I do not care if you celebrate Christmas. I do not care if you celebrate Kwanza. I do not care if you celebrate Hanukkah. (Or Chanukah. Or Nun-chucks.) I don't even care if you acknowledge that January 1st signifies the beginning of a new year. Maybe you think the year starts with the first melting of snow or that it restarts every time you microwave a batch of pizza rolls. I'm fine with it all.
Just please keep your mouth shut about the whole Happy Holidays/Merry Christmas turf war. I don't care. You shouldn't care. None of us should even be talking about this because it's a non-controversy. (A nontroversy, if you like.)
If you greet me by saying "Happy Holidays," I won't take offense that I don't celebrate all of the holidays. I celebrate some of them, and I get the idea. And if I accidentally slip a "Merry Christmas" to you, and you don't celebrate the holiday, I expect nothing, not even a polite head nod, in return. You can even tell me to go suck Kris Kringle's jolly ding dong if you want. But don't talk my ear off about how ethnocentricity is ruining the fabric of American society. (I'd probably even agree with you, I just don't want to discuss it.)
Does Santa come down your chimney wearing a velour jumpsuit or does Krampus come crashing through your window to stuff you in his demonic sack? Who cares? It's like asking if I'd prefer diamond-studded rocket ships or a dozen Heidi Klum clones as my personal attendants. They're both wildly improbable figments my imagination, so what's the point in debating it?
Bah fucking humbug,
P.S. I have 12 identical ideas for late Christmas gifts, if anyone is interested.
Now. Pronto. Immediately. ASAP. Stat. At once. Straightaway. Posthaste. This instant. Make it snappy. Quickly. Quicker. YOU HAVE TO GO QUICKER!
Say it however you want, you're not getting this goddamn report any faster. I know this time of the year tends to give people grand ideas, but I'm not a magical elf. (Not even a regular one, in fact.) When you give me something to do that takes approximately one hour to execute, you have to then wait at least nine minutes before you start harassing me about why it hasn't been finished.
Don't get me wrong, once that ninth minute passes you have every reason to berate me like a dog that just shit on your favorite facial feature. Because who the fuck takes nine minutes to perform a task that normally takes 60 of those same minutes? A real piece of shit, that's who!
So at least we're on the same page with that.
But still, I'd really appreciate it if you could give me an opportunity to do the goddamn thing you just told me to do. It would certainly be mutually beneficial.
So kindly leave me alone. Now. Pronto. Swiftly. Chop, chop. Lickety-split. Double time it. Rapido! Fuck off. Faster! YOU HAVE TO FUCK OFF FASTER!
I need a vacation from being awesome. It's getting to be a bit of a burden.
But seriously, you have to allow me to take a vacation at some point during my tenure at this job. I'm pretty sure it's a law or something.
So I'll make you a deal: You give me a week off or...I will continue submitting formal requests for you to give me a week off. All up in your desk space. It will rain company-issued vacation slips like it's a working class Lil Wayne music video.
I don't really have any better ideas right now. I'm tired.
Give me vacation.
You are a person. A human person. You are over the age of 10. You are aware of the weather conditions sometimes, and can sometimes share those insights with those around you. Sometimes not. Occasionally, the words you say form sentences and thoughts.
And that's all of the things I can say about you that don't sound negative and insulting.
Now, for all of the other things:
- You're dumb. You're so, so aggressively stupid that I often suspect that your brain has been replaced with a frozen turkey dinner.
- "Use" is a word. "Yous" is not. "Yous guys" isn't an endearing trait of your regional diction, it's a sign the public school system failed you and will assuredly fail your children, as well.
- "Uses" is a word. "Yous's" is absolutely fucking not. "Yous's" makes you sound like Foghorn Leghorn's concussion-prone cousin.
- Your shoes are what's making that noise.
- Paying off your credit cards is not a bad thing. Refusing to pay more than the minimum amount each month is less "a great way to build your credit rating" and more "a sign I should never, under any circumstances, loan you money."
- Scotch tape does not adequately replace staples. And it's not, nor has it ever been made of whiskey. Seriously?
- Bill Paxton was in Twister, Bill Pullman was in Independence Day, and Bill Murray is not someone who should ever be confused with those two.
- Still your shoes. That noise is still coming from your shoes.
