Today at work, I got the inner-office Gchat message that no one ever wants to receive: “You’re taking three days off this week?” There is a zero percent chance that the inquisitive coworker is going to follow up that question with, “That’s great! Have so much fun.”
So I waited. And waited. And then the follow-up message finally came:
“Must be nice.” Yeah, you know what else must be nice? When I keep my lips zipped for your eyebrow appointments and when you’re late because your dog stubbed its toe. I may just start making fake appointments on Fridays so I have an excuse to cock-block my coworkers’ appointments, leave work early, and get my happy hour on. Now THAT would be fuckin’ nice.
But, “Must be nice.” is just the tip of the iceberg. Douchebag phrases run amok in office settings. Please observe.
“Welcome to my world.” Ohhhhhhhh shit. Thanks for climbing down off your high horse to have this discussion with me. Now, do you mind if we take a few minutes to discuss the actual problem at hand rather than have you guilt trip me about your life being sooooo harrrrrrrd?
“Can you do me a favor?” Yeah, I’ll blindly commit to doing you a favor before you express to me what that favor actually is. How about you and I have a quick conversation about the shit you need from me, and then I’ll tell you whether or not that’s possible. Capisce?
Which brings us to…
Anything related to a fucking printer. I don’t care if you’re asking me to change an ink cartridge, get more paper, or fix the motherfucking copy function. Long story short: printers are the WORST. They’re annoying, dated, and they never work properly, which is why everyone should just go green and work straight from the cloud.
“Why didn’t you follow up with me?” Uh, why the fuck didn’t you respond to me in the first place? I’m not here to hold your hand. Once I shoot off an email, my hands are washed of that responsibility until I get your response. The blame gets shifted to YOU. You’re on your own now. Don’t come cryin’ to me when the boss’s iron hand comes slammin’ down on you because you were too lazy to immediately respond to my fuckin’ email. Emails take less than 30 seconds to write, and if you’re writing an email that takes longer than that, then pick up the fuckin’ phone and call me. Clean it up.
“I had the weirdest dream last night.” Listen, everyone, this is a place of business, not Mr. Magorium’s Wonder Emporium. The last thing I want to do while I’m working my miserable job is listen to you tell me a story about something that you literally made up in your head. Chances are, I probably don’t give a fuck about your personal life anyway, so I give even less of a fuck about the kookie shit that you drum up in your sleep. Pretty much the only reason I’m single is so I don’t have to listen to my girlfriend describe her dreams, so please just go sit at your desk, ignore my emails, and talk shit about me behind my back while when I’m not in the office. We have a good thing going right now and, frankly, your dreams are kind of ruining it..
Originally posted at Sunday Scaries