Miss Congeniality Goes Fishing

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Dear Erika,

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,
Your coworker

(***Psyche! Fish puns all day long!)
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That's a Yellow Flag, For Sure.

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Eric,

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,
Your coworker

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On Behalf of Your Pets, Stop This Madness.

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Dear Gale,

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??"

That's the line! Right there, staring you in the goddamn face with a look that says "I used to have a life that was worth living." Seriously, that dog might as well be wearing a sandwich board that says "If you know my owner, please, never stop kicking her!"

I don't even know where to start here. The hat? The neon blue atrocity that Pauly D wears when he DJs for Barry Manilow on Carnival Cruises? Or maybe it's the Hawaiian shirt that's literally been strapped to that poor labrador's chest? 

I don't know who we need to call about this, if it should be PETA or Liam Neeson, but someone has to step in and put an end to this. 

So don't talk to me about your pets anymore. Ok? Because I'm only going to think of bad things. In fact, if you try to tell me another "cute" puppy story, I'm going to pull this photo out and slap you in the mouth with it.

See you in Hell,
Your coworker

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What's Our Plan of Attack? ATTACK THE PLAN!

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Hey boss,

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

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Knock, Knock. Who's There? Nobody Cares.

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Knock, knock.

I really don't have any more time for these lame jokes, Mike.

Orange.

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.

Knock, knock.

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.

Harry.

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--

Knock, knock.

...I will physically harm you, Mike! Do you understand me??

Felix.

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,
Your coworker

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You're Not the Earth. I'm Not the Sun. Stop Orbiting.

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Dear Coworker,

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!

Spatially aware,
Your coworker

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This Does Not Smell Like Success

Hey boss,

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.


Nauseatingly,
Your employee