Don’t Talk…Just Listen

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Quote of the week:   “I want to flip my desk over and say “Screw it!”, but this joint is heavy…or I’m lazy. Same thing.”

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Don’t be a Delquon Derrick-Malik Jenkins

Kats and kittens, it’s been a while since I’ve taken some time out of my endless 15 minute coffee break to complain about anything. And by a while, I mean yesterday. But today, as I place my leftover buffalo wings on top of the office copier machine in hopes of mass-reproducing the spicy deliciousness, I am really perturbed by the smelliest smell I’ve ever smelled.

Delquon Derrick-Malik Jenkins, the blond haired, blue eyed accounting specialist down the hall, just left out of the break room with his mid-day snack. To be honest, I can’t tell you exactly what it is, but I can tell you that whatever it is, it’s loaded with onions, garlic, beans and an ADMIT ONE ticket to the bathroom. I want to say I’m offended by the smell, but I could very well be offended by the fact that ol’ Delquon didn’t offer my greedy ass any [insert PLAYA-HATEDNESS here].

Delquon isn’t the first violator of the shit you don’t eat in the office. I may be guilty of it, too, since I’m the first to warm my shrimp, crabs or collard greens in the microwave; but we aren’t talking about me because nothing I do is wrong as long as I don’t get caught doing it. Delquon’s dumb ass got caught red handed. With this said, let us be reminded that only cool people (and by cool people, I mean me) are allowed to warm up:

  • Seafood – There are enough people whose body stinks without appropriate showers.
  • Chitterlings – It’s bad enough something can smell as if it crawled up your butt and died. The last thing you should do is pull all that shit out of your insides and serve it on a plate.
  • Bean and onion burritos – GAS ASS ALERT!
  • Repurposed eggs – Don’t ask. Just don’t do it.
  • Fermented soy beans – Anything fermented is a call for disaster.
  • Steak & cheese sandwiches (but only if it comes from the deadliest carry out in the hood) – no ghetto sandwich is complete without extra onions – fried and/or raw.
  • Tortilla soup – Tortillas already smell like someone put their whole body in a bathtub EXCEPT their feet.
  • Anything where the special ingredients are monkey fur, frog hearts or the thumbs of a gorilla, for obvious reasons.

Delquon, ol’ boy, you are not me; therefore I cannot allow you to get away with disrespecting our office with that mess you call food. You call it food. I call it an edible boat anchor to hold the weight of your pot belly where it is until high cholesterol or an overdose of calories carries you to meet your maker. Until then, we are having an ice cream social in conference room 14A at 4:00pm and you are not invited.


Quote of the Week:  More people will get out of your way if you say “I’m gonna puke!” than if you say “Excuse me.”

  

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Permission to Replace Office Swivel Chair with Air Mattress

MEMO

TO:  Superior Managers of If I Told You I’d Have To Kill You (IITYIHTKY) Enterprises

FROM:  HNIC, No One Matters But Me Department

SUBJECT:  Permission to Replace Office Swivel Chair with Air Mattress

DATE:  Half Pass Right Now, 2016


This notice of memorandum serves as an official request for permission to replace [suite #211] swivel chair with a home-supplied air mattress.

Attached you will find a signed medical notice from Dr. Boo Boo McLeod, MD of the Unsanctified Round-a-Way Medical Center, requesting that human resource officials and all other appropriate personnel of IITYIHTKY Enterprises acknowledge and honor doctor’s recommendation for Hottywood Helps to permissibly replace is raggedy office swivel chair with a tricked out air mattress, in an effort to avoid any further compulsory medical treatment administered due to a rare case of coworkersannoystheshitoutofmeoxia, from which Mr. Helps suffers.

This condition causes Mr. Helps to lash out at fellow No One Matters But Me Department staff and risks interruption of interoffice departmental work progress, therefore he should be granted immediate approval to replace said furniture with a more comfortable sleep-encouraging apparatus.

Upon recent telephone conversations with Mr. Helps’ physician, Dr. Boo Boo McLeod, and in addition to research gathered from the world wide web, an air mattress would ensure Mr. Helps’ speedy recovery from coworkersannoystheshitoutofmeoxia.  Should the mattress coerce Mr. Helps into a temporary midday coma, the respite would ignite unused cells in his brain ultimately improving his work performance and allowing him to overcome the late day grogginess that so many IITYIHTKY Enterprises employees experience on a day-to-day basis (water cooler rumors have it).