I really do try to give everyone the benefit of the doubt. My pockets are full of second chances and my brain space is more than happy to ignore a whole lot of dumbness. If I ask someone their thoughts on the end of Inception--as I'm wont to do--and their response is that "The human life begins immediately after," I don't think "This is a completely irredeemable person whose place in society is somewhere just beneath serial killers." I probably should, but I don't. Instead I think, "This person has either a very strange sense of humor or some acute brain damage that I should be sensitive to in the future."
But there's a caveat--that means "stipulation" or "limitation," Alice--to this social agreement. When I ask if you like The Beatles (the safest of all conversation starters) and you reply that "They're so disgusting, ewww," then elaborating that you "Once squished one under [your] shoe and the smell made [you] throw up..."
My brain can only expel so much stupid at once. When it gets overloaded, some of its higher functions, such as empathy and not stabbing people in the mouth with a pair of rusty scissors tend to shut down. So that happens when someone talks about "stepping on" Ringo Starr. Or asking who Ringo Starr is.
Boy, this is coming off kinda harsh, isn't it? Look, I'm not saying that you are 100 percent of an idiot. But your personality, your actions, and the words you say force me to believe the frozen turkey dinner in your head is rapidly thawing and will soon discharge a steady stream of drool and salmonella from your mouth.
There. That's a nicer way of putting it.
Wishing You A Lifetime of Blissful Ignorance,
I don't who did this, what this thing is made of, or what the chances are that I will succumb to stomach pains and spontaneous diarrhea after ingesting it. But I'm going to eat that cupcake. I mean I'm really going to town on it and there's not a thing any of you can do about it.
By the time you've read this note, I will have shoved that chocolate chip (?) concoction straight down my gullet. I might have choked on it. Not even my own teeth are going to get in the way of my stomach wrapping itself around that hopefully poison-free treat with what smells like some kind of mocha icing on it.
God damn, are those real coffee grounds as sprinkles????
Thank you to whoever did this. Even if there is a tiny cricket cooked into the middle as an elaborate and thoroughly disturbing prank. I have no qualms with that.
Keep Doing This Forever,
Do you know what day today is?
This isn't rhetorical. And it's not some clever riddle. I'm honestly worried you don't understand calendars. So let me explain:
Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday are called "weekdays," and it's the time when most people are expected to work--or at the very least, be physically present at their place of employment. These 5 days are optimal for any questions, concerns, or general wonderments you might have for me. You can ask me things until you're blue in the face. (In fact, that last bit of imagery puts a big ol' smile on my face for some reason.)
But there are these other days. Two magical, enchanted days where the air smells better, the sun shines brighter, and where anything seems possible. These two soul-cleansing days join together to create the most beautiful word in the English language: weekend. Say it aloud, Brent. Doesn't it just roll off your tongue and float through your ears like it's being carried on the wings of the happiest butterfly in the world?
Today, Saturday, is Part 1 of this hallowed time. And you...you call me with...with a question about...
I don't even want to type the word. Because spelling it out would further destroy that pure feeling I had in my heart when I awoke this morning. But then--almost immediately after opening my eyes, sitting up in bed and screaming "Fuckin A, Saturdaaaaaaaay!" as per my usual routine--there you are on the screen of my phone. And you're not contacting me to invite me to brunch. You're not calling just to say, "Hey man, you've got the best head of hair I've ever seen! And I once met Bon Jovi!"
No, you're interrupting my bliss with a question about...the place which shall not be named.
How dare you taint this most sacred of two-day periods with your job-related curiosity! It has no place in any one of these 48 hours. If Sunday, at 11:54pm, a thought pops in your head that makes you think of work, go bash your head against a wall. Or bash a shot of tequila against the back of your throat. Or...you know, go to fucking sleep. But DO NOT ever transfer that thought onto anybody else, especially someone that has to see you the next day and will have easy access to your kneecaps.
Now please, go smell the roses. Or run naked through the mall singing Loverboy's classic ode to abandoning the 9 to 5 grind in favor of metaphorically grabbing the weekend by the nuts! But most importantly, keep that work bullshit off my phone.
Working For the Weekend,
You look fine today. Not fine, as in "damn girl, you fine like a wine that's been aged for the appropriate amount of time," but, you know...okay. Perfectly adequate.
