Cubicle Death #5: A Memorandum

MEMORANDUM
To:  Everyone That Has a Pissy Co-Worker

From:  Someone That Has a Pissy Co-Worker

Date:  March 9, 2009

Subject:  PISSY ASS CO-WORKERS

The purpose of this memorandum is to bitch about how difficult it is to work with a pissy ass man. 

I have a pissy co-worker.  We’ll call him John to protect his identity.  When I first started working at my new job, he seemed like a nice enough guy, although a little slow and common.  We’re polar opposites; we do not have any views in common except that we both feel rejected by the black race.  Our reasons for feelings of rejection are completely different, but that is not the subject of this memorandum.

John is, sadly, a spoon-fed sheep, one of the simple-minded and unimaginative denizens of this failing country.  Everyday, he shows up to work on time, grunts out a “good morning,” and turns on the daily news at his desk.  On our wretchedly government computers we’re not allowed to do fun things like Youtube, Myspace or even Google.  We’re only allowed to look at state-sponsored brainwashing media sites such as Fox News. 

While I have no problem with this, I do have a problem with being forced to listen to it for six hours a day.  I arrive at 630, John arrives 730.  I leave an hour before him, so therefore six hours a day I am subjugated to the incessant rambling of media reports “shocked” and “agog” at everything that is happening in the world of useless news.  If I hear the words “suicide bomber,” “President Obama,” or “Rihanna” again in my life, I’m going to stick a sharply pointed object into my own eardrums.

While his speakers aren’t blasting, per se, they are set at the volume that would be quite annoying to someone who is actually trying to get some work done.  It is particularly annoying when there’s nothing to be done, and I’m sitting there listening to this droning buzzing noise for hours on end.  I thought about speaking to him about the noise level of his speakers, but once he told me that another co-worker had complained and he pretty much told her to kiss off.  For some reason, I thought it would be wisest to let the supervisor talk to him.  Perhaps I was wrong in this assessment.

At any rate, I wrote a short email to the supervisor and asked her to speak to him about the level of noise coming from his desk.  I suggested that since I have headphones for my CD player, considering that I’m sure that no one is interested in listening to Skinny Puppy’s greatest hits, that he might want to invest in a pair of speakers if he wanted to listen to his news all day.  Somedays it was so loud and annoying that I could hear the babbling of reporters over my Suicide Commando.  And we all know how thrashing Suicide Commando can be.

I wrote the email last Wednesday.  On Thursday, I noted that he had headphones.  Mission:  accomplished.  Situation:  Over.  Friday I was out of the office for drill.  Monday, when he arrived at 730, without even saying–excuse me, grunting “Good morning,” he says, “Instead of running to the supervisor about my speakers, you should have just said something to me.  I thought that was very immature and childish of you.  Since it’s like that, don’t even talk to me anymore unless it’s about work.”

…. immature and childish….. don’t even talk to me anymore…..

Apparently, John doesn’t know the meaning of immature and childish.  What grown man says, “Don’t even talk to me anymore?”  Like we’re kindergartners, “You’re not my friend anymore.”  Frankly, speaking to him wasn’t such a great pleasure.  He is unbelievably closeted, uninspired and dim-witted.  He’s also a heathen–just to throw that in there.

I didn’t even respond.  In fact, I didn’t even look up from the work I was doing.  I just acted like he was talking to the air.  Then he flounced down in his seat, turned on the tap of absurdities (Fox News) and sat there dumb-faced for the rest of the day.

How do I always keep running into these morons?  “Don’t talk to me anymore?”  Seriously.  I mean, seriously.  If it’s not scabby whores from that prison camp, or constant sexual harassment, then it’s some man on his eternal period.  Please, pry the Tampax out of your ass, you are clearly PMSing.

So, I will revert to a tried-and-true method.  No, I won’t do my usual bit of cussing him out every five seconds; I’ll just kill him with kindness every chance I get.  And I’ll do it in from the supervisor.  Whenever I get a chance, I’m just going to be like, “So, John, how was your day?” or “Is there any work I can help you with?”  Oh, keep it cool and professional, making sure not to sound too cheesy, but like I actually care.  I’ll pose my questions so that he has to respond or he’ll look like an asshole in front of the supervisor. 

I hope you realise this means war, John, where ever you are, in your small, little confined world, eating your tofu and worshipping your non-God. 

Pissed much?  Yeah.

Sincerely,

Principessa
O Soave Fanciulla
Of the Entire Universe

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