If I could change one thing about this world, it wouldn’t be global warming, starvation or the horrible sewage that MTV tries to pass off as programing. I wouldn’t cure disease or free countries from asshole dictators. No, I would completely do away with bullshit conversation at work. A few hypothetical rules to follow under my new system:
1. If you say What’s up? or any derivative of the phrase, you better fucking stick around and let me answer. This practice of walking by me in the halls, asking about my day and then continuing to walk away because you could give two shits? It’s done. Either don’t ask me in the first place or stop and listen to me bitch about deadlines and idiots who ask inane questions.
2. Do not, under any circumstance, stop at my desk to talk to me. If you catch me in the halls, fine. I’ll bite. But at my desk, you’re probably just keeping me from being productive with your mindless babble. General rule of thumb: I don’t care. Did your wife just give birth? Son graduate college? There’s a gaggle of militant geese out front trying to take over the company? I really could care less. In fact, the only thing that actually concerns me, while I’m working, is work. So, unless there’s some project you’d like me to get started on, kindly stop hovering over my fucking cubicle.
3. Lower. Your. Voice. Clearly, your story about that underage, midget tranny who gave you a blowjob in the dressing room at JC Penny is as entertaining as they come, but it’s lunch time, we’re in T.G.I. Fridays, there are kids around and I’m pretty sure the dude two booths over is Chris Hansen. So, let’s take it down a notch, eh big fella?
4. Observe the Arms-Distance Rule. Nobody likes a close-talker. You guys make conversation uncomfortable for the rest of us. Are you going to hug me? Kiss me? Stab me in the chest? I can never tell. Just give me enough room to run the fuck away if I determine that you might actually be out of your mind.
That’s it. I don’t ask for much. Just a little revamp of the conversational system. You may think I’m anti-social, but you’ll thank me when that fucking yenta in the cubicle next to you wants to talk about Desperate Housewives.
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