Your hair looks...there. It looks like it's still there. Nothing further to report on that.
No, there's nothing in your teeth.
Yes, it appears your skin is a bit pale. It's autumn. That's normal.
No, I wouldn't say you look fat. But I wouldn't call anyone fat. Because I'm not a complete dick. So please look to someone else for a comment on that.
Just...it's all good. Okay? If you want someone to tell you how good you look today, call your mother. I'm sure she'd be happy to say it. But stop pestering your coworkers for compliments that you are just going to shrug off by saying "Yeah right!" or "Ugh, soooooo not true" anyways. It's annoying.
Besides, you're fishing for compliments using too obvious of bait. What you'll find when you fish, in real life, is that almost nothing will bite if they believe the thing on the end of your line to be a bogus counterfeit. Why chomp down on something with the risk of having to swallow a hollow, rubbery, nutrient deprived, fake treat? Or worse, getting yanked into some desperate, self-loathing fisherman's boat with a metal hook in the roof of your mouth?
Fishermen use bait that lures the fish into believing that's a real goddamn piece of food being dangled in front of them. It has to be subtle and realistic. That's the only reason they fall for it. Catch my drift? (*All right, I promise I'm done with the fish analogies now.)
So be genuine. Be confident. And maybe don't wear so much lipstick. It kind of makes you look like a prostitute. Reelly. (**OK...now I'm done.)
Floundering over here,
(***Psyche! Fish puns all day long!)
I know you're upset about yesterday's football game. I understand that your team losing to their division rival isn't something that's going to put a smile on your face. Because you love football. Like, in an obsessive way that you've probably never even loved a sexual partner. But that's fine.
I don't care that you watch sports like an Ethiopian child would watch a hot dog eating contest, all bug
eyed and salivating. I don't care that you place all of your hopes and dreams on a bunch of millionaires throwing balls to each other.
But I do care that you deal with a loss by pissing all up in my filing cabinet. Man...so many levels of uncool happening all over those manila folders. Lucky for both of us no one actually uses filing cabinets anymore. Otherwise I'd...well, I'd probably ask you to not do that anymore.
But in person.
Hopefully, your team makes it to the playoffs. I can't bear to consider the massacre you'd bring upon my index cards.
Throwing the "yellow" flag,
I know you're a dog person and that you love your pets more than anything in the world. And while I find the majority of the photos you show me to be adorable, I do believe a line has been crossed.
Specifically, the line that separates good taste from "WHAT IN GOD'S NAME HAVE YOU DONE TO THAT POOR ANIMAL??"
About this whole "overhaul the physical workspace with danger, destruction, and an overarching denial that things like this may take a bit of planning" thing.
I LOVE IT.
Let's get in there and knock some walls down! Let's shove our inventory out the window, rip the phones off the hook, and blast some AC/DC while we're doing it! Let's body slam some shelving units until they come to their senses and stay the fuck down!
And plans? PLANS? Are you kidding me with that bullshit? We don't do plans here, buddy.
Planning takes time. It takes initiative, contemplation, outlining, and a bunch of other 3 dollar words that, at the end of the day, don't get you any closer to a box full of beer! Because you and I...we're men, dammit! (And men drink beer out of boxes. Did I emphasize this enough?)
Planning is for pussies and housewives. Men don't plan shit. They break shit! We walk into situations fully erect, swinging our decision-maker to and fro, knocking shit over and poking people in the chest with it if they question the way we do things. And we use our balls to fill out the ensuing sexual harassment forms!
So I say let's get in there and let's push things from one place to another place until we can't possibly push things to any other places...anymore!
Sincerely as fuck,
Your man employee
I really don't have any more time for these lame jokes, Mike.
Mike! I'm not doing this with you right now. Seriously. I've got a lot of work to do and every time you come over here--
Orange you glad you didn't open the door?!
I didn't. I didn't open the door because there are no doors anywhere near the two of us. We both work in the same open space. And I do use the term "work" loosely in this case, Mike.
Really? Another one? You're an adult human male who still believes that knock knock jokes can be funny? I didn't know people like you existed in the real world.
See, you're not even waiting for me to work my way into the joke. There's a proper etiquette--a sort of back-and-forth, call-and-response type of thing--that you're entirely glossing over here.
