever since we finished off our order from last year. So sign us up for double this time!

Now...see what I did there?

No prying questions about what you did last night or plan on doing tonight. No planning of future endeavors with our families. No prodding about your life in any too-specific manner. It's the definition of small talk, which is something I've been meaning to explain to you for the longest time, but doing so coincidentally goes beyond the boundaries of small talk, thus violating my own rule.

Well, your invitation to go camping this weekend got me thinking that an exception needs to be made with this rule.

Let me back up for a second. There's a reason I haven't friended you on Facebook. It's because we work together. We're coworkers. That's all. I have nothing against you, personally, aside from the fact that you keep trying to get to know me...personally. Don't misunderstand, if you're curious what I thought of last night's American Idol or how that garden project of mine is coming, feel free to ask. And I'm more than happy to swap stories about the recent increase in employee lunch theft because that's related to work. And that's how I know you.

...From work.

See, we didn't go to high school together, grow up in the same city, or attend the same space camp as children. So it's bewildering that you keep talking to me as if we've known each other since we were fetuses. (Regardless of what your mother's womb told you, we were never BFFs.) You have to understand there's a pretty thick line between casual chat and personal intrusion that, as my coworker, you should be able to navigate better. For instance, I didn't think much of it when you suggested the next time I grill steaks that I try marinating them in beer for a few hours. On the other hand, when you forwarded me a list of all the local cooking classes you've been dying to take with a partner...
What I'm saying is, don't expect an invitation to one of my barbecues any time soon. I'm not saying that because I dislike you as a person so much as I dislike the idea of you being my friend. Let me reiterate: I do not hate you. But I don't think I'd particularly enjoy you outside of work, either. You're a see-you-at-the-office kind of person is all.

You're not going to change my mind by "subtly" hinting that you bought way too much beer for this weekend and could really use somebody to help drink it. Granted, I'll give you points for appealing to my inner alcoholic, but if your true intention is to get rid of a few excess cold ones, why don't you just go ahead and drop them off at my front door? That would be neat.

So please, in the future, let's try to keep this relationship casual. And by casual I mean let's communicate through email from now on.

See you around the office,
Your coworker


re: Vacation Request Denied

Hey boss,

I noticed that my vacation request for next week was denied. That's a real bummer, you see, because I had major plans coming up for that week. But you already knew that; you read my request.

So I have just one question: do the words "Saved by the Bell marathon" mean nothing to you?

Maybe I understated it when I wrote "Saved by the Bell marathon!!!!" as my reason for needing some time off. First of all, I should have used at least another three exclamation points to describe the importance of such an epic vacation. But I left its importance subtly implied, so I'll concede that was probably my mistake.

But I truly need these days off. As you may know, it's been a stressful few months and...I don't know, it would just really help me, personally, to take a few dozen hours and watch Kelly Kapowski play beach volleyball or sing along with Jessie Spano's rendition of "I'm So Excited." And I'm prepared to spend every hour of the next few days trying to convince you that I deserve this.

Would it sway you at all if I told you they were even including The College Years episodes? Are you one of those SBTB fans?

Also, if it makes you feel any better about letting me take time off for this, what you might call "silliness," I know for a fact that several other people have done and will be doing the exact same thing. So quit hating on my vacation or I'll be forced to pull a patented Zach Morris Timeout (which would involve me throwing up the "T sign" just before throwing my elbow into your face).

To be clear, I don't want it to escalate to that.

Your "preppie" employee



Dear Gwen,

I've been trying to figure out the best way to tell you this. It's kept me up the last few nights, actually. Don't worry though, I've been catching up on some episodes of Cheers that I missed the first time around. (That Sam Malone really is a player, isn't he?)

Ok, here's the thing: you know how, when you notice something peculiar about someone--like, say, they smell like peanut butter--you can't help but fixate on that one thing every time you see that person? You know, you want to chat about the weather or politics or that episode of Cheers you watched last night but all you keep thinking is, "why do you smell like peanut butter?" I guess what I'm trying to say is that you smell like peanut butter.

