Coworker: I actually still have a Millenium Falcon toy that's only half-assembled. It's still in the box.
Me: Wow.
Coworker: It's probably worth some money.
Me: It's probably fun to play with.
Coworker: [Gives me look of confusion, incredulity, and a little shame.]
Me: [Makes engine noise.]

Just wanted to say thanks.

Sincerely,

Dan

Him: I know this isn't the first time we've talked about this. Your methods are becoming a little unorthodox.
Me: Well, excuse me. I guess I'd mistaken you for somebody else.
Him: Pardon?
Me: Somebody who gave a damn. Somebody more like myself.
Him: Again, I don't know what you're talking about, and I find these little cryptic hints you're dropping to be really —
Me: And THEEEEEEESE foolish GAAAAAAAAAAAMES —
Him: Oh, knock it off with the Jewel.
Me: ...
Him: ...
Me: You knew what I was doing?
Him: Yeah, and I knew last time, too, with the Lisa Loeb. Hadn't heard that song in a while. What's she even up to now?
Me: Wait, wait. I'm supposed to sing, and it's supposed to be awkward, so then people will read about it and ask me later if it really happened, or maybe they'll just compliment me on my quirky uniqueness that isn't even that quirky and certainly not unique.
Him: So this is all some elaborate set-up?
Me: Yeah.
Him: Well, then, why do you do it?
Me: It's a confidence booster. I'm the eldest child. It's a long story.
Him: Well, knock it off.
Me: Your thoughtless words are breaking my heart. ... You're breaking my heart.
Him: ...
Me: ...
Him: Are you quoting now, or was that for real?
Me: I don't know. [Stares off into distance.] I just don't know.

Him: See, this lede is a little too cluttered. You need to trim it, simplify it.
Me: But I thought what I felt was simple.
Him: Well, I understand that, but you need to keep an eye out for things like this. You've been here long enough.
Me: Then I thought that I don't belong.
Him: It's not that you don't belong, you just —
Me: And now that I am leaving, now I know that I did something wrong, because I missed you.
Him: ...
Me: ...
Him: What are you talking about —
Me: YEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAHHH, I missed you.

Me: [Hiccups.]
Coworker: That's a weird sound.
Me: You should have heard your brother squeal when I broke his f***ing neck.
Coworker: Okay, I'm officially never talking to you again.

Me: [Digs through papers on desk.]
Coworker: What are you looking for?
Me: I'm looking for three negroes who like to pop off shotguns.
Coworker: [Blank stare. Exits.]

A shiny reward for whoever names the source of the quote.

The old man, Tony, who works in my office, is yet another in the long list of reasons why I think that whole Greatest Generation thing is a big steaming pile of crap. He's old, loud, a drain on our work, and oddly bitter for a mooch with a cushy job. He's just a crusty, worthless old fart who doesn't wear socks and sleeps at his desk every day. The guy comes in late and leaves early, and spends most of his days doing anything but work.

He's on the phone a lot. A lot. Like phone-sex-operator a lot. He's usually bitching to I.T. about his "broken monitor/mouse/etc." He complained that his monitor was busted when in fact he'd turned it off while moving it around on his desk. The frightening thing is that he also spends a lot of time on the phone with his wife, who must be cataclysmically retarded when it comes to technology, or else have some kind of Sammy Jankis thing going on, because this old woman can't remember anything about computers. Time and again, Tony will yell into the phone something along the lines of, "Click on File … click on File … up in the toolbar … click on File … DAMMIT YOU KNOW WHERE FILE IS … you know I love you my darling … DAMMIT CLICK FILE." This can go on for hours. I kid you not, hours.

It would be a different story if he was clutch, if he came through in the last minute to help solve problems or provide valid advice. But he's not. He's as far from that as you can get.

It's just another reminder that my generation needs jobs, and we're waiting on this guy's generation to hurry up and die already so we can have them.

I worked as a Target cashier one summer, and was the only white male within like 50 miles of that building. My coworkers were a few older women who were rapidly approaching senility and some younger women who, though nice, were prone to ghetto bangs and that weird thing where they used really dark lipliner and light lipstick, making it seem as if they'd just polished off a giant Hershey bar.

