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.