I am in favor of supporting the healthiness of my entire staff and request that all official authorized superior managers do the same as long as proper documentation is supplied, not to include death threat notices.

In the event that further references are needed and/or necessary (in addition to Dr. McLeod’s recommendation), the telephone numbers of the below listed names may be provided upon request:

Please note that all below listed persons are dead so it may take a while to gather the information you seek [if applicable]. 

  • Winston Churchill
  • Napoleon Bonaparte
  • Albert Einstein
  • Leonardo Da Vinci
  • John F. Kennedy

Quote of the Week:   “A day without a nap is like a cupcake without frosting.”

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Same Sh*t, New Year: The Joy of Returning to the Office After a Long Holiday Break

Back to WorkIt doesn’t take long to get back into the swing of office hum-drum after spending days away of celebrating the Christmas/New Year holiday season. What makes me an expert in this truth is the return to the office, obviously.

As I sit at my desk sifting through piles of unfiled folders, past due email reminders, and pretending to be interested in my coworkers’ holiday fiascos, the one thing that sails the ocean of my mind is how much more of no real work I’m going to do than what I did before 2015 said goodbye for the last time.

I’m not going to return any emails today. I’m not going to check the voicemail messages that have my audix light flashing. I’m not going to contribute any comments to the first staff meeting of the year. I’m not going to file any folders. I’m not even going to pour hot coffee over the copier machine. I’m just going to sit here and continue to be paid to fill a seat behind an oak desk, the way God intended.

This list of nots is not to be confused with me not wanting to be here, because in all honesty I’m very glad to have returned. Being home on vacation doing nothing has a completely different feel than being at work doing nothing on paid time. I actually do miss my coworkers. I just don’t want to talk them. Same as last year. I also need a place to escape in order to prevent myself from drinking fully loaded alcoholic beverages for breakfast. …well I guess I can do that at work but contrary to popular belief that’s frowned upon. Same as last year. Go figure.

I guess when I think about it, my New Year attitude has only changed as it regards my personal life. For example when bill collectors call to hound me for a payment of a bill I have no intention to pay, I’m going to answer the phone and tell them I’m unavailable just like their phone number when the word unavailable pops up on the caller id.

Debt Collector

When it comes to work though, nothing’s changed. Same work. Same shit. It’s just a new year. If my memory serves me correctly (I’ve been told I suffer from CRS (Can’t Remember Shit) syndrome), I think I said this very same thing last year. With that said I don’t see a reason for me to rock the boat especially since I can’t swim.

On that note I’m going to go now. Line 2 is ringing although I’m not going to answer it. Instead I’m going to roam the halls in the event it’s an inside caller. That way I won’t be lying when I have to tell someone I wasn’t in my office when they called – coincidentally, just like I used to do last year.


Quote of the Week:   “You should check your email more often. You may have gotten fired three weeks ago.”

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Dear Mrs. Cafeteria Lady, “Watch Your Back!”

Mrs. Cafeteria Lady, I’ve got a bone to pick with you.  I’ve taken your messy laziness for far too long!

On Monday you burned my toast, leaving with me with only the buttery middle of the bread, probably the size of a U.S. silver quarter.  As much as I wanted to punch you in your titty ball, I forgave you.  It was, after all, Monday.

When Tuesday rolled around, you completely said screw the toast all together.  Though your intentions were in the right place, replacing the toast with stale bagels only landed you in the number one spot on my sh!t list.  I wasn’t sure if I’d acknowledge you as a sh!t list offender or not, but after sitting in the dentist’s office for three hours waiting to have my broken tooth fixed, coming to that decision was easier than I thought.

By the time I accepted that I didn’t have anyone to hump on Wednesday, I realized my forgiving attitude would shift swiftly if you didn’t get your act together.  I’m not sure if you were pissed off with Mr. Cafeteria Lady for not putting it down the night before or if the kitchen was too hot for you to slave over a stove, but serving peanut butter and jelly sandwiches on Tuesday’s stale ass bagels was not only ghetto, but warranted me to steal one of your hairnets to give to my neighbor’s pet pit bull to sniff so he’d have your scent when I released his viciousness on you for not satisfying my hunger.  If the problem however was Mr. Cafeteria Lady, I figured it would be okay if I whooped his ass myself and told him to handle his business so you don’t have to receive any more hate mail from me or any other employee in the building.  I haven’t gotten around to fighting him yet because the dentist told me I needed seven days of rest so the antibiotics he gave me can take effect on my tooth.  Because my mouth is still sore, even if Mr. Cafeteria Lady isn’t the problem, I might kick his butt just for the hell of it.  I need to take out my frustrations some kind of way.