I would often vent about my crappy Target job to my coworkers at my crappy movie theater job (being an usher absolutely blows, and that was a horrible summer for free tickets, too). I was tempted to show up on the first day at Target and pretend to be deaf or something, just so no one would talk to me. My friend Mac suggested that I feign some kind of mental handicap, and when processing transactions, pocket all the cash and hand the customer back a wad of green construction paper with "MUNNY" written on it as I gleefully announced, "Here's your money!"

I'll always wish I'd done it.

I'm pretty sure the online guy who's desk is at most 17 feet from mine is only days away from coming to work and shooting up the place, and when the S.W.A.T. team finally takes him down four hours later, it'll be in some gruesome standoff at his apartment, where authorities will find the bodies of small animals and various runaways/hobos entombed in a room full of old refrigerators.

I'm just saying, the guy creeps me out.

I walked down the hall to get a soda from the machine, which is right next to the men's room, which I always thought was weird, since the last thing you want to smell as you stand there waiting on your Dr Pepper to drop is the foggy remnants of all those anonymous office dumps.

So I put in my 75 cents to get a DP (drinks are 65 cents, which is unholy, but whatever), and I reach down to the hepatitis-infected slot to grab my dime when my finger finds a whole little treasure trove of silver down there. I pulled out almost a dollar in change. Either (1) somebody/-bodies used a dollar each time to purchase two drinks and didn't collect their change or (2) somebody stuck in a dollar, which the machine ate, and they walked away mad, at which point the machine, sensing victory, returned the dollar in coin form.

Either way, it was a windfall for me. Winning the vending machine lottery like this has been in the back of everyone's mind since middle school, when we'd put in money and push two buttons at once and, on rare occasions, actually get two drinks for the price of one.

I don't know who used the soda machine before I did, but I've got your change now, sucker. Good luck getting it back.

Coworker #1: Sports-related question?

Me: Sufficiently sports-related answer using detail cribbed from Bill Simmons.

Coworker #1: General approval of response.

Coworker #2: Arcane and rapid-fire question about baseball?

Coworker #1: Equally obscure statement of agreement, displaying casual use of facts I do not know.

Me: Joking attempt to steer conversation back toward basketball game currently being televised!

Coworker #1: [Blank stare.] Grudging acceptance of same.

Coworker #2: Another baseball question?

Me: [Silent wish for Coworker #2 to trip and fall and break something and die.] Extremely vague baseball statement, demonstrating a solid grasp of the basic rules but nothing more. Attempt at casual mention of DH. Woeful misstep.

Coworker #2: [Glance at Coworker #1.]

Coworker #1: Derisive comment about my sexual orientation and/or ability to physically satisfy a woman.

Me: Laughing acceptance of same.

[Game ends.]

Following on the unwanted heels of parts one and two, I expand the list as follows.

The Sigher
You'd think this is the same as The Groaner, but oh, you'd be wrong. The Groaner elicits full-on throaty growling while he urinates, but The Sigher is much more discreet. While standing before the stall, he'll let out a light sigh, just shy of a moan, and it's genuinely unnerving. Tony, the old man in my office, is a constant sigher, and I'm always worried that the next sigh I hear will be a death rattle.

The Scouter
The Scouter is a crafty public pisser, especially when it comes to the office restroom. If he's looking for a stall, and at least one is occupied, he'll bolt and continue searching for a toilet not in use. The urinals are a different matter: If there are walls between the urinals, then The Scouter will usually use one regardless of whether the others are occupied. But if there are no walls, he might deem the proposition too risky.

The Reader
Many men will take a magazine to the stall, but it's another kind of man altogether that takes reading material on a urinal trip. I've seen it done, too. This guy stood there with a Sports Illustrated in one hand while peeing with the other. I like Rick Reilly as much as the next guy, but seriously, nothing's that compelling.

The Horse Whisperer
This guy can't finish the job of urinating without making little passive-aggressive noises in an effort to get his body to stop the flow. It's not uncommon to be stanidng next to him and hear "hut hut" as he's wrapping up.

The Conference Caller
Simple: This is the guy who answers his phone while at the urinal, which we've all done, since there's something inherently satisfying about the multitasking, not to mention the minor challenge of digging your phone out of your pants without letting them fall while maintaining a constant stream and avoiding a mess. The ballsier Conference Caller will actually place calls while in the bathroom, as if the acoustics and space to think are what he really needed to motivate him to do business by phone.

