From the Office

2/5/07




You know, listening to someone else describe a dream is already boring, but listening to a coworker describe, entirely in run-on sentences, her nocturnal filmstrip involving Jennifer Anniston, Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie running around a mall, is a special kind of 8 a.m. hell.

It almost makes me long for the tedious and idiotic stories where she anthropomorphizes her cats to the point where you just know that, were they capable of even understanding a tenth of what she thinks they can, they would have ran away from home long ago. Or maybe thrown themselves into traffic to escape her black hole of emotional longing; one of the two.

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“Have you ever wanted to, you know, go back and change one thing about your life and see how you would have turned out? Maybe just one turning point?”

I can think of few questions more adolescent and narcissistic than this one. You’re only asking me so that I will ask you the same thing and you can tell me a long, boring story about how you wish you’d never entered that blow-job contest or some other malarkey. I simply could not give less of a shit that you are so unhappy with your life you wish to go back and see what different but equally shitty bargain-basement path you could have taken for yourself.

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I’m guilty of this one myself, but not since I was in my teens: Can we all agree to stop saying, “I don’t want a funeral; I want mine to be like a big party!” This includes all “hilarious” suggestions of things to do with your body, including having it pop out of the casket like a huge, grotesque marionette. We get it, you’re fun and different. Just stick to quotes from movies that were popular five years ago and we’ll all pretend like you’re not a jackass, okay?

If you think through the whole “funeral party” idea for a few seconds you’ll realize that, were you able to see it from some afterlife, that would suck big time. Who honestly wants a bunch of un-sad, drunken revelers at their wake? I’d much rather see my wife and kids crying than some douche I knew in high school using my gray, makeupped face as a coaster for his can of Pabst Blue Ribbon.

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The bathroom smells like somebody pooped on a grapefruit. I see one of three possibilities:

1. The cleaning crew is making some curious deodorizer choices.
2. We have an employee so terrified of scurvy he’s consuming citrus while pooping.
3. Someone, perhaps that same employee, is eating enough grapefruit to have transformed his poo in a way that actually makes me wish for the nice, normal smell of digested meat.

With thoughts like these, it’s a wonder I haven’t yet cracked into the upper echelon of management.

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Several laws of statistics lead me to believe that at least 90% of you who brag about the high intelligence of your school-age relatives are either severely delusional or lying bastards.