When I woke up Thursday morning, I prayed for a change of heart.  I asked the Lord for patience and understanding in the event I found another strand of your wig hair in my runny scrambled eggs or another one of your IDGAF (I don’t give a f—k) mystery meats.  But when I actually bit into the furry burger [or whatever the hell it was you served on the menu that day] and in fact almost choked to death like my cat does when he has a fur ball lodged in his throat, I drew the conclusion that I either didn’t pray hard enough or should have left out the curse words in my request for understanding.  My throat is still itching and I still want to punch you in your titty ball.

Well today is Friday.  I am completely fed up from the lousy week I’ve had, the poor breakfast and lunch you’ve dished out all week, and am tired and hung over from the party I crashed last night, not to mention sick as a dog for mixing alcohol with antibiotics.  Learning there is no damn coffee in the coffee pot this morning is the last straw!  You have had ample time to get it right and you still haven’t complied.  Enough is enough!  I would like to officially warn you to email your ass home today before you get off work, because if you don’t there will be a gang of girls waiting for you in the parking lot to beat the crap out of you, unless you have a large pizza delivered to my office with extra cheese, pepperoni AND sausage…and no hair!

I will not accept any apologies, sob stories, or any forms of bribery that does not involve mozzarella cheese or vegetable oil.

I will give you the benefit of the doubt and assume you just had a bad week, however that is not my problem and giving you the benefit of the doubt will not protect you from getting drop-kicked in the parking lot.  I am a firm believer that you must learn from your mistakes so that you won’t make them again.  And after those girls run your wig up a flag pole, perhaps then you will take your job a little more seriously and realize that employees that deal with a whole bunch of mess eight hours a day, five days a week, will not tolerate any excuses from you or anyone from the kitchen staff.  Food is our salvation and cooking is your job.  Get with the program or get lost!

P.S.,

Have a blessed day!

Thank you,

Anonymous


 Quote of the week:  “Avoid fruits and nuts. You are what you eat.”

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THROWBACK: A Case of the Mondays on a Tuesday

MONDAYI can’t go on a “Today is Monday” tangent, because today is not Monday but rather Tuesday. However since I didn’t get to gripe and groan about all the bullshit that usually happens on a Monday, the universe saw fit for me to get my dose of the Monday blues today.

After spending the last five days footloose and worry free on an Easter vacation, this morning I partook in a WWE wrestling match with my alarm clock. The clocked punched and kicked and pulled and pushed me until I found myself laying on the floor, covered in bruises and pillow drool. No more are my days of sleeping until high noon. No more waking up to buttered toast and cold beers. No more watching I Love Lucy and all things 80s on the Hallmark channel. Nope. After today’s royal battle, I am back to the humdrum of hating mornings, fighting with my cat over when and how much to feed him before I leave for the day, and listening to my downstairs neighbor call her husband a lazy, fat so and so because she has to get up to go to work while he continues to lay his unemployed butt around the house scratching his balls.

I’d finally mustered up enough energy to wash the last five days off of me and shaved the fur that grew on my face, when behold, there was a shocking bang on my door reminiscent of a knock just before a police swat team storms a raid bust site. To my surprise it was my downstairs neighbor, demanding (not requesting) to use my phone because she’d locked herself out of her apartment, after having put her husband out on the streets and telling him not to return without a job. I wanted to laugh in her face in an effort to say NANANABOO, as I remembered the argument we had some months ago when she waited two weeks after one of my late night trysts to complain about all the noise I made on that particular night, which in my head warranted me a well-deserved pat on the back and a serious high five on my part! Alas, at 6:45am, after having lost a wrestling match with my alarm clock, laughing was the last thing I wanted to do.

I finally made it to work, and of course, was greeted by an empty coffee pot. Next to the pot was an ice bucket full of coffee creamers. It was a double slap in the face because there was no coffee and also I’m allergic to dairy. Could this morning get any worse? I thought to myself.  Of course I asked that question moments before booting up my computer only to find I had no access to email, the internet or any shared network drives. In addition to having no technology access, I have a major report due tomorrow. It probably would have made sense if I’d have started working on the report three weeks ago when I was first made aware of it, but like every man on the planet, procrastination got the best of me. I figured I could get the report done in less than 8 hours. …Technically 5 ½ hours now.