[Many thanks to The Oldest Guy I Know for assistance with the last two items on the list.]

I've been in the bathroom, and have actually made some new discoveries.

The Spitter
This guy fascinates me. While standing before the urinal, he'll lean forward slightly and spit into the porcelain, never pausing his flow. Why does he spit? Is he the kind of guy that spits all the time regardless of surrounding or circumstance, and was going to spit anyway, so he decided to do it in the urinal while he's peeing? Or is it some Pavlovian thing, where he started spitting while peeing a long time ago and now couldn't break the habit if he tried? Or does he just like the challenge of the thing, trying to lean and spit without making a mess? Weird.

The Bather
This is the guy who uses the office restroom for all-encompassing general hygiene. You'll almost never see him at a urinal because he's at the long row of sinks brushing his teeth or changing shirts. This is unacceptable.

The Zorro
This is the guy who stands at the urinal with one hand uiding the stream and the other hand clenched in a fist and planted firmly on his waist, as if he's been transported into a swashbuckler epic from the '40s. Not quite as confident as the Freehander, but more arrogant, as if peeing in a urinal is a task worthy of superheroes. Sometimes he whistles.

I've written here on more than one occasion about the various pitfalls I seem to encounter whenever I use a public restroom, particularly the one at my office. But I realize that many of you (or half of you, anyway) might still be in the dark about a few things. It's with that in mind that I present these brief but hopefully informative psychological sketches of men and the way they handle their business.

The Leaner
This is the guy that can't stand on his own power, as if the act of urinating is also somehow draining him of essential life forces. He will usually rest against the wall by placing his free hand against the area above the urinal, or if he's really tired, lay his entire forearm against the wall and rest his head against it as he urinates. I don't know what happened to this guy psychologically in his youth to make peeing such an exhausting act.

The Groaner
This guy has his own category, though it should be noted that Groaners and Leaners often overlap. But the Groaner has a unique way of dealing with urination, namely, to gently moan as he lets flow. This is almost always disturbing, since the last thing anyone wants while they're peeing is for the guy next to him to start vocalizing. He has the ability to stand on his own, but sometimes the groaning at taking what feels like the world's longest pee is enough to sap his strength, thus turning a Groaner into a Leaner.

The Freehander
This is the major leagues of independent urination. One of my bosses does this, and it's a staggering display of confidence. The Freehander stands before the urinal and pees without using his hands, often turning back and forth slightly in a move known as the "Cincinnati Hosedown." His feet apart, and his hands on his waist (or backward on his hips, like Forrest Gump), the Freehander does his business with cool ease. Not recommended unless you're drunk and/or Jack Nicholson.

The Singer
This is the rarest kind of public pisser, but also the hands-down weirdest. The Singer will, either to get things started or just to pass the time, whistle or sing or hum while doing his business. You'd be tempted to think that such behavior would be a display of stratospheric confidence that would elevate the perpetrator into the Freehander level. But the Groaner Corollary applies: Any talking is bad talking when you've got your piece out. After all, this is a public/office bathroom, not a camping trip. Bad call, Singer.

The Hider
The Hider stands there and urinates quietly, but can be startled like a deer in the headlights if a nearby urinal becomes occupied. This usually only happens in the most confined bathrooms, where only two urinals are mounted on the wall, elevating the risk of having someone come up to you while you're trying to pee, which is really annoying, I mean if we weren't in a bathroom I'd kick the guy right in the throat, can't he see that my pants are undone and I really don't feel like doing any kind of social interaction? The Hider will often seek out a bathroom he knows to be rarely trafficked just to revel in its peace and tranquility.

Tip #136: Start unfastening your belt in the hallway outside the bathroom. It also helps to mutter, "It's coming, it's coming," as you do so.

Tip #7: Answer questions/comments with Elton John lyrics.

Example:
"My mom just went back in for more chemo."
"Well, I guess that's why they call it the blues."

---

"You know, sometimes it's worth it, taking all the pies in the face. Sometimes you come through it feeling good."

"Yes."

"And how was your day?"

"Sometimes you just stand there, hip-deep in pie."

I walked into the bathroom, striding past the sinks and ready to head for the urinal, and that's when it all fell apart.

