Merry Christmas, Ya Filthy Animals

Coworkers,

I do not care if you celebrate Christmas. I do not care if you celebrate Kwanza. I do not care if you celebrate Hanukkah. (Or Chanukah. Or Nun-chucks.) I don't even care if you acknowledge that January 1st signifies the beginning of a new year. Maybe you think the year starts with the first melting of snow or that it restarts every time you microwave a batch of pizza rolls. I'm fine with it all.

Just please keep your mouth shut about the whole Happy Holidays/Merry Christmas turf war. I don't care. You shouldn't care. None of us should even be talking about this because it's a non-controversy. (A nontroversy, if you like.)

If you greet me by saying "Happy Holidays," I won't take offense that I don't celebrate all of the holidays. I celebrate some of them, and I get the idea. And if I accidentally slip a "Merry Christmas" to you, and you don't celebrate the holiday, I expect nothing, not even a polite head nod, in return. You can even tell me to go suck Kris Kringle's jolly ding dong if you want. But don't talk my ear off about how ethnocentricity is ruining the fabric of American society. (I'd probably even agree with you, I just don't want to discuss it.)

Does Santa come down your chimney wearing a velour jumpsuit or does Krampus come crashing through your window to stuff you in his demonic sack? Who cares? It's like asking if I'd prefer diamond-studded rocket ships or a dozen Heidi Klum clones as my personal attendants. They're both wildly improbable figments my imagination, so what's the point in debating it?


Bah fucking humbug,
Your Coworker


P.S. I have 12 identical ideas for late Christmas gifts, if anyone is interested.

Do You Want That Now? Or Just Now? How About...NOW?

Corrine,

Now. Pronto. Immediately. ASAP. Stat. At once. Straightaway. Posthaste. This instant. Make it snappy. Quickly. Quicker. YOU HAVE TO GO QUICKER!

Say it however you want, you're not getting this goddamn report any faster. I know this time of the year tends to give people grand ideas, but I'm not a magical elf. (Not even a regular one, in fact.) When you give me something to do that takes approximately one hour to execute, you have to then wait at least nine minutes before you start harassing me about why it hasn't been finished.

Don't get me wrong, once that ninth minute passes you have every reason to berate me like a dog that just shit on your favorite facial feature. Because who the fuck takes nine minutes to perform a task that normally takes 60 of those same minutes? A real piece of shit, that's who!

So at least we're on the same page with that.

But still, I'd really appreciate it if you could give me an opportunity to do the goddamn thing you just told me to do. It would certainly be mutually beneficial.

So kindly leave me alone. Now. Pronto. Swiftly. Chop, chop. Lickety-split. Double time it. Rapido! Fuck off. Faster! YOU HAVE TO FUCK OFF FASTER!

Thanks,
Your Coworker

Maybe You Should Try Some MACROwaves.

I Say "Vacation," You Say "You Can't Do That"

Hey boss,

I need a vacation from being awesome. It's getting to be a bit of a burden.

But seriously, you have to allow me to take a vacation at some point during my tenure at this job. I'm pretty sure it's a law or something.

So I'll make you a deal: You give me a week off or...I will continue submitting formal requests for you to give me a week off. All up in your desk space. It will rain company-issued vacation slips like it's a working class Lil Wayne music video.

I don't really have any better ideas right now. I'm tired.

Give me vacation.

Slothfully,
Your Employee

You Can't Spell Dumb Without "Ummmm." Also, "Derrrrr."

Dear Alice,

You are a person. A human person. You are over the age of 10. You are aware of the weather conditions sometimes, and can sometimes share those insights with those around you. Sometimes not. Occasionally, the words you say form sentences and thoughts.

And that's all of the things I can say about you that don't sound negative and insulting.

Now, for all of the other things:

• You're dumb. You're so, so aggressively stupid that I often suspect that your brain has been replaced with a frozen turkey dinner.
• "Use" is a word. "Yous" is not. "Yous guys" isn't an endearing trait of your regional diction, it's a sign the public school system failed you and will assuredly fail your children, as well.
• "Uses" is a word. "Yous's" is absolutely fucking not. "Yous's" makes you sound like Foghorn Leghorn's concussion-prone cousin. 
• Your shoes are what's making that noise.
• Paying off your credit cards is not a bad thing. Refusing to pay more than the minimum amount each month is less "a great way to build your credit rating" and more "a sign I should never, under any circumstances, loan you money."
• Scotch tape does not adequately replace staples. And it's not, nor has it ever been made of whiskey. Seriously?
• Bill Paxton was in Twister, Bill Pullman was in Independence Day, and Bill Murray is not someone who should ever be confused with those two.
• Still your shoes. That noise is still coming from your shoes.