No Monday-like Tuesday would be complete without forgetting my wallet. Since begging is not in my vocabulary, lunch will be particularly interesting today. I did grab a few packs of soy sauce from the cafeteria. Perhaps when my blood pressure rises above the norm, the near death experience will help me to forget just how hungry I am. This wouldn’t have been a problem if one of the cleaning staff hadn’t stolen the baked chicken that I forgot to take home with me last week from out of the refrigerator.

On a good note, not many people are in the office today. That translates into not many people will see my new outfit. You know. The one I wore to church on Easter Sunday. The good news about that is I’ll know exactly what I’m going to wear two days from today, and I won’t even have to iron!

Now the only thing I need to do is drink enough soy sauce packets until my head starts to spin, much like it does when I’ve been slipped a mickey at any given party on a Friday night. That might motivate me to start on this report and at noon, stand in front of the cafeteria like a panhandler when the rest of the building staff bombards the lunch line for today’s spaghetti and meatballs. I said begging is not in my vocabulary. I didn’t say I didn’t know how to do it. Hopefully I can get about twenty people to give me $.25 each.

Until then, people. On this Tuesday, I’d like to say to you all, HAPPY MONDAY or some shit like that!


Quote of the Week:  “The golden rule of work is that the boss’ jokes are ALWAYS funny.”   

Weekend Eve: “Kiss My Ass,” Never Sounded So Good

Guys and Gals, the week is almost over and we have officially arrived to the sweet symphony of Thursday, better known as WEEKEND EVE!  Yesterday you reaped the benefits of Hump Day, now is the time to start fixing your lips to tell all your haters, bosses and bill collectors to, “Kiss my ass!”  You’ve dealt with pissy attitudes, impossible demands and the screeching cry of your alarm clock all for this one day to say, “Tomorrow is “Fuq ‘em Friday and the weekend is history in the making!”

Sure, you have one more day to slave over paperwork in an office that doesn’t appreciate you.  You have another day to practice your road rage as you sit in traffic.  You even have one more day to pull some old wrinkled garment out of the dirty clothes hamper because you were too lazy or too trifling to do laundry.  But this day – this grand ole Thursday is the one day out of the week where the butterflies in your stomach are from pure genuine excitement and not from the booze of last evening, after having dealt with the agony of Monday thru Wednesday.

This is your day to close one final project and sweep all the rest under the carpet until next Monday, where all the bullshytters, complainers and back stabbers line up to piss you off all over again.  The best part of this day however, is that you couldn’t give a shyt less because you know in your heart and soul that doing anything responsible on Fridays goes against everything you believe in and stand for.  So although you may have a disturbingly shytty job as an armpit sniffer or a soda pop taste tester who has been plagued with eternal pimples from a heavy ingestion of sugar, you know that Friday, Saturday and Sunday holds nothing but mischief, mayhem and an illegal count of alcohol consumption.  This is what you’ve worked all week for!

To the mean old cafeteria lady who works in the school with adolescent demons that point and snicker at her hair net; to the little old lady who’s forced to play bingo with a bunch of old bitties that can’t watch anything on TV except ‘The Price is Right’; and to the office geek who’s greatest talent is to get beat up in the parking lot every day at the sound of the 5 o’clock whistle; it’s time to pull yourself up by the boot straps and get a little crazy!

Dear Ms. Lunch Lady, remind those bad ass kids that Hansel and Gretel was cooked in the witch’s oven for being naughty little bastards.

Dear Old Grandma, tell your senior citizen stick-in-the-muds to stick their dentures where the sun doesn’t shine!

…and Dear Little Office Geek, your best bet is to hop on the internet and find some bored schmuck to terrorize in a chat room because your ass is getting whooped for a reason, so you’d better not take any chances going out in public.

To all others – young, old, working or not, grab your best pals [or anyone gullible enough to pay your way] and paint the town red!  For in four more days, you will remember what it’s like to live in hell on Earth in a bottomless pit called Monday.

Get off your ass and plan your celebration on this here weekend eve.  C’mon. Make Hottywood proud.


