Brent,
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
Proof that the workforce breeds equal amounts cruelty and stupidity.
9/19/2012
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
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
9/12/2012
A Happy Hour With You Is an Oxymoron
Dale,
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
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
9/04/2012
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
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
8/22/2012
Re: Fwd: Fwd: FWD: FWD: Why is kitty so grumpy???
Fran,
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.
LOL,
Your coworker
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.
LOL,
Your coworker
8/02/2012
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
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
7/20/2012
Private, Public, Pubic: A Tutorial.
Dale,
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.
Thanks,
Your coworker
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.
Thanks,
Your coworker
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