The guy who sits next to me at work is named Drew. I hate Drew. Not because he’s a jerk, not because he’s a kiss-ass, not for any great reason, really. I hate him because he whistles at his desk. Like, all the time. I’ll ask him politely, “Drew, I hate to be an ass, but can you please stop whistling? I really need to focus on this report.” And he’ll be so great about it, it kills me: “Dude, I am so sorry. I’ve really gotta get that under control. I don’t know why I whistle so much. I don’t even really like music.” To make matters worse, he’s a terrible whistler — very airy, pitch and tempo all over the place. Sometimes I find myself humming whatever song he’s whistling in an inadvertent attempt to guide him back to the right key. And whenever I try to make myself feel better by talking shit about Drew to our coworkers, I’m met with fierce opposition: “What are you talking about? Drew’s a good dude. A great dude. You really think he’s a ‘rotten shithead’ because he whistles sometimes?” And I know they’re right. Drew’s not the dick — I’m the dick. But oh well. At least I don’t whistle at my fucking desk.