Quote of the week:    “Weekends don’t count unless you spend them doing something completely pointless.”



wpid-picsart_1435935380046.jpgFind out what happens when a wacky advice columnist takes a walk along the tracks of his own mind.

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Tracks of an Underground Advice Columnist, today!

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Traffic’s Hate Mail

What would you say to traffic if you had the chance to catch it out on the street alone and vulnerable?  Find out what one irate driver had to say…

Dear Traffic,

It’s time we had a little chat.  I can’t remember the last time I heard of someone sitting down to tell you exactly how much bullsh*t you’re worth.  You are evil and rude and vindictive and I personally don’t like it.

As I sat in my car, singing out of tune at the top of my voice to that song I hate so much, but can’t help singing because I’ve heard it a dozen times (with all the cars on the road being at a complete stand still and all), I had time to think of what I’d say to you if I ever caught your ass alone on the street — off duty.

You’d better be lucky I can’t physically put my hands on you, because if I could the convo would go something like this; I’d start off by grabbing you by the collar and looking you dead in the eye, in fact, I’d look in both your eyes with only one of mine, kind of like a pirate [for the intimidation effect] and say:

“Damn you!  Damn you, Traffic, for the loud horns and the inconsiderate school kids sticking out their tongues and giving me the middle finger as they scurry back and forth in front of my car.  Where’s a safety patrol when you need one?  Damn you for making me miss my doctor’s appointments, staff meetings and one hour sales.  Curses for making me miss happy hour by 15 minutes!  I blame unneeded construction on you.  I blame potholes on you.  I blame broken traffic signals, slow walking old people and suicidal stray cats all on you.  It’s your fault, Traffic.  Do you hear me???”

At this point you’d probably give me a blank stare, kind of like you’re doing now, with an irritating smirk on your face, followed by a weak laugh — almost as if to ask, “What are you going to do about it?”  Oh, but I’ll tell you what I’d do about it.  I’d tie you down with duct tape and toss your ass in the middle of some train tracks with two speeding steam locomotives coming at you from both directions.  I’m not sure if I’d wait for the collision or not, but I am pretty positive that I’d find great pleasure in your panic.  The same panic that I feel as I dash through my office doors, hoping my supervisor doesn’t catch me; the same panic that I feel as I try to sneak into the church sanctuary without being called out by the minister; the very same panic I feel when I’m late picking up the kids from day-care, and the day-care teacher has a hot date…the first one in like, forever!  

You see, Traffic, if we could only compromise a little bit, then I wouldn’t have to track you down like a hunter during duck-hunting season.  All you need to do is fix it so that all the green lights remain green until I’ve passed.  Oh, and maybe keep a giant umbrella over my car when it rains.  Because you know as well as I do that people in the city can’t drive in the rain…or the snow…or at night…or…well you get my point.

So if you don’t want your ass beat, then I suggest you rethink your routine and give it a rest, already.  Stick your nose in the business of morning and evening mayhem only when I’m nowhere to be found on the streets.


Quote of the week:    “I don’t like morning people. Or mornings. Or people.”

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A Letter to the Slave-Driving Supervisor

Dear Supervisor,

I think enough of my hair has fallen out for me to finally feel comfortable enough to tell you that I am frikkin overworked and stressed the hell out! Between the thousands of phone calls, emails, and unexpected deadlines; not to mention taking on the responsibilities of those employees who have been fired; are out sick; or simply too overwhelmed to complete their own assignments; I must admit that I rather like my hair and would like to keep it just a little while longer before old age takes the privilege away from me.

As if coming to work isn’t hard enough in itself, especially after having dealing with the hard blows that life can throw at you , I have to come into the office and fall behind in my workload to attend 3 hour staff meetings and sit through meetings to discuss what’s going to be discussed in the next meeting.


While my colleagues are freely attending extended 2 hour lunches, I have approximately 22 minutes to eat, digest and shit before the next emergency arises and my ulcer once again rips through the lining of my stomach. The bags under my eyes from lack of sleep are heavy enough to carry a load of nervous tension as I twitch uncontrollably and break out into hives when I hear your high heels stomping towards the entrance of my office. Hiding for the sake of sanity is my first inclination, however there’s no time permitted on my calendar, as poking my eyeballs out with a number 2 pencil has taken up all of what’s left of my free time.

