Don’t Whistle While You Work

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.

 

executive custodial specialist, man

i’m a janitor at the local college. obviously cleaning up puke and shit isn’t my idea of a great day or anything, but what really pisses me off is this professor. he wears tweed coats with elbow patches — and that’s fine, be a professor if you’re a professor — and then he tries to pretend like he’s all working class, like me and him are in this together or something. i was mopping up some disgusting shit in the hallway and he comes up to me and he’s like “how was the weekend, man?” the weekend was fine i say. “yeah i know whatcha mean, man, fine weekends — just chillin’ and shit. that’s where it’s at, man.” i wanted to punch him right then and there.

later i was laying sawdust where this kid threw up and the professor comes up to me and says “man, this job is killing us.” i say killing us? we have different jobs. “yeah, i know whatcha mean, man, but really we’re both just employees. we’re both controlled by the employer. man.” he almost forgot to say man that time. “well,” i said, “if our jobs are so similar maybe you’d wanna switch then?” i could tell he wasn’t so crazy about this idea. “yeah, we could, but you’ve already been trained in your field, and i’ve been trained in mine. and god’s honest truth, i don’t think i could ever catch up. besides,” he went on, “your job ain’t so bad.” yeah, he said ain’t. “just instead of telling girls you’re a janitor, tell them you’re an executive custodial specialist, man.” i just about shit a brick. “you really think that’ll work,” i say. “no doubt about it, man. what sounds better to you — janitor or executive custodial specialist?” both sound kind of shitty, i say, and i walked down the hallway and out the door.

 

“Not very bright”

My boss is pretty much the worst person in the world. He drinks on the job, he belittles me publicly (that is, when he’s not sexually harassing me), and he’s overall just a dumb guy. Every morning when he comes in he rates my appearance from 1-10. “Good morning, Leslie,” he’ll say, looking me over. “Six.” What I almost hate more is that, whether I want to or not, I actually try to look nice so I can get a higher rating. When I get an eight or a nine, I actually feel like I’m on top of the world or something. How pathetic is that. And whenever I ask him a question, no matter what the question is, his response is the same: “You’re not very bright, are you.” Not a question, an observation. I think he even intentionally speaks vaguely to lure me into asking a lot of questions. “Did he call yet?” “Did who call?” “You’re not very bright, are you. Johnson. Did Johnson call yet.” “Ed Johnson from Tampa or Greg Johnson from Tallahassee?” “You’re not very bright, are you. Binnie Johnson from Charleston.” “You told me not to fax the forms over to the South Carolina office.” “You’re not very bright, are you. I’m talking Charleston, West Virginia. You know, the fucking state capital?” He actually has me starting to doubt my own intelligence — did I just get really lucky on all those exams? before this job had I, by chance, only interacted with the dumbest people in the universe who, by comparison, made me seem smart? should I just give up on having a career and start pumping out not-very-bright babies? God, I can’t wait until one of us gets fired!

 

im a cleaner

ive been a housecleaner for like five years now and im getting sick of it. the people i clean for must be the richest snobbiest people in all of indianapolis. i was eating a bolonie and mayo sandwich the other day during my break and they were like “my goodness, honey, have some real food.” and then they offered me some steak tips, which tasted pretty good i admit. the thing was, when i was sorting through the trash later that day, i saw a box for a hungry man steak tip dinner. so it’s not like they were offering me great food or anything. they just wanted me to feel bad about my bolonie and mayo.

and i brought my son to work with me one day when he had off from school. they said “my goodness, dear, your boy is quite underdressed.” it was raining and sleeting out, and his sweatshirt was all wet. what they did was give him a trash bag to wear. they said it would be waterproof. when he put it on they said “yes, that looks about right.” i wanted to scream “we are not trash!” but on the other hand he did look very cute in the bag. and they were right, it was waterproof.

and i hate how they pretend they’re so generous. they always give us little “gifts” which are basically just things they’re too lazy to take to the dump. a few weeks ago they called me into the bedroom and made a big deal about giving me this white blouse. i was like oh that’s nice, but then i noticed a big shitstain on it. i asked what the shitstain was from, and they were like beggars can’t be choosers, my dear. i said i’m not a beggar. i just wanna know why this blouse has a shitstain on it. they said if you don’t like the blouse, then you don’t have to wear the blouse. now every time i wear it i look at that shitstain and i just want to punch them in the head. it is a very cute blouse though.

 

if only it wasn’t real

i’m a cashier at wendy’s. needless to say, i hate it. my boss is so enthusiastic i want to kill him. “come on, guys, let ‘em know when it’s real!” he always says. “hey john,” he says when he sees me moping around, which is like all the time, “are you letting them know when it’s real?” i say “yeah, shit’s about to get real in here, tommy. shit’s about to get real real.” which doesn’t sound great, i know, but my point is clear enough. wendy’s slogan is “you know when it’s real,” in case that wasn’t clear.

and people ask the stupidest shit. “is the chili good today?” yeah, it’s fucking delicious today. our chef, lorenzo, just perfected his recipe! “why is it called the baconator?” because it was invented in the middle ages by francis bacon. “do you know if there’s milk in the frosty? because i’m lactose intolerant and i always feel really crappy after i have them.” yes, sir, there is milk in the frosty. “okay you better give me just one then.” ugh it is so awful.