I just had to pee, so I was heading for the trusty wall unit, which is when the urinal flushed and Andy stepped back from it. He was too close to it for me to move in, too, and was in fact tightening his belt and looking down at his pants as he staggered forward and toward me, looking more than a little like a drunk, with his sweater still hiked up a bit, revealing a dingy white undershirt. Granted, zipping up while walking away is not uncommon, but still, you need to watch where you're going.

I quickly ran through my options: (1) I could do some kind of box-step zigzag and head for the second urinal, which is inexplicably mounted at least a foot lower than the other one, as if we get a lot of 7-year-olds in here on business. But, as much as I enjoy peeing in the little urinal and pretending I'm a giant of frightening proportions, it's a risky proposition, having to do with angles and arcs and all kinds of physics I barely learned in 11th grade and have long since forgotten. (2) I could take a step back and allow Andy to buckle up and pass, freeing up the man-sized urinal for my use. However, this would be awkward with anyone, and I didn't want to say word one to Andy for fear of getting drawn into an endless conversation, which would entail eventually killing him and hiding the body somewhere in the building, and this is already a busy week for me, so I didn't think I would have the energy. (3) I could continue walking straight ahead and enter one of the stalls and sit there and do my business, cowering in a psychological cul-de-sac of neuroses and self-loathing. Since it was the path of least resistance, and I still really had to let flow, this is the option I chose.

All this happened in less than a second.

[Also, in case you were wondering, my knowledge of urinal etiquette was recently included here. Read up.]

Actual transcript of IM conversation between me and a female coworker, who has just discovered a rather egregious typo in a review from a typically horrible writer:

Female Coworker: He's invented a new profession: physiatrist.

Me: Sounds professional.

Me: Physiatry is hard.

Female Coworker: Not as hard as analrapy.

---

"What kind of punch was it?"

"It was a right hook ... with a bit of a jab."

"A jabbing right hook?"

"That's right, Casey."

"And he threw it with his left hand?"

"This fighter's got remarkable skills, Casey, he's not to be trifled with."

Last year, while working for that unnamed but definitely horrible academic publishing company in Thousand Oaks, Crazy F***ing Denise pioneered the April Fool's plans around the office. It was a Friday, and she, being the heart and soul of the misnamed Fun Committee, engineered the hijinks: We were all to call in sick, or claim to have car trouble, or say we had the clap, or something that would allow us to come in late. Then we'd all meet at Starbucks that morning, and slip into the building while the managers were in their daily briefing. Then they'd come out and see us all waiting there to surprise them and, I don't know, we'd all have a good laugh and life would be peachy up on Walton's Mountain and our nipples would squirt sunshine and we'd all be bestest friends.

So, the managers came out, and wowee, they were surprised. Of course, CFD had actually cleared the "prank" with the department head, Kim, so it wasn't as much a practical joke as a poorly choreographed elementary school skit, somewhere on par with a plan that any 8-year-old could devise. And Shaunna, this idiot woman whose job title I can't remember now, took the whole thing up a notch on the hilarity scale by rearranging staplers and crap on people's desks while we were gone.

Man, I was so close to punching Shaunna in the mouth when I quit that place. If she'd been a man, I would've killed her outright, but since she was just a mannish woman, I had to settle for hating her.

I didn't even know his name until a couple weeks ago. Coworkers would mention a guy named Andy, to my blank look of confusion; I would ask what's the deal with the guy that walks really fast around the office, and was met with similar uncomprehending stares. But now that I know his name is Andy, I still feel better calling him The Guy That Walks Really Fast, since he's constantly plowing through the office, leaned forward, as if he's ascending a steep hill.

TGTWRF is also an avid hoops fan, and has announced several dozen times that he's running this year's NCAA office pool. Now, I didn't mind playing the Oscar pool because (1) I could stand to part with $5 and (2) I figured I had a good chance, even though I wound up in a three-way tie for fourth, meaning 10 people or so in my office did better than my score of 18 for 24. But, since I've written before about the permanence of art vs. the transient nature of athletic glory, coupled with the fact that I just don't care, I've decided not to participate in TGTWRF's pool. Not to mention that it costs $10, and I'd be better off shoving the ten-spot up my butt than filling out a bracket and pretending I know anything about players' stats. You want me to talk about how the styles of Wes Anderson and David Gordon Green can be seen in the work of Phil Morrison? Can do, and will gladly do. At length. But asking me to parse the Sweet 16 is a waste of everyone's time.