I’m not writing this letter to complain about the 200% increase in work, the disrespect of those needy ass coworkers who only come to me when they require something while ironically forgetting my name, or the fact that the cafeteria serves yesterday’s coffee every day and always seems to run out of sugar when I’ve finally found enough energy to drag myself by the collar to the coffee pot. I’m writing this letter to you to say, “Help.” Help me to understand why my outstanding performance evaluation has omitted me from getting the change in job title, the slightly bigger broom-closeted corner office, or the pay increase to match the duties I’ve collected since the last 5 – 7 employees left the company. Help me to understand why our department rests on the top floor when studies show that people inflicted with heavy amounts of stress are inclined to jump out of a window in hopes to land in the middle of a busy intersection. Help me to understand why when it comes time to offer kudos, Jane and John’s names are the first to be called when I’m the one who scarred myself to write the proposals, the memos, the cover letters, the charts and graphs, the powerpoint presentations and even ordered the ink pens that they penned their John Hancocks with.

Even now, as I write this letter to you, I must cut my time short because I only have 37 seconds to run to the bathroom, pee quickly and get to the conference room for the staff meeting that I’ve only been invited to because someone is needed to carry the heavy boxes of reports that’s going to be passed out to the rest of the team.

It’s not that I don’t love my job, because I do. I just want to live long enough to appreciate and enjoy it and buy the donuts that my small paychecks can only afford. You guys are killing me slowly. I implore you – HELP!  Hire a temp; build another me out of match sticks and Elmer’s glue.  Hell, I don’t care! But pretty soon there’s not going to be enough of me to go around because I’ll be buried somewhere 6 feet under a pile of manila folders.

Sincerely,

Your most humble, gracious and dedicated employee
with only ½ a head of full hair.

P.S.,

You have a call on line 2.


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Quote of the week:   “An ant on the move does more than a dozing ox.”


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Office Work Leads to Excessive Alcohol Consumption

If we were to take a trip back in time to the era when alcohol was first invented (roughly 10,000 B.C.), we’d stumble upon the first person to blame their steamy night of unbridled passion on liquor. We’d stumble upon the first wino. We’d also stumble upon the first person to ever have a hangover at work.

 

Fast forward a few thousand years later and not much has changed. The average man or woman today can be found wobbling the streets in an off balanced attempt to walk off the beer bottles and shot glasses from their previous night (or their lunch break) that could potentially land their cold sweats in some major hot water.

As common as it is to drink in lively spirit (or even in depression or out of sheer voracity), it is equally as common for man to drag himself to the office by the collar with a hangover from hell. This act is about as common as skinny jeans for men and outlandish faux eyelashes for women and drag queens.

If you say you’ve never gone to work with a hangover you’re a liar. And if you believe your colleagues spend half the morning vomiting in the office pee-hole because they ate a bad bagel, you’re a fool. In fact, office work leads to  excessive consumption of alcohol. It’s a proven fact.

These days, employees drink to drown high levels of work-related stress. They drink to avoid punching their colleagues and supervisors in the nose. They drink to mask the tasteless flavors of the job’s cafeteria food. They drink to help them sleep through half of the eight hour work day. They drink because it’s necessary.

Even though there are ways to hide a hangover – scotch tape connecting the eyelids to the eyebrows; toothpicks in eyelids; painting pupils on closed eyes; bleach-based eye drops; – why bother going through all that effort, especially if and when the hangovers are a result of work overflow?

Instead of laying shame on the enormous intake of fermented beverages, hangovers should be something to be proud of. Excessive drinking brought on by the overwhelm of the office is validation that an employee is working harder than the human body can take. It means that employee is actually doing something between the hours of 9AM-5PM. He/She is doing his/her work, even if they are cranky from work overload and slowly bleeding to death from unfiled paper cuts and blisters on their keyboard typing fingers. Who cares if the employee’s head is ready to implode as long as the week’s progress report is up to par?

Managers in the workforce that forbid their employees to drink on the job ought to be ashamed of themselves. They want their cake and they want to eat it too, but not offer any of the damn cake to the drunk worker so he/she can soak up the liquor still lingering in their system. Isn’t that selfish?

Hard working employees shower with their clothes on to save time in the morning to go to work for a man dressed in a starched button down shirt who can’t even remember his department team members’ names. They hang themselves up in the closet at night hoping that being that much closer to their wardrobe will save them a confusing amount of effort of trying to decide what to throw on in the morning that will allow them enough time to catch the 7:10am shuttle bus.  And that amount of trouble is still not enough to convince manager(s) to implement a policy that supports the purchase of vodka and brandy from a vending maching inside the staff break room. Seriously, is that too much ask?