All day, every day.

I don't mean to be rude or blunt but it's just...why do you always smell like peanut butter? I honestly don't understand. The first time I smelled it on you, I figured you'd just eaten a peanut butter sandwich and forgot to pop a breath mint. And then, the very next day, I smelled it again. And it was well before lunch, so unless you have frequent, midday peanut butter snack breaks, I have to suspect there's something else involved here. I don't even think it's your breath because you're not always talking when the Skippy hits my nose. It has to be, like...a part of you.

Is it your perfume? Do they make peanut butter scented perfume? What a niche market that must be.

Do you carry around little sticks of peanut butter with you? Keep 'em in your pocket in case of a peanut butter emergency or something? Or maybe you've just left an excess of peanut butter jars open around your home and the scent is now ingrained in you, chasing you around like Sam did to Diane for the first five seasons and then Rebecca for the remaining six. (Sorry, that show is just so good.)

Whatever the case, I think we should brainstorm a way to solve this. If you wanted to get together via email or Facebook or we could text or do almost anything but speak, physically, in the same room, I'd be more than happy to troubleshoot this issue.

...maybe you could start using jelly as deodorant? See, and that's just off the top of my head!

Smell ya later,
Your coworker


How about that lunch of yours?

Dear Steven,

I missed you at lunch today. I must've gone on break just after you finished. Darn the bad timing, right?

How was your sandwich? It certainly looked delicious, all that prosciutto and provolone stacked lovingly under a layer of sweet honey mustard and zippy ranch dressing. And that bread! A plump, soft, melt-in-your-mouth kaiser roll that looked like it had been lightly buttered and then sprinkled with, what was that, rosemary? Mmm mmm. That sounds pretty amazing right about now.

I actually thought about having the exact same thing today. No kidding! In fact, when I packed my lunch this morning I thought to myself, "Boy, a ham and provolone sandwich would go awfully good with these new jalapeno-flavored kettle chips!"

That reminds me, Steven, how were your chips? Were they tasty? Did you appreciate their crispness and subtle blend of sweet and salty notes? I sure hope you savored each mouthful of those crunchy, peppery snacks, as I don't suspect you'll be enjoying them again anytime in the near future.

Because if you even think about taking my lunch one more time, so help me God, I will take you down. I will urinate on your breakfast bars, dip your keyboard in vinegar, and replace the creamer in your coffee with my own, private milk. You know what I mean. Seriously, if you even so much as steal a sideways glance of my knapsack, I will poison everything in your kitchen.

And another thing: what am I supposed to eat for lunch now? Did you think about that during your petty lunch thievery? I clearly didn't possess the foresight to know someone was going to steal my food, so I went ahead and just packed the one lunch for today. Darn my lack of psychic abilities, right?

I did the due diligence and searched for anything I thought might be your lunch, just in case we were involved in some sort of lunch swap that you forgot to tell me about, but I didn't find a litter box or any rotten potatoes. (Attached to this note you'll find a packet of breath mints. Take the hint.) So I'll assume you forgot to bring yours and were too cheap to walk across the street to get a hamburger.

So here's the deal: you keep your grubby hands off my future lunches and, in return, I don't sprinkle your world with asbestos. (I know a guy.)

Your coworker


Re: the flaming turd rebuttal

Seriously guys?

If you didn't like my first note you could have responded with something less smelly and much less on fire. You've left me no choice but to start locking my desk drawers when I leave for the night.

I hope you're happy with yourselves.

Your coworker


To my fellow employees:

All right. We all know that I'm not a huge fan of a lot of you. And your oh-so subtle hints (flaming bags of turds in my desk drawer) have proven that the feeling is mutual. But what do you say, just for now, we all try to get along?

I'm tired of having to buy new staplers and pens all the time.

Your turded-out coworker