Harry up and open the door!!
Hmm. I get it. Did you steal these from Very Literal Knock Knock Jokes: A Guidebook to Disrupting the World Around You In the Most Childishly Irritating Way Possible? Seriously, Mike, for all that is righteous and holy, just go back to your area. If you want to mumble more of these abysmal non-punchlines under your breath, that's fine. But--
...I will physically harm you, Mike! Do you understand me??
Barbed wire! All over your face, Mike! If you don't stop with these awful--
Felix my ice cream again, I'm gonna kill him!
Damn it. That was actually pretty funny. Good on you, Mike. Good on you.
Happy Hump Day,
Hi. Hello. How are you? What's up? Can I help you with something? All good? Hello again. I mean...still. A continuous hello to you, sir.
You're still here. Why are you still here? Walk away. You can end all this. Just walk away.
WHY ARE YOU ALWAYS STANDING SO CLOSE TO ME?
This is a combination of the internal monologue and outward conversation I've had with you for the last couple of weeks. Some of it surely sounds familiar (if a bit repetitive at this point), but I feel like these things have to be said. Not because I love the small talk, mind you, but because nothing makes the fact that your chin is touching my shoulder for about 3 hours each day more awkward than complete silence.
So I fill in the gaps. The conversational gaps, anyway. Not the physical gaps. Because there aren't any to fill. Because the front of your shirt is apparently stitched to the back of mine.
I know I smell nice. My naturally intoxicating musk is no doubt a cause of internal celebration for you, seeing as most things you smell around here are--to understate this in the nicest way--displeasing. And I realize everything I do is so extraordinarily educational and entertaining ("extra edu-tainment" you might call it) that you don't want to risk walking away for a moment only to find out later that you missed some monumental musing of mine that would have changed your life's path forever.
But you still can't hover over me like you're the puppeteer and I'm the marionette. (I know hand puppet would have been a more apt analogy here, but I couldn't stand the imagery.) Besides, you can't be the puppeteer if you know much less than the puppet! (Boy this analogy really got away from me. Please stick around despite this series of digressions. Not that you wouldn't anyways, seeing as how you're probably hovering over me as I write this!)
Let this letter serve as the nicest possible way for me to ask you to keep your distance. Step off my heels. Steer clear of my personal space. Stay out of my bubble. Just...go away.
Or else my bubble might...my intimate zone isn't for...something something personal boundaries pun. I CAN'T FOCUS ON ANALOGIES WITH YOUR BREATH ON THE BACK OF MY NECK!
Could you send somebody in here to take a look at--or, rather a smell of--whatever awful beacon of the apocalypse that's currently nesting in our workplace.
I don't know what it is. I have no way of locating it, either. (In fact, I'm beginning to think it was sent here by VISA, because it's literally everywhere I want to be.) But if it helps, I can provide an exact description of this nasal atrocity: It's the smell of old french fries stuffed inside someone's butt. So have your people start with that.
Until we get this taken care of I'm going to refrain from going anywhere near my work, or anything else that might cause me to endure another second of what I will henceforth refer to as "The Devastation." The smells ruminating in that room aren't just intrusive, they're mind-altering. The other day I hallucinated I was a squid trying to escape from an old ham sandwich. It took me fifteen minutes to realize the ham sandwich was a metaphor for the room that contained The Devastation. But I am that goddamned squid.
In an effort to bring a little less death into my nostrils, I've been popping peppermints and lozenges like a chain smoker who's also addicted to swirling burnt hair around in their mouth. (Because those people's mouths smell bad. That's why I used that metaphor. Not because--I don't do weird things with burnt hair. Don't put that in my file.) But the effects are short-term and merely coat the smell. So now there's also a hint of peppermint farts in the air. You're welcome.
There must be a department responsible for keeping this place from smelling like old french fries stuffed inside someone's butt. There just has to be. Contact that department immediately.
I also feel like I shouldn't need to issue such frequent complaints about the smells happening in and around my work environment. Come on. This is a place of business. And not a business that specializes in devastating people's olfactory receptors.
The goddamn pens are gone again.
Are we serious with this? Who's got 'em? WHO IN THE NAME OF ALL THAT IS UNHOLY HAS THE PENS?
