Stop Being So Happy All the Time (A Very Special Pazoo Letter)

Dear Coworker,

After a short hiatus, the newest Letter to My Coworker is being hosted over at Pazoo.com.

Don't ask why. Just know that it has everything to do with you being far too bubbly. Read it.

Your Linked Coworker


An Apology to My Contestants...and To My Prize

Dear Turd Bucket,

I've been told I have to formally apologize to you for offering to give you away as part of a promotion for my blog. It turns out our Human Resources department has something against promising one of their employees will be gifted to a "winner" under the vague terms of "indentured servitude."

That sounds like a real bucket of turds to me. What do you think, turd bucket? Do you think it was a good decision to take this to HR, or do you regret that decision like you probably regret everything you've done since you shot out of your mother's unfortunate womb all those years ago?

I hope you're happy. You cost one lucky participant the chance to use a genuine asshole as the last link in their human centipede. Nice work.

Anyways, consider this your formal apology. I'd say it to you in person but I wouldn't want to break my yearlong streak of never sharing the same 10-foot-radius as your dumb face.

Your Coworker


Enter To Win One of My Least Favorite Coworkers!

For a limited time, Letters to My Coworkers invites you to enter to win your very own awful human being/shoddy worker!

Probably this turd bucket.

To enter, just leave a comment saying why on Earth you would ever want this despicable excuse for a skilled laborer and what you would do with this mind-numbingly stupid gas bag if you won!

Check back next week for results. The "winner" will be announced July 21st.

*Letters to My Coworkers is not responsible for any physical or mental trauma incurred from the procurement of such a dull-witted, contemptible person.


Another Small Joke.


I have a little joke for you. A-hem...

Knock knock.

(I'm going to assume you're saying "Who's there?" aloud to help me out with this rather than being a total dickbag about it, staring awkwardly at the screen wondering why I've chosen this kind of call-and-response joke structure.)


(Again, a little assistance from you with the "Howie who?" would be nice right here. So say it. Say it!!)

Howie gonna get our coworker to stop chortling at every stupid fucking thing somebody says? Not everything is funny! In fact, most things people say around here are incredibly bland and/or depressing.

Like, why would you laugh about someone getting cancer? It isn't even rectal cancer, which is the only type of cancer it's even slightly acceptable to laugh about. (Even then you laugh by yourself, when you're positive no one else can hear what kind of insensitive monster you are.)

Hell, pretty much everything I've ever said at work falls into one of two groups: A) an incoherent mush of words that no one can understand because it's too early in the morning/too late in the day/too hard to concentrate over the sound of my conscience screaming at me for still being employed at this wreckage of a company, or B) another stupid joke about Kim Kardashian. And I'm well aware jokes about Kim Kardashian have reached their expiration date. But I was hoping if I made enough jokes about Kim Kardashian people would stop talking to me altogether...as that's my dream. But sadly, you--and only you--still laugh uncontrollably at them. If I added in a well-worn slight about Paris Hilton you'd probably poop your pants and have to be committed to a mental institution because the guffaws would never stop.

So...Howie gonna get you to stop laughing at all of the dumb? Huh? HOWIE GONNA DO THAT???

Sincerely wanting to beat the chuckles out of you,
Your Coworker


Workplace Lottery Pools Are Never a Good Idea


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.