Workplace Lottery Pools Are Never a Good Idea

Coworker,

We all want to be millionaires. We all want the freedom that comes with owning a small chunk of paradise, whether that paradise be a shiny new car or The World's Largest Water Slide. Most importantly, we all want to leave this wretched hellhole we favorably call "the workplace" far behind. But here's the rub: we don't want to do it as a unit.

That's why your constant suggestion for us all to pool our money together to buy a bunch of lottery tickets is met with glaring disdain from everyone besides Meredith (who, really, is just excited that someone is finally including her in a conversation).

I fear you don't understand our generally begrudging responses and can't fathom why your idea isn't met with applause and confetti. Let's use a fun example to clarify:

If I land a sweet new gig (perhaps as the proprietor of The World's Largest Water Slide), I'd prefer not to show up for my first day on duty to see your dumb, smiling face waiting at the top of the slide. Maybe you're wearing swim trunks, preparing to take a glorious slide down four stories of bliss, or maybe you're wearing a blue polo shirt that is the official dress code of my employees--either way, you are not welcome there. That's my new home. My new workplace. The last thing I want to see is a pristine example of why I fled my previous workplace.

Attention: No Merediths Allowed

So if I were to win 10 million dollars, I would expect that day to be the happiest day of my life. But then the taxes would come. At least 2.5 million goes away to the IRS. And that's fine because 7.5 million dollars is still enough to keep The World's Largest Water Slide at the top of my To-Purchase list. Oh, but wait, now I have to split that money with Keith and Bjorn and Lily and that creepy guy from Accounting and Lester and...ugh, Meredith. And now we have to figure out how to divvy up millions of dollars. My coworkers, who argue over how much they have to pay for that pizza we all had equal slices of, are now supposed to do this with no kerfuffles or broken fingers?

You know that whoever physically buys the tickets will make like the pen thief they are and pocket the whole damn jackpot. A legal battle will ensue, we'll all grow to hate each other even more, and a giant chunk of our winnings will have been wasted on lawyer fees.

There's just no good way to make this happen. Someone's going to get shafted. And it will probably be Meredith.

...On second thought, the downsides aren't so insurmountable. Put me in for twenty bucks.

Good luck,
Your coworker

It's So Easy To Hate You

Dear Coworker,

Why are you trying so hard to make me hate you? It's really not necessary. I can hate you just fine without all the extra bells and whistles. Your excessive effort is bordering on sadism.

How do I hate you? Don't worry, I'll count the ways.

I can hate you while drinking a soda. I can hate you while singing a coda.
I can hate you in an office, I can hate you the whole month of August.
I can hate you from afar, my hate can pull a freight car.
I can hate you and all your pets, I can hate you in small vignettes.

But I can not ever like you. Because you're just the worst goddamn employee and an even poorer excuse for something that doesn't bug the everliving shit out of me. I know that wasn't very witty but I have a headache and all this hating your guts has made me quite tired.

With Hate,
Your Coworker

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

Congratulations, You've Ruined Music.

Dear Coworker,

Sometimes, people like to listen to music that you do not enjoy. Some music is bad. Other music is good. Not everyone agrees on which category a particular song falls into. I understand how difficult these concepts are to grasp, so allow me to point out a few situations--with the help of some of your favorite song lyrics--where your constant analyzing of our music choices might hinder the day's overall delightfulness and make you sound like an extreme douche basket:


Situation 1:
Just a small town girl, livin' in a looooonely world. 
She took a midnight train going an-y-wheeeere.

"Oh god, not this song again. Don't get me wrong, Journey is fine and all, but if I wanted to hear people sing along to "Don't Stop Believing" I'd go to the karaoke bar that I frequent at least once a week. So, whatever, you don't have to stop believing, but can you please just stop singing and humming? People enjoying popular music really gets my ire up. K, thanks."