Okay. I lost my cool there for a second. I'd like to apologize for that. I don't mean to be angry. I would just like to know where those darn pens wind up at the end of the day. Ya know? And it would please me so much if you would BRING BACK SOME FUCKING PENS!
Black ink, red ink...fill them with indigo-dyed semen if you want. I don't care! Just give them to me so I can stop scavenging the workplace like a junkie who's suddenly lost every speck of crack that has ever existed in the world.
I will give any one of you a dollar if you can provide me footage of the dick-fart who is stuffing their pockets full of our pens. Provide me with that footage and I will not have to CUT YOU ALL.
If I do not have a legitimate, non-gnawed-on pen in my hands within 24 hours, your world will be ended.
Thank you and have a nice day.
- Your coworker
I'm going to need you to stop calling me at 5 o'clock in the morning. Don't get me wrong, I love a good early morning wake-up call as much as the next guy--especially since my REM cycle was already destroyed from the routine drunk calls I receive from my mentally unstable exes--but maybe you should just wait a few hours.
And I get the rationale. You want me to come into work early to do...something, I suppose. (Never sure what that is, but it always involves the word "coverage.") And the only way to alert me of this need is to call me at 5 o'clock in the morning, because you clearly don't have a more logical back-up plan in place for this kind of situation. (Don't worry, you've only been doing this for 11 months. That's not even a full year to figure out what the words "on-call" mean. It takes at least twice that time and a whole slew of charts to fully grasp this outlandish concept.)
But if you call me at 5 A.M., I then have to throw my phone against the closest available surface, where it shatters into a thousand glorious pieces, thus disengaging the alarms I've set to wake me up for work. So now there's a good chance I'm actually going to come in late rather than early.
And that's on you.
So, the next time you consider dialing my number before sunrise, I want you to think about the chain reaction that will ensue. Then I want you to throw your phone against a nearby surface so that you can't wake anybody else up that day. Otherwise, I'm going to start calling you at 3 A.M.--I'll already be up debating the merits of something called "fork stumping" with my very sensible ex--and tell you not to call me in two hours.
- Your unnecessarily tired employee
I owe you an apology. The other day when I told you that "Your incompetence and fuck up-ery is equal only to the ugliness of that thing you call a face..." That was wrong. I shouldn't have said that.
After much deliberation with HR, I realize now that what I should have said was "Your incredible aptitude for ruining everything I might have tolerated about a given day remains your ugliest attribute. Except for that thing you call a face."
They tell me it's all in the wording.
I just wanted to express my sincerest empathy to you regarding this whole schedule reorganization thing. I know that overhauling all of our work schedules is a difficult task. I've also heard all the chatter from the other employees about how your new scheduling practices are "inconsistent" and "constantly perplexing" and "ruining everyone's lives" and yadda, yadda, yadda.
Some people just like to complain, I guess.
I, on the other hand, totally get why you're changing to this more free-wheelin' or "random" system, as others have called it. It's all in the suspense!
Remember when we'd get our monthly schedules issued to us two weeks in advance--almost like clockwork--and those schedules would have consistent shift patterns? There was no drama in that, whatsoever. Talk about BO-RING! Am I right?
I really enjoy the tension. The waiting. The pondering. The more waiting. The hoping that I'm not the one who has to work 13 shifts in one week. The even more waiting...
It's just like being on a game show, except the prize isn't a new car or a tasteful outdoor patio set. The prize is not having to work during my niece's school play that I requested off three months ago.
All in all, I don't think there's anything too complicated about our new schedules. Take mine, for example:
Mondays, Wednesdays, and Thursdays, I work in the morning, at 6:30, 7:30, and 7:18 respectively.
Tuesdays I work night shifts usually starting at 2:30, but possibly at 4:30, depending on what phase the moon cycle is in.
Fridays I have half a day off, unless someone calls in sick, in which case I work 19 hours and then come in the following day at noon to correct any errors I made the day before.
Every other weekend I work one morning shift and one night shift, obviously. Unless it's the last weekend of the month, in which case I simply call you each morning and have you tell me what time to come in and whether I need to bring lunch for the office.
April Fool's Day I get the day off and you pay for my all-inclusive trip to Jamaica, where I simply work from my company bungalow. (You compensate me for that annually on February 30th, from what I understand.)
