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Below are
this month's “Offings”.
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“BOTTOMS UP!” You love to call yourself a Project Manager but the only thing you seem to be able to manage is being a totally perfect asshole in every sense of the word. You stink, you’re hairy, you’ve never seen the sun, you have the intelligence and personality of a black hole, and everything that comes out of you is full of crap! I don’t blame you for hating the world. If I was a perfect asshole, I’m sure I’d hate the world, and God, and whoever else you blame for making you a worthless waste of skin. You pick on everyone below you, especially men, and yes, I know looking and smelling like an asshole has put a major damper on your social and nonexistent sex life, but that’s no reason to hate all men because of it. Do you blame them? I don’t know many men who want to have drinks and salsa and chips after work with a walking asshole. Do you? And just like an asshole, you pick on everyone and everything all the time. And especially me. An hour doesn’t go by when you don’t find something about me to pick on. Come on… you’re the big asshole, you’ve got a huge surface to pick on… so why pick on me… pick on yourself. I know. You see me laughing and joking and having a good time with the other employees, and boy that really gets your asshole in a pucker. You somehow equate having fun, enjoying life, having friends as something bad. We can’t possible be “working” if our faces aren’t puckered up in your asshole grimace, alone, hiding in that wet, dark dank asshole world of yours. No, because the more you see the rest of the world can laugh and sing and still get the job done, the more you see how useless your own existence is. No, the world has to be as lonely and rank as the one you are locked in, or else you’ll go crazy. And the sad part is, there is no way to put lipstick on an asshole and call it a human being. If you were just fat, which you are, yeah, you can lose weight, if you were just ugly, which you are, you can have plastic surgery done, if you were just stupid, which you are, you could get in some “book learning”… but when you’re simply just a Buick size asshole, there’s really nothing you can do to improve. Now, you’ve moved my cubical closer to you… so you can pick on me more, and “keep an asshole on me”. We’ll I won’t have it. One asshole in my pants is enough, dear, and I see nothing in our union rules that allows you to move more closer to your stench, just to try and make my life as miserable as yours. And to make matters worse, it cost the company over $6000 for this useless move, and don’t think I’m not going to be sending them a little memo on that fact, just as soon as I’m through “offing” you! See, the bottom line is this… you can try and make my life worse, but, my work is not my life. I go home to a loving husband, two wonderful children, a magnificent dog and two new kitties. I go home to love, and respect, and laughter, and passion every night. But you have to carry your asshole with you everywhere you go. So no matter what you do to me, remember… I only have to deal with an asshole from nine to five, five days a week… you? You have to live with it 23/7, 365!
CODE NAME: MERRYMAN “OFFING THE JACK!” Okay, wanker. Oh, sorry, can I call you “wanker”? I’m sure you don’t know what that means. Or you think it’s… “a good thing”. Yeah, you like that saying, don’t you, wanker? A “good thing”. That’s a Martha Stewart’s phrase. You know all about her, don’t you? You always say, you think you’re like her. You say you have the organizational skills of a Martha Stewart, and the ideas, and the… charm. The charm? You are as charming as stepping into a puddle of warm bloody puke, that just spewed from the mouth of a drunk homeless hag! Martha Stewart!? Every time you say that I literally throw up. Really. The only thing you two have in common is that you will both spend some time in jail. But the difference is, she got out. You’re too dumb and too poor to ever figure out how to get out of jail, after all the things I’ve seen you do. You want to talk about your creative use of an “expense report”? You want to talk about that “efficiency debriefing” that you conjured up out of thin air like some David Blaine stunt? You want to talk about your “improvement agenda” that you put your own name on, when it all came from memo’s we sent to you? You want to talk about what you say about our Field Supervisor every time he leaves a meeting? You want to talk about why the head of our mail room got fired after connecting you to the “anonymous” “Girl’s Gone Wild” DVD collection that was mailed here to “Hold For Pickup”? Yeah… wanker. I like that name for you. I really do. Wanker. You think you’re some kind of “worldly” person. You use that fake “Madonna” accent. What is it? Eastern? Boston? England? You have the pathetic audacity to use a fake accent to try and give yourself class? So, yes. Wanker. Because it’s an English word. Means “jack off”. Not in the sexual way, since you couldn’t find your own Johnson with a GPS and the entire cast of “Lost”… and even by some miracle if you could, the poor little creature hasn’t stuck its head of the hole with anything resembling a hard on, since they stopped airing “Mr. Ed” on TV Land! Oh, and a human of the technically male persuasion as you are, if I were you, I’d be real careful, what with your dubious sexuality, aligning yourself with Martha Stewart. No… I mean “wanker” or “jack off” in the more popular description: “one who is stupid, irritating and especially ridiculous”. In other words… a die-hard, pure breed “wanker” of the first order! The world is full of stupid and irritating and ridiculous people for sure. But what makes you a top “wanker” and not just laughable, but downright pathetic, is that when you do your daily stupid, irritating and ridiculous things, you somehow think they are genius, soothing, sensational! You actually strengthen up, put on this “kick-sitting” grin, and look around as if to say: “Hey, did you all just see what I said, or did?” Yes, we all did just see or hear it. And the only amazing part is, just when we think you can’t get any more dumb, annoying, or preposterous, you somehow top yourself! So, let me tell you something, “Mr. Wanker Stewart”… you are not a “good thing”. You are a very, very sad thing. And the only bright spot you bring me is one of optimism, since you have made me realize that this crazy world of ours isn’t as lame or terminal as I thought… since I have discovered from the very day I came into this company, that everyone, and I mean everyone from the CEO down to the guy who parks our cars, knows you are an insufferable self-absorbed imbecile. So I thank you for that. At least there is hope in the world. People do recognize worthless trash when they see it. Now, if only we can get them to pick you up and throw you away!