Situation 2:
And I said "What about Breakfast at Tiffany's?" 
She said "I think I remember the film 
And if I recall I think we both kinda liked it." 
And I said "Well, that's the one thing we got."

"Are you guys actually listening to this song? I mean, really listening to the words? He's saying that their love is founded on a shared tolerance of a dumb, racist movie from the 60s! And that's it! That's the only damn thing they have in common! Come on, people! Open your ear holes already!

This is a prime example of what's wrong with the 90s. Nobody cared at all about what the hell the song meant, so long as it was catchy. I bet you guys still don't know that the Blues Traveler's song "Hook" is actually pointing out how stupid the general public is. John Popper--yeah, I know the singer's name--is literally mocking you for liking anything that's a "hip, three minute ditty." But I guess you guys wouldn't understand that because you only hear music, you don't really listen to it. Maybe I should save these mind-blowers for people who love knowledge."


Situation 3:
This is the story of a girl
Who cried a river and drown the whole world.
And while she looks so sad in photographs,
I absolutely love her...when she smiles.

"Oh great, another awful intrusion from the 90s pop rock canon. I can't wait to hear what's next. Are we going to be serenaded by one of the Gin Blossoms two recognizable hits?

Seriously, you guys can't be paying attention to the music if you're not glowing with rage by this point. Listen to that goddamn chorus! The singer sets up a perfect ABAB rhyme scheme...and then drops the ball entirely! Girl/world. Cool, that works. But photographs/smiles?? What is he thinking pulling that crap on us? He could've so easily made it photographs/laughs and we'd all be so much happier today. But instead he had to try so hard to be contrarian or individualistic or whatever it is pop rock musicians from the 90s wanted to be and ruined my fucking day. Completely wrecked. That's what this day is. Thanks for picking this station, guys. I'm going to go break something."


Situation 4:
With arms wide open
Under the sunlight
Welcome to this place
I'll show you everything
With arms wide open

"Ooooh, is this Creed? Can you turn it up a little? 

Awesome. Love this song."


I hope this helped clarify exactly why we hate you.

Attentively,
Your coworker

There Are Limits to How Often You Can Call a Coworker a Butthole.

Dear Coworker,

After meeting with HR, I've been asked to issue an apology for the way I recently spoke to you.

Apparently you took offense to my calling you a "creeping liability" to our company that "will ultimately lead to the demise of our very livelihoods." And that it was out of line for me to insinuate your DNA might have been compromised when your mother's egg mistook the glaze of an apple fritter as a viable life-giving fluid. Honestly, the logic of that doesn't even make sense. (Though it would explain why you always--always--look like you just finished eating a very messy donut.)

Specifically, I've been told you took umbrage with my use of the phrases "turd-like," "butthole-ish," and "farty brains" to describe your general essence. (By the way, I don't know why I relied on such similar insults. I clearly had butts on the brain that day.) And though these were all stunningly accurate descriptors, I am willing to strike them from the record.

*But since no mention was made of the similar phrase "ass blob," I reserve the right to continue inserting it into every conversation we have. Forever.

Also, that picture I drew of you having sex with the copier was probably in poor taste. I understand that no penis could reasonably be shaped just like Hitler and that it's highly unlikely you've ever screamed "SCAN MY DICK PARTS HARD, YOU SLUT MACHINE" during coitus. For this, I sincerely apologize.  I just assumed your typical colloquialisms transferred into the bedroom/copy room. I promise I'll take the picture down by next month at the latest.

Oh, and though HR never actually mentioned this, I should also apologize for telling that girl in our office you've been wanting to ask out that I know, without a doubt, that your peep is shaped like Hitler because you frequently use it to "salute" anyone who enters the restroom after you.

That was just a butthole-ish thing to do.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a follow-up meeting with HR to attend. (Heads up: Trent gets pretty bent out of shape when you say that logistic ideas like his "are probably how the Holocaust started.")

Sincerely (per HR's demand),
Your coworker