Plus, The Guy That Walks Really Fast is just creepy. I was standing at the soda machine, near the bathroom, when he pauses before entering to ask if I'll participate in the pool; since I'm from Texas, he expects to see Texas in the Final Four, he says/jokes/mumbles. I don't know how he knows I'm from Texas, since I don't recall ever telling him this, but I move on, asking him what the price is for the pool, knowing full well that it's $10 but hoping that he can ramble long enough for me to get a Dr Pepper and edge slowly away. TGTWRF then launches into how he decided to set the $10 entry fee: "It used to be $5, but this is my 20th year doing it, and I figure after 20 years, dammit, I can do it because it's not like it was 19 years ago when I was 14 I'm 33 now and I've been doing this for 20 years…"

… at which point blood starting running out of my ears. Thinking quickly, I threw my can of soda at TGTWRF's face. It connected with a solid thunk; he hit the carpet, blood pouring from his forehead. I ran all the way home.

Mt. Vejewvius

The Hasidic Hatestorm

I sat there on the toilet, minding my own affairs, when the door to the bathroom literally burst open as Tony barged in, announcing his presence to the urinals like an autistic Santa Claus, bellowing "Hello howareya?" to the online guy, who had the misfortune to be at the sink and thus in Tony's line of conversational fire. I unconsciously cowered on the toilet, hoping he wouldn't start banging on the stall door to ask how my day was going. Old people do weird stuff like that.

Tony sauntered (I imagine) over to the stall to let go and let flow, and as he stood there, doing the do, I heard him breathing, almost heavily, this open-mouthed sighing that was like the aural manifestation of depression. It's like it took so much energy to summon every slow breath just for him to stay alive, and that's about as depressing as it gets.

He finished and washed his hands, and I heard him talking while he cleaned up, muttering some unintelligible nonsense and then, as he opened the door to leave, he said "Let's see what we got here!," almost as if he were proclaiming his intentions to seize the day, or at least seize as much as his arthritic paws could grasp.

So that's my challenge to you, constant reader: Greet each day as if you were Garrison Keillor with Alzheimer's, old and defiant and too stubborn to do anything but what you want to do. Talk to yourself in the bathroom. Dream big, kiddos.

At my former place of employment, Amanda recently sent out a department-wide e-mail asking if anyone had seen an extra copy of the Chicago Manual of Style; the e-mail actually said it in the cutesy/mildly retarded prose to which many women seemed to gravitate in that office, saying that the style book had "sprouted legs and walked away," which I think we'll all agree is a pretty elementary way to address a group of working adults.

But the best part of her e-mail is her typo, one that, tragically and more than a little ironically, could have been prevented if she'd actually had said manual in the first place. She asked in her letter: "Has anyone seen an extra Chicago Manuel of Style"?

I've never seen Manuel of Style, but I bet he's one smooth operator. I'll keep an eye out for him.

[She's never going to find the style book, either, since it's currently sitting on my bookshelf. Suck on that, nameless academic publishing company in Thousand Oaks.]

I hadn't planned on participating in one of these things this year, but I'm playing in the office pool, so I might as well do this here, too. I'm actually competing with The Sis when it comes to the predictions; winner gets bragging rights. (Next year, when she's gainfully employed, we're playing for real money. Like maybe as much as $20. You heard me.) I also realize that by even writing this list, I'm being a bit of a hypocrite, since I wrote that while good movies are better than bad ones, it's almost impossible to pick which good movie is "better" than the others. I stand by that, too. But the nature of the show is to try and predict the winners, and who am I to argue?   more »

Stop referring to the receptionist as "Horse-Face McGoo."

Stop signing e-mails to my boss with "I wish I knew how to quit you."

Stop cc-ing aforementioned e-mails to the entire company.

Stop calling the printer "a defiant slut" when it runs out of toner.

Stop making vaguely sexual innuendos when replacing toner in said printer.

Stop telling people that holes worn in the crotch of my jeans and boxers allow me constant external access to "my downstairs rec room."

Stop introducing myself to new hires as "Billy Zabka" and/or "The Impresario."

Stop telling new hires that the 7th-floor bathroom is haunted by pirate ghosts.