Attention coworkers:
Does anyone know how to get dried blood off the copying mechanism of the copier? Anyone? Seriously, any amateur cleaning advice would be greatly appreciated at this point in time.
Club soda had no effect. Neither did fresher, wetter blood. Turns out they do not, in fact, cancel each other out as one might hope.
On an unrelated note, if anyone is out there thinks that seahorses are small enough to just slide through the double-sided copying tray without issue...you would be wrong.
Please and thank you,
Your coworker
Proof that the workforce breeds equal amounts cruelty and stupidity.
1/27/2013
1/14/2013
Where Did All the Pens Go?
Seriously guys. What's going on here?
Every time I go to write something, there are no pens around. Where are all the pens? I shouldn't have to take a blood oath just so I can finish signing my name. I have a long name, too, you assholes. That's a lot of blood. I'd much rather use a pen.
Is there some hidden receptacle where all our pens go? Do we lose a pen every time the radio plays "Call Me Maybe"? Because I'll change the station. I'll do it. There are other radio stations that don't play that song. Not many, but they exist.
Just like the pens. There's not many, but they DO exist! They're not mythical creatures. I've seen them around our workplace. Speaking of quantity...
Let's suppose everyone who works here uses a new pen every other day. Even then, we'd be down only thirty, maybe forty pens a week. Now, I don't know the exact lifespan of a writing utensil, but if I was forced to give my expert opinion, I'd say it should last longer than a Cialis-infused erection. (The key difference is that we don't need to call a doctor if the pen still works after 6 hours.)
Help me out here guys. Where do they all go? Does someone here need pens for their off -Broadway production of "Luck Be a Ballpoint?" Is someone using them as props in their disappearing act? If so, congratulations! You're a terrific magician! But you're a shitty coworker.
My point is, I'm sick of scavenging for writing utensils like a pre-wintertime squirrel. I shouldn't have to hoard all that sweet, sweet ink, bloating my pockets with clicky tops and twisty bottoms on the chance that I were to walk over to the pen jar and find it as depressingly empty as the soul of whoever's been thieving all of our Paper Mates!
Unless...is everyone hoarding the pens? Is there now an expectation that the pen jar will be vacant, causing us all to collect pens like kids in the 80s collected Pogs? Is that what we've become? POG COLLECTORS?
Here's what I'm gonna do: I'm coming into work tomorrow with two boxes of Bics. And if by the end of the week, there's at least one pen from that batch remaining, we're going to have a pizza party. Sound good?
So, the decision's yours: pizza or pen. Make the right choice, dummies.
- Your coworker
Every time I go to write something, there are no pens around. Where are all the pens? I shouldn't have to take a blood oath just so I can finish signing my name. I have a long name, too, you assholes. That's a lot of blood. I'd much rather use a pen.
Is there some hidden receptacle where all our pens go? Do we lose a pen every time the radio plays "Call Me Maybe"? Because I'll change the station. I'll do it. There are other radio stations that don't play that song. Not many, but they exist.
Just like the pens. There's not many, but they DO exist! They're not mythical creatures. I've seen them around our workplace. Speaking of quantity...
Let's suppose everyone who works here uses a new pen every other day. Even then, we'd be down only thirty, maybe forty pens a week. Now, I don't know the exact lifespan of a writing utensil, but if I was forced to give my expert opinion, I'd say it should last longer than a Cialis-infused erection. (The key difference is that we don't need to call a doctor if the pen still works after 6 hours.)
Help me out here guys. Where do they all go? Does someone here need pens for their off -Broadway production of "Luck Be a Ballpoint?" Is someone using them as props in their disappearing act? If so, congratulations! You're a terrific magician! But you're a shitty coworker.
My point is, I'm sick of scavenging for writing utensils like a pre-wintertime squirrel. I shouldn't have to hoard all that sweet, sweet ink, bloating my pockets with clicky tops and twisty bottoms on the chance that I were to walk over to the pen jar and find it as depressingly empty as the soul of whoever's been thieving all of our Paper Mates!
Unless...is everyone hoarding the pens? Is there now an expectation that the pen jar will be vacant, causing us all to collect pens like kids in the 80s collected Pogs? Is that what we've become? POG COLLECTORS?
Here's what I'm gonna do: I'm coming into work tomorrow with two boxes of Bics. And if by the end of the week, there's at least one pen from that batch remaining, we're going to have a pizza party. Sound good?
So, the decision's yours: pizza or pen. Make the right choice, dummies.
- Your coworker
11/26/2012
You Look Like a Toot.
Dear coworker,
You look a little bit like a fart. I know that probably doesn't make much sense to you, because...well, who looks like a fart? How's that possible, right? But seriously, you look like the physical incarnation of a fart. If the fart were to put on a funny hat and a big grin, that would be you.
And please, don't misunderstand, it's not that you smell bad or anything. And it's not just your face, or your stature, or any one particular thing about you. You just have a certain je ne se poo, as the French might call it.
I don't mean to be mean, but I'm saying this because I believe honesty is the best policy. And so that you'll know why I laugh every time you walk into the room.
