The Clocks Made Me Late.

Dear Coworker,

Clocks. They're one of modern nature's most confounding tools, aren't they? There are so many elements involved. Numbers, sometimes multiple ticker things if you're still using analog, and even...more numbers. It's a complex system.

But it's one you should probably learn. Otherwise, you'll continue being late for your shifts and people will continue their hatred of your stupid, non-time-telling guts.

So I thought I could help you learn the intricacies of the procedure with a handy tutorial. And, hey, this isn't coming from a place of judgment or condescension. I've certainly found the "Which Numbers Will Show Up Next?" game a difficult one to master now and again--though I was typically face deep into my third boot at the time.

"What time is it? It's beer o'clock!!"
"Oh, seriously? I dunno, I dropped my phone in the boot."

Here are some basic steps for reading that mysterious object on the wall:

  1. An "hour" contains 60 minutes. (Not the television program.) A "minute" contains 60 seconds. (Unrelated to the Nicolas Cage film.) A "second" probably contains other, smaller, measurements of time. But who fucking cares about those things, right? We're not scientists, after all.
  2. Prior to the start of your assigned shift, check your schedule (oftentimes, this is laid out on a "calendar," which you should just Wikipedia or something because I don't have all day ((24 hours)) to  explain this) to see when you work next. Which day of the week? Which hours of the day? 
  3. Now that you know the exact date and time of your intended work arrival, simply count backwards from that hour until you reach the date and time you are currently experiencing. You now have exactly that long to get to work.
  4. You don't really need to read a fourth step, do you? This foolish bit of pretend has gone on for too long, as it is. You're a fucking adult and you need to be to work on time. So fucking do it. There. There's your goddamn fourth step.

This message will self-destruct in 60 seconds*,
Your coworker

*Hope you learned to tell time by the end of this note. Fuck face.


A Small Joke.

Dear Coworker,

What do you call a pair of femurs that are in a constantly rested state?

Lazy bones!

Ha. Now get the fuck up off your tailbone and do some work, you shiftless coccyx.

Humerusly (Get it???),
Your Coworker


We're All Neck-and-Neck in a Race to Get Out of Your Eye Line

Dear Coworker,

Please stop making comments about everyone's necks. The size. The shape. The "lick-ability."

We're all pretty sure that you're joking, but we're also positive that we don't like it. Seriously, what a creepy fucking joke to make. Repeatedly. And if you're not joking...don't tell us. I think I can speak for everyone when I say none of us would ever sleep again if we found out you meant any of it.

And there would not be nearly enough turtlenecks in stock
on Amazon to make our office feel comfortable again.

I just shuddered so hard at the thought of that I messed up the sentence I was about to type. That's how terrified I am that you might really have a thing for people's necks.

It's just...necks?? Really?? WHY?? It has to be the least tantalizing physical feature. Except maybe knees. God, you don't have a thing for knees too, do you? Are you only staring at our necks because our dress code requires us to cover our knees?

...But you're joking. I think. Or you're a vampire. Either way, this is the dumbest thing I've ever had to scold someone for.

Just neck it off,
Your coworker