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