I really do try to give everyone the benefit of the doubt. My pockets are full of second chances and my brain space is more than happy to ignore a whole lot of dumbness. If I ask someone their thoughts on the end of Inception--as I'm wont to do--and their response is that "The human life begins immediately after," I don't think "This is a completely irredeemable person whose place in society is somewhere just beneath serial killers." I probably should, but I don't. Instead I think, "This person has either a very strange sense of humor or some acute brain damage that I should be sensitive to in the future."

But there's a caveat--that means "stipulation" or "limitation," Alice--to this social agreement. When I ask if you like The Beatles (the safest of all conversation starters) and you reply that "They're so disgusting, ewww," then elaborating that you "Once squished one under [your] shoe and the smell made [you] throw up..."

My brain can only expel so much stupid at once. When it gets overloaded, some of its higher functions, such as empathy and not stabbing people in the mouth with a pair of rusty scissors tend to shut down. So that happens when someone talks about "stepping on" Ringo Starr. Or asking who Ringo Starr is.

Boy, this is coming off kinda harsh, isn't it? Look, I'm not saying that you are 100 percent of an idiot. But your personality, your actions, and the words you say force me to believe the frozen turkey dinner in your head is rapidly thawing and will soon discharge a steady stream of drool and salmonella from your mouth.

There. That's a nicer way of putting it.

Wishing You A Lifetime of Blissful Ignorance,
Your Coworker

Mystery Cupcake

To whomever left that cupcake on my desk:

I don't who did this, what this thing is made of, or what the chances are that I will succumb to stomach pains and spontaneous diarrhea after ingesting it. But I'm going to eat that cupcake. I mean I'm really going to town on it and there's not a thing any of you can do about it.

By the time you've read this note, I will have shoved that chocolate chip (?) concoction straight down my gullet. I might have choked on it. Not even my own teeth are going to get in the way of my stomach wrapping itself around that hopefully poison-free treat with what smells like some kind of mocha icing on it.

God damn, are those real coffee grounds as sprinkles????

Thank you to whoever did this. Even if there is a tiny cricket cooked into the middle as an elaborate and thoroughly disturbing prank. I have no qualms with that.

Keep Doing This Forever,
Your coworker

Stop Weakening My Weekend!

Brent,

Do you know what day today is?

This isn't rhetorical. And it's not some clever riddle. I'm honestly worried you don't understand calendars. So let me explain:

Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday are called "weekdays," and it's the time when most people are expected to work--or at the very least, be physically present at their place of employment. These 5 days are optimal for any questions, concerns, or general wonderments you might have for me. You can ask me things until you're blue in the face. (In fact, that last bit of imagery puts a big ol' smile on my face for some reason.)

But there are these other days. Two magical, enchanted days where the air smells better, the sun shines brighter, and where anything seems possible. These two soul-cleansing days join together to create the most beautiful word in the English language: weekend. Say it aloud, Brent. Doesn't it just roll off your tongue and float through your ears like it's being carried on the wings of the happiest butterfly in the world?

Today, Saturday, is Part 1 of this hallowed time. And you...you call me with...with a question about...

I don't even want to type the word. Because spelling it out would further destroy that pure feeling I had in my heart when I awoke this morning. But then--almost immediately after opening my eyes, sitting up in bed and screaming "Fuckin A, Saturdaaaaaaaay!" as per my usual routine--there you are on the screen of my phone. And you're not contacting me to invite me to brunch. You're not calling just to say, "Hey man, you've got the best head of hair I've ever seen! And I once met Bon Jovi!"

No, you're interrupting my bliss with a question about...the place which shall not be named.

How dare you taint this most sacred of two-day periods with your job-related curiosity! It has no place in any one of these 48 hours. If Sunday, at 11:54pm, a thought pops in your head that makes you think of work, go bash your head against a wall. Or bash a shot of tequila against the back of your throat. Or...you know, go to fucking sleep. But DO NOT ever transfer that thought onto anybody else, especially someone that has to see you the next day and will have easy access to your kneecaps.

Now please, go smell the roses. Or run naked through the mall singing Loverboy's classic ode to abandoning the 9 to 5 grind in favor of metaphorically grabbing the weekend by the nuts! But most importantly, keep that work bullshit off my phone.

Working For the Weekend,
Your coworker