Employers don’t realize by now that employees that are bright-eyed and bushy tailed are really slackers? Those peppy office mates must not be underworked if they are not suffering from the medically acclaimed “Idranktoomuchlastnightis” or “Idranktoomuchonmyfifteenminutecoffeebreakoxology,” like all the rest of the American workforce. They are obviously not stressed out from full inboxes, emails and extended staff meetings. They are purposeless to the team and therefore should be fired. And any manager that doesn’t realize that ought to be fired too. Or set on fire.

Until employers, managers, supervisors, bosses, or whatever title they go by these days, hip themselves to the various stresses their subordinates go through every day, employees will continue to come to work with red eyes and fiery attitude problems. They will continue to sweat gin through their open pores. And they will continue to secretly sneak a swig from their flask under their desk just to get the job done and ensure themselves that they’ll get a paycheck at the end of the week.

Don’t think all managers don’t know that they are employing professional alchies to type a winning memo to the boss’ boss. Congress simply has not yet passed an appropriate bill that will allow those managers to stop playing stupid.


Quote of the week:  “Alcohol may be man’s worst enemy, but the Bible says love your enemy.”

Office Wars: Payback is a Beast

office-prank-bearGuys and gals, it’s been a while since my last office gripe. I believe since the last time I hurled a staple remover at one of my office mates, I’ve settled comfortably in my emotions, allowing me to tell my colleagues to fuck off while smiling very respectably and sipping on a cup of hot raspberry tea.

Well today one of my colleagues, we’ll call her FAT ANNIE, pulled one of her usual “I-can’t-do-anything-except-put-on-a-front-for-anyone-that-bears-a-high-ranking-title” routines.  It’s not as important to tell you what FAT ANNIE did to piss me off. Besides, no one cares about the why. They only care about the what happens next.  I think I can answer that question. Well, presumably anyway.

Here’s a recap of what went down. Someone out there is curious to know why I’m plotting my revenge:

FAT ANNIE was being her usual worthless self. When I needed something from her in order to complete an assignment, her verbal responses were just as worthless as her physical laziness.  When she couldn’t muster up any more intelligent stupid words to say, she said fuck it all together and completely dismissed me.  Naturally, because I was already upset for being at work in the first place when I’d rather have been a thousand other places with anyone but her, I almost lost my cool. I almost forgot that I wasn’t out on the strip (even though I often joke that the workplace is a hoe stroll where a bunch of proprietors dressed up in second tier Sunday garments sign off on employees’ paychecks, making us [loose employees] their bitches for hire).

Instead of jumping off the deep end, I punched a hole in her Mac computer monitor and stomped out of her office. I mean I literally stomped out like a college marching band. It may have been a little dramatic but who cares? Work is boring and I bring the theatrics.

I probably could have handled things differently.

I could have pushed FAT ANNIE out of her chair and threw it at her candy dish. I probably would have saved her from adding any extra pounds to her thighs. I could have put her ugly white pumps in the microwave and watched the cheap imitation leather melt. I could have taken a permanent black magic marker and wrote some colorful Chinese street slang on her forehead. The best part about this idea is that I don’t speak a word of Chinese (and still I can understand everything Ming Lee says to me from behind the carryout cashier’s window).

Alas, I didn’t do any of these things. However the day is only half over. *Rubs hands together devilishly*

Since I can’t go all inner city ghetto on her non inner city ghetto ass, what can/will I do to annoy the hell out of her that will cause mischief, keep me out of jail and keep me employed all at the same time? My choices of payback are limited, but I’m creative and will make do with what little I have to work with. Hmmmm. I might…

Plant a grass garden in her computer keyboard.

Garden


Create an infinite loop of shopping carts around her car. …wait. Didn’t I say I needed to do something that wouldn’t get me put in jail?  Dammit. Scratch that.

Shopping Carts


Attach an air horn to her seat.

airhorn


Offer her some mint-flavored Oreo cookies, or

oreos


Make sure the morning paper is delivered to her office every morning before she drags her lazy behind to work. Fortunately she’s always late.

newspaper

Watching her turn maroon red with anger will be more than enough kudos for me to pat myself on the back for making her miserable life even more miserable. And just think, I can turn her good day bad easily, and on the company’s dime! #WINNING


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