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To my co-worker who smells like mildew: All right dude. I understand you've been sick. And I understand you're a bachelor who finds women and our perfumy, clean-laundry ways annoying. But really, when we walk into work and are hit like a brick wall with an overpowering stench of mildew, it is going too far. Wherever you go the stench follows you like a kite tail, floating behind you and fanning in the breeze. People refuse to go to the back of the room for supplies because they have to pass by you. People avoid asking you for assistance because getting within five feet of you is a serious choking hazard. (We're thinking about taping one of those hazard stickers to your back. Ah, but who bells the cat?) I don't know what you did to get your clothes so totally enveloped in that particular aroma. But I have a few suggestions for you. 1, wash your clothes in some hot water. Sheets, too. 2, buy a bottle of mildew killer and spend an hour, tops, cleaning the mildew out of your apartment. Your bathroom and your windows are a good place to start. And 3, for the love of all that is just and holy, stop wearing the same filthy, smelly clothes 5 days in a row. You're frightening the trainees!
To the smug lady who threatened me: Your threat is laughable. Smirkable. Okay, I admit it. I related it to my co-workers and we all had a good laugh at your expense. It's the only pleasure we get out of our jobs, so I suppose I should thank you, but I can't bring myself to do it. I tried, I really did. You're going to get me fired because you don't understand how your bank works? Gee, that's logic for the ages. Besides, when you spat my employee number back at me and told me you were going to use it, you had transposed two digits. I didn't bother correcting you, I was too amused.
Good luck with that.
Lady, you were really nice to me on the phone, so I'm gonna give you a piece of advice, free of charge: lose the boyfriend. He couldn't handle talking to me, so you had to do it, while he stomped around the room, yelling cusswords , complaining, and belittling you for going through our verification calmly and efficiently instead of having a heaving princess-worthy hissy over it, as he was admirably demonstrating. Girlfriend, I don't care how good he is in the sack. I don't care if he's rich, good looking, suave or whatever else, no man is worth your self-repect. Kick his drunk ass to the curb and use your cell phone for a booty call if you have to!
To people who put stupid names on their orders: Can it. I have to call and ask for that name. If you're gonna put your name down as Goat Sex or Assman Assman, then guess what? That's who I'm gonna ask for. Yes, yes, you and all your friends giggle like mad when I ask to speak to Assman Assman. You think it's really funny. Unless you're 13 years old---which you better not be, as you claim this is your credit card--- it's just not that funny. I'm sorry your sense of humor is stuck in early puberty. All I am really asking is that you don't subject me to it. Is that so much to ask of you? Besides, at some point I may have a Freudian slip and call you Stupid Stupid instead. I'd hate to get written up for telling the truth.
To the crazy Italian lady, or whatever she was: You know, I had no idea what you were saying to me. You ranted feverishly, apparently livid over some slight, for 12 minutes straight without stopping, in a language I did not understand. Finally when you paused I tried to discover if you spoke any languages that I am familiar with; you did not. You eventually ended up speaking to another rep who recognized your lingua as Italian. You ranted at her for 23 minutes. You then ended up back on my line, where you ranted at me for another 10 minutes, this time in English so broken I could only get every tenth word. You demanded repeatedly that we call you back tomorrow, however you did not leave a number or a reason why we needed so badly to call you. You finally screamed to the heavens in frustration, tore your hair out, and threw the phone against the wall. At least that's what it sounded like. I have an idea---I should hook you up with the boyfriend of the above lady. I bet you and he would get along real good! Broken crockery, two languages worth of obscenities, hissy tantrums over god knows what, much pulling of hair and gnashing of teeth. You two should be an item, I'm tellin' ya!
Is it time to go home yet?
To the smug lady who threatened me: Your threat is laughable. Smirkable. Okay, I admit it. I related it to my co-workers and we all had a good laugh at your expense. It's the only pleasure we get out of our jobs, so I suppose I should thank you, but I can't bring myself to do it. I tried, I really did. You're going to get me fired because you don't understand how your bank works? Gee, that's logic for the ages. Besides, when you spat my employee number back at me and told me you were going to use it, you had transposed two digits. I didn't bother correcting you, I was too amused.
Good luck with that.Lady, you were really nice to me on the phone, so I'm gonna give you a piece of advice, free of charge: lose the boyfriend. He couldn't handle talking to me, so you had to do it, while he stomped around the room, yelling cusswords , complaining, and belittling you for going through our verification calmly and efficiently instead of having a heaving princess-worthy hissy over it, as he was admirably demonstrating. Girlfriend, I don't care how good he is in the sack. I don't care if he's rich, good looking, suave or whatever else, no man is worth your self-repect. Kick his drunk ass to the curb and use your cell phone for a booty call if you have to!
To people who put stupid names on their orders: Can it. I have to call and ask for that name. If you're gonna put your name down as Goat Sex or Assman Assman, then guess what? That's who I'm gonna ask for. Yes, yes, you and all your friends giggle like mad when I ask to speak to Assman Assman. You think it's really funny. Unless you're 13 years old---which you better not be, as you claim this is your credit card--- it's just not that funny. I'm sorry your sense of humor is stuck in early puberty. All I am really asking is that you don't subject me to it. Is that so much to ask of you? Besides, at some point I may have a Freudian slip and call you Stupid Stupid instead. I'd hate to get written up for telling the truth.
To the crazy Italian lady, or whatever she was: You know, I had no idea what you were saying to me. You ranted feverishly, apparently livid over some slight, for 12 minutes straight without stopping, in a language I did not understand. Finally when you paused I tried to discover if you spoke any languages that I am familiar with; you did not. You eventually ended up speaking to another rep who recognized your lingua as Italian. You ranted at her for 23 minutes. You then ended up back on my line, where you ranted at me for another 10 minutes, this time in English so broken I could only get every tenth word. You demanded repeatedly that we call you back tomorrow, however you did not leave a number or a reason why we needed so badly to call you. You finally screamed to the heavens in frustration, tore your hair out, and threw the phone against the wall. At least that's what it sounded like. I have an idea---I should hook you up with the boyfriend of the above lady. I bet you and he would get along real good! Broken crockery, two languages worth of obscenities, hissy tantrums over god knows what, much pulling of hair and gnashing of teeth. You two should be an item, I'm tellin' ya!
Is it time to go home yet?
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