"Ha ha. Fart person," is what I'll say.
Dooty-fully,
Your coworker
You look a little bit like a fart. I know that probably doesn't make much sense to you, because...well, who looks like a fart? How's that possible, right? But seriously, you look like the physical incarnation of a fart. If the fart were to put on a funny hat and a big grin, that would be you.
And please, don't misunderstand, it's not that you smell bad or anything. And it's not just your face, or your stature, or any one particular thing about you. You just have a certain je ne se poo, as the French might call it.
I don't mean to be mean, but I'm saying this because I believe honesty is the best policy. And so that you'll know why I laugh every time you walk into the room.
"Ha ha. Fart person," is what I'll say.
Dooty-fully,
Your coworker
11/19/2012
The More You Know (The More Annoying You Become)
Taylor,
Did you know that carrots used to be purple? And that the orange variety we know today wasn't cultivated until the late 16th century?
No?
Do you give a shit?
Still no?
Great, now remember exactly how you feel at this moment the next time you try cramming a dozen equally forgettable factoids into my ear holes whenever there's a lull in the work day. Because your "fun facts" are just regular facts dressed up in a boring Halloween costume. And it's November, you asshole.
Matter of factly,
Your coworker
Did you know that carrots used to be purple? And that the orange variety we know today wasn't cultivated until the late 16th century?
No?
Do you give a shit?
Still no?
Great, now remember exactly how you feel at this moment the next time you try cramming a dozen equally forgettable factoids into my ear holes whenever there's a lull in the work day. Because your "fun facts" are just regular facts dressed up in a boring Halloween costume. And it's November, you asshole.
Matter of factly,
Your coworker
11/14/2012
How's That Novel Coming? (The 777 Challenge)
Jake,
How's that novel of yours going? Pretty good, yeah? You must be almost finished by now, I bet. Since you've been working on it for...boy, how long's it been?...four, five, sixteen years?
Well, I'm sure it's gonna be lovely. And I'm really glad you shared some of it with your coworkers. You don't remember sharing it with us, you say? Well here, have a look:
You know that moment when you rip off a band-aid where your face scrunches up all tight and the air gets sucked in through your teeth? That moment is frozen on his face. It looks painful and terrific.
I compress his wrist even more, proving that my lack of muscles won't hinder my ability to inflict seismic amounts of pain on his limbs. I try to restrain a smile as I watch him writhe in just the right amount of agony, but it's impossible to stop.
"Now, I'll let you up as soon as you apologize to my friend over there and promise to behave yourself for the rest of the night."
I should be wearing a cape right now.
That, my friend, was taken from the attachment you sent out to everyone on your work mailing list. I'm assuming from the title "Youth By TKO" that this is that young adult novel you're working on a la "The Outsiders" or something. But I think what you meant to send to everyone was the census spreadsheet for Youth Population by Area. Because, unless your novel also contains key demographic information for where we should be selling our products, I don't particularly care whether your protagonist breaks somebody's wrist.
Besides, that sounds sadistic. Who writes shit like that?
All the best,
Your coworker
**Special thanks to Jenn Thorson for this blog idea.
How's that novel of yours going? Pretty good, yeah? You must be almost finished by now, I bet. Since you've been working on it for...boy, how long's it been?...four, five, sixteen years?
Well, I'm sure it's gonna be lovely. And I'm really glad you shared some of it with your coworkers. You don't remember sharing it with us, you say? Well here, have a look:
You know that moment when you rip off a band-aid where your face scrunches up all tight and the air gets sucked in through your teeth? That moment is frozen on his face. It looks painful and terrific.
I compress his wrist even more, proving that my lack of muscles won't hinder my ability to inflict seismic amounts of pain on his limbs. I try to restrain a smile as I watch him writhe in just the right amount of agony, but it's impossible to stop.
"Now, I'll let you up as soon as you apologize to my friend over there and promise to behave yourself for the rest of the night."
I should be wearing a cape right now.
That, my friend, was taken from the attachment you sent out to everyone on your work mailing list. I'm assuming from the title "Youth By TKO" that this is that young adult novel you're working on a la "The Outsiders" or something. But I think what you meant to send to everyone was the census spreadsheet for Youth Population by Area. Because, unless your novel also contains key demographic information for where we should be selling our products, I don't particularly care whether your protagonist breaks somebody's wrist.
Besides, that sounds sadistic. Who writes shit like that?
All the best,
Your coworker
**Special thanks to Jenn Thorson for this blog idea.
10/31/2012
Stop 'Spooking' in Puns
Darryl,
I know today is Halloween, but stop trying to awkwardly insert the word "spooky" into everything you say. It's not a pun if you just drop it into the middle of a sentence that otherwise has nothing to do with that word...or anything else that's ever existed as a thought.
A pun is a clever manipulation of words that suggests it has multiple meanings and can be applied in a humorous way. A regular phrase with "spooky" attached to it is you failing to understand why no one ever wants to take long bike rides with you. We'd probably try to swerve into heavy traffic just 'cause, hey, you can't die in your nightmares, right?