You probably don’t really know me. I work the graveyard shift, stocking. Midnight to seven in the morning. I’m the guy you see every day, or should I say night, at four in the morning, when I’m in the break room having my lunch. I get half an hour. That’s half an hour to do what I WANT TO DO. I can eat, I can go the bathroom. I can watch some TV, or play some cards. I can go to my car and listen to the radio. It’s MY TIME. Thirty minutes in a seven hour shift! Is that too much to ask? I can’t eat on my break. Since you refuse to fix the hydraulic loader, your “team” has to hand stock everything and push the pallets by hand on a manual carrier. I’m so tired by my break, my back, and arms, and legs, and stomach muscles hurt so much, that I have no interest in eating the stale junk from the vending machines, and I sure the hell don’t have the time or energy to make anything to bring with me! So what do I do? You know what I do, since you make a point of busting my balls about it EVERY SINGLE NIGHT! I write poetry. Yes. That’s right. I like it. I get a lot of my hurt out. A lot of my thinking out. I’ve always wrote poetry. But somehow, every night, just as you are coming on to work, you seem to find the time, in your so very busy schedule of solving the worlds’ problems and curing cancer, and figuring out how to help the economy, to stand behind me while I have just THAT ONE GOD DAMN THIRTY MINUTES OF MY OWN, and make comments about me writing poetry. As if I am “sloughing” off by writing poetry. HUH?! This is my lunch hour, which is a joke, since it’s actually a lunch HALF hour. By law, or just common decency, aren’t I allowed to do whatever I want during my break? Then you threaten to report me, if I keep writing poetry. REPORT ME? This now is against the law? What, only terrorists write poetry? Brittany friggin’ Spears writes poetry, you know. You going to throw her into Gitmo? I know it scares you to see words on paper. I know you don’t know what they mean. I know you can’t read or write yourself, or from the way you dress, you obviously have trouble doing the complex things like matching shirts and pants and shoes. Dressing one’s self takes a great deal of thought. And if you tried too hard, I know your head would explode. And if your breath or body smell is any indication, I’d say, no one taught you to brush your teeth or bathe. Or, no, maybe they did, but you know, that’s really difficult. Especially getting the top off that tube of toothpaste. That alone takes a degree. And the only degree you ever got was a 105 degree temperature that time you stood out in the rain and almost drown looking up at the sky with your mouth open! You know, I understand your anger. I saw a movie once about this kid who was raised in the forest by wolves, and was found by this guy, and got all upset, because they cleaned him up and he was sitting like in this library, and he didn’t know what all those funny looking “boxes” in leather with paper between them was, and he didn’t know what all those “squiggles” were on the paper, and it got him mad, and he started to tear up all these “boxes”, and starting throwing them around the room! So I know what it must be like for you to see someone doing this writing words on paper thing. “Fear” is not understanding the unknown. And words and thought and ideas, and putting food in your mouth without it going up your nose, these are scary things for you! I realize that. But do me a favor, okay? I only get these thirty minutes a night, and they really are my time. Not yours. So when you come in, and you hear people saying words that are more than one syllable, or you hear things being said that you don’t understand; like the words “sandwich”, and “night time”, and “rubber band”, and “milk”, or you look down and see me using this thing called a “pen” and magically this black stuff comes out of it when I press it against the paper and move my fingers, and then there’s these marks on this stuff called paper. Yes, I know that is scary for you. Things you don’t know, that you don’t understand are scary. But when that happens, do me a favor, and next time: JUST TURN AROUND AND RUN OUTSIDE, AND PUT YOUR HEAD RIGHT UP YOUR ASS AND HIDE UNTIL THE FEAR GOES AWAY. In the meantime, here’s a little poem for you from me:
Here’s a poem to
a strange little man
So instead of
learning a thing
So here’s some
advice from a friend
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