Things I Hate: Office Edition

I know you feel me on these, darlings. Let's hate together. Let's love hating together. Naked.

• Grown women who covet stuffed animals.
• Related: Grown women who display stuffed animals and cutesy figurines at their desk. This is not going to get you a husband, girls. And while you're at it, get rid of the plushies from your bedroom, too. Nothing tells a man "Run like the wind" quite like staring into Nemo's dead, plastic eyes while plowing the HR girl.
• The office douche-anova. If I don't fall all over you on my first day, I must be a lesbian. Or, pardon me, 'carpet muncher'.
• When someone finds it perfectly acceptable to let me listen to their diarrhea-induced anal squirts and gurgles. Have a little shame, people. And please-- don't grunt.
  
• The ever-present Asshole with a Bluetooth.
• When management-types say things like: "Getting our ducks in a row", "Playing a little catch-up","Let's touch base", and "Coming down the pipeline".
• Self-righteous kitchen notes. I know my mother doesn't work here, bitch. I left my mug in the sink because I'm fucking lazy.
  

Also-- that's not coffee. That's liquid apathy.

Next Up: DIY Flip Book to Read While Being Excluded by the Other Children

I love how the photographer didn't actually snap a shot of a completed craft. I guess he figured that an unformed lump of clay being poked by one developmentally-delayed finger was the perfect image to convey the book's intended message: "Kid's a little slow? Keep 'em busy with piss-poor handicrafts. It's the best you can hope for".

Also, please note the lamentable self-righteousness: "Through their hands, they shall learn".

And what craft project is complete without swastikas?

(All jokes aside, this actually makes me really sad. I hate everyone.)

Photo

Oh, The Woes of the Middle Class

Dear Resident Manager whom I will, one day, draw and quarter,

Hey there. We have a situation. Since November, the second of the two washing machines on my floor has been broken. Nope-- correction. It has been broken, repaired by your 80-year old husband, broken again, and again repaired. The cycle begins anew every 2 weeks or so. Now mathematics has never been my strongest area of expertise, but it is my calculation that this machine has been broken for 255 of the last 270 days. Clearly, this repair job is ineffective. Actually, I feel strange using the word 'repaired', because we both know this is not what he does. This is the same man who replaced a fuse on my stove... with another fuse from my stove. Now, instead of a malfunctioning right burner, I have a malfunctioning left burner. I blame myself, really. I obviously need to be more specific.

Please, please, please hire a real repairman for the building. I know you love your husband, but he is as useless as a hat full of busted assholes. The man has no clue now to fix shit. My Aunt Nita could do a better job. And she's 98 years old. And she's dead.

I suppose having two washing machines in good working order for a floor with 30+ residents is a lot to ask. Believe me, we've tried to make due. We currently solve the problem as follows: each Sunday, we draw straws to determine who will get to wash their clothes that week. It's kind of fun, actually. When I awake on the Lord's Day, I'm never sure if I'm going to have clean clothes that week, or if I'll have to rotate my wardrobe another 360 degrees. It's terribly exciting, really. It kind of makes me feel powerful and dangerous. Like the sun.

One thing I ask of you, however, is to actually empty out the stagnant wash water from the broken machine. I'm sure you're aware that the machine always breaks mid-cycle, leaving a basin full of grey water. I'm not in love with seeing the floating crust of dirty clothes. You think I'm exaggerating? Observe.

Yummy.

Love,
Michelle

P.S. I'm fucking serious. I will have you drawn and quartered. It hurts.

An Open Letter to Scientology

Fuck you.
That's right. I'm talking to you, Scientology.
Fuck you.

Who do you think you are?
First, let's talk about pedigree. A science-fiction writer? Really?
Because, the last time I checked, sci-fi authors were right next to infomercial hosts in the Least Credible Human Beings department. Following a religion that was started by a sci-fi writer is as ridiculous as following some treasure hunter who found a few golden plates in..... wait..... Nevermind.

And you really know your faith will hold up to the test of time if the only way you can get people into your church is to trick them. And don't underestimate the power of B- and C-list celebrities as spokespeople. Nothing says "Respite Of The Soul" like closeted middle-aged caucasian men.

Next, we'll move on to doctrine.
Or, at least we'll move on to doctrine in theory, because apparently you have no doctrine. Watching a Scientology conversion video is like trying to have an orgasm for 7 hours. Nothing is actually accomplished, and you get so frustrated you want to chainsaw someone's face off.

Also, who is this Xenu person? Because I could have sworn it was a fabrication of L. Ron Hubbard's imagination... You know, just some standard H.G Wells-ish bad guy. But I was wrong.... Xenu came here a long time ago and messed up our shit, and his grandchildren stayed here to make life difficult for people. Not like Concentration Camp-difficult, but "My family just doesn't GET me"-difficult.

As if this laundry list of foolishness wasn't enough, you also demand huge amounts of cash from your followers. There is absolutely no precedent in Western Civilization for asking parishoners to pony up mon....oh........wait....

I was wrong.

I guess you are a legitimate religion.

Please find enclosed your tax exemption forms.

Regards,
M. Wood