Here are a few more examples of why all your pets probably commit suicide:
So...moratorium on the bad puns, ok?
They're ghastly.
Happy Halloween,
Your coworker
I know today is Halloween, but stop trying to awkwardly insert the word "spooky" into everything you say. It's not a pun if you just drop it into the middle of a sentence that otherwise has nothing to do with that word...or anything else that's ever existed as a thought.
A pun is a clever manipulation of words that suggests it has multiple meanings and can be applied in a humorous way. A regular phrase with "spooky" attached to it is you failing to understand why no one ever wants to take long bike rides with you. We'd probably try to swerve into heavy traffic just 'cause, hey, you can't die in your nightmares, right?
Here are a few more examples of why all your pets probably commit suicide:
- "Did you see the treats Karen brought in today? They're spooky-licious."
- "Stapler? More like spook-ler!"
- "You guys, I think my tie is haunted. I guess the dress code today is spooky casual! I mean business spooky! I mean--hey where are you guys going?..."
So...moratorium on the bad puns, ok?
They're ghastly.
Happy Halloween,
Your coworker
10/22/2012
Working Hard, Staying Late to Make a Superman Omelette
Hey Boss,
I saw the little note you left for me in my break room mailbox. Ya know, one of those little "warning slips" you leave people when they do something wrong like clock in late or have an unexcused absence. Or, in my case, stay late to help hold back the hellish avalanche of stress and anguish that has been sliding down the Mountain of Manageable Workloads for the last few months.
Since you have no intentions of melting that ravaging cascade of snowy terror, it's fallen upon the already-frostbitten shoulders of your employees to stop it. And I don't think we should be punished for putting ourselves in harm's way.
Let me ask you: did Superman get a warning slip for "destruction of public property" when he ripped a streetlight out of the ground to use in his fight against whatever super villain happens to be in those comic books? No! Because in the end, Superman stopped [insert appropriate super villain here] from destroying the entire city! In the grand scheme of things, that streetlight--or the fact that one quarter block of the street won't be adequately illuminated--doesn't seem like such a big deal when you consider how much worse the situation could've been. For instance, no one in the city would've been able to see anything if they'd been killed by that aforementioned super villain. Because dead people can't see shit. So...there's that.
And do you really think John McClaine ever got a warning slip for anything he did in any of the Die Hard movies? Hell no! And that motherfucker launched a car into a helicopter! My point is: sometimes you have to break a few eggs to make a delicious, fluffy, stress-free work environment.
In this case, those eggs happen to be the twenty five minutes I stayed late to ensure my job was completely finished and didn't get left for someone else to "clean up." So, ya see, even if I'm breakin' eggs, I'm still making sure I take care of the egg mess. I'm careful all the yolk gets into the pan, I wipe up any splatters, and I even use one of those disinfecting wipes on any excess stickiness.
I am a fucking omelette master! And I deserve a raise!
What I'm trying to get at here--amazing metaphors aside--is that if you think someone should be penalized for not being a worthless sack of omelette fodder and actually trying to help you, then you good sir, are a jackass.
Clocking out,
-- Your employee
I saw the little note you left for me in my break room mailbox. Ya know, one of those little "warning slips" you leave people when they do something wrong like clock in late or have an unexcused absence. Or, in my case, stay late to help hold back the hellish avalanche of stress and anguish that has been sliding down the Mountain of Manageable Workloads for the last few months.
Since you have no intentions of melting that ravaging cascade of snowy terror, it's fallen upon the already-frostbitten shoulders of your employees to stop it. And I don't think we should be punished for putting ourselves in harm's way.
Let me ask you: did Superman get a warning slip for "destruction of public property" when he ripped a streetlight out of the ground to use in his fight against whatever super villain happens to be in those comic books? No! Because in the end, Superman stopped [insert appropriate super villain here] from destroying the entire city! In the grand scheme of things, that streetlight--or the fact that one quarter block of the street won't be adequately illuminated--doesn't seem like such a big deal when you consider how much worse the situation could've been. For instance, no one in the city would've been able to see anything if they'd been killed by that aforementioned super villain. Because dead people can't see shit. So...there's that.
And do you really think John McClaine ever got a warning slip for anything he did in any of the Die Hard movies? Hell no! And that motherfucker launched a car into a helicopter! My point is: sometimes you have to break a few eggs to make a delicious, fluffy, stress-free work environment.
In this case, those eggs happen to be the twenty five minutes I stayed late to ensure my job was completely finished and didn't get left for someone else to "clean up." So, ya see, even if I'm breakin' eggs, I'm still making sure I take care of the egg mess. I'm careful all the yolk gets into the pan, I wipe up any splatters, and I even use one of those disinfecting wipes on any excess stickiness.
I am a fucking omelette master! And I deserve a raise!
What I'm trying to get at here--amazing metaphors aside--is that if you think someone should be penalized for not being a worthless sack of omelette fodder and actually trying to help you, then you good sir, are a jackass.
Clocking out,
-- Your employee
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