The night of the EMMYs I work half a shift in the morning and half a shift at night, unless of course Adele sweeps all the categories she was nominated in, because then I stay overnight.
It's. So. Simple! I can't believe people actually complain about this kind of stuff. What's next, people whining about the lack of locks for our lockers?? (Although, I gotta admit, that would be a lot of fun to say out loud.)
I guess what I'm trying to say is this: keep up the good work and don't let a bunch of cry-babies get you all worked up over the little details.
Hmm. I'm not really sure what to say to you guys right now. You've all been so...pleasant? Is that--yeah, I suppose that's the right word. Pleasant. And hard-working.
You've been so good that I wonder if I've fallen into a coma, or if I've been staring into a snow globe this past month while your kind acts and overall non-butthole-ishness were all taking place in my head. You know, like St. Elsewhere? But less eventful and I don't have autism...
Am I getting Punk'D? Is this one of those things where you lull me into a false sense of security, only to come back with something harder and stronger and stupider than ever before? Because, if so, I feel like you should tell me that. I know that would seem counter-intuitive to your big surprise douchebaggery, but rest assured, if that happens and you DIDN'T warn me, I'll literally cut off all your genitalia, put it in a box, and donate it to Goodwill. Because I don't play. But I do give to charity.
Anywho, hope we can keep this streak going. Because there's something about leaving work and not wanting to commit a serious felony that is so...refreshing.
Six hours in, I can't contain it anymore
My body's breaking, my bladder's sore
I'm making a break for it
I'm taking a break to make a deposit
I just wanted to engage in some brief reflection
Let this out so I don't get a urinary infection
I needed a little me time
A little pee time would be so fine
But before I can release I look down
I was almost at peace but now I frown
Because directly below me
Is a whole lotta pee, don't you agree?
Yeah, that definitely is, isn't it?
It's on the ground
It's in AND around
The seat that no one should sit on
Because there's pee there
There's pee there, you guys
- Your coworker
Does anyone know how to get dried blood off the copying mechanism of the copier? Anyone? Seriously, any amateur cleaning advice would be greatly appreciated at this point in time.
Club soda had no effect. Neither did fresher, wetter blood. Turns out they do not, in fact, cancel each other out as one might hope.
On an unrelated note, if anyone is out there thinks that seahorses are small enough to just slide through the double-sided copying tray without issue...you would be wrong.
Please and thank you,
Every time I go to write something, there are no pens around. Where are all the pens? I shouldn't have to take a blood oath just so I can finish signing my name. I have a long name, too, you assholes. That's a lot of blood. I'd much rather use a pen.
Is there some hidden receptacle where all our pens go? Do we lose a pen every time the radio plays "Call Me Maybe"? Because I'll change the station. I'll do it. There are other radio stations that don't play that song. Not many, but they exist.
Just like the pens. There's not many, but they DO exist! They're not mythical creatures. I've seen them around our workplace. Speaking of quantity...
Let's suppose everyone who works here uses a new pen every other day. Even then, we'd be down only thirty, maybe forty pens a week. Now, I don't know the exact lifespan of a writing utensil, but if I was forced to give my expert opinion, I'd say it should last longer than a Cialis-infused erection. (The key difference is that we don't need to call a doctor if the pen still works after 6 hours.)
Help me out here guys. Where do they all go? Does someone here need pens for their off -Broadway production of "Luck Be a Ballpoint?" Is someone using them as props in their disappearing act? If so, congratulations! You're a terrific magician! But you're a shitty coworker.
My point is, I'm sick of scavenging for writing utensils like a pre-wintertime squirrel. I shouldn't have to hoard all that sweet, sweet ink, bloating my pockets with clicky tops and twisty bottoms on the chance that I were to walk over to the pen jar and find it as depressingly empty as the soul of whoever's been thieving all of our Paper Mates!
Unless...is everyone hoarding the pens? Is there now an expectation that the pen jar will be vacant, causing us all to collect pens like kids in the 80s collected Pogs? Is that what we've become? POG COLLECTORS?
Here's what I'm gonna do: I'm coming into work tomorrow with two boxes of Bics. And if by the end of the week, there's at least one pen from that batch remaining, we're going to have a pizza party. Sound good?
So, the decision's yours: pizza or pen. Make the right choice, dummies.
- Your coworker