Scratch 'n' Sniff

I'm not even sure what to say about this. It's disgusting. I threw it away immediately. The others I've kept for my own perverse need to document my life in all of its amazing awesomeness, but this Post-It is one I need no direct memory of in the future.  I suppose I should be thankful that he didn't try to jam it into my comment box.

I wonder if Security has footage of whoever reached into the shredder to retrieve their note and tape it back together? That should stand out in the sea of people who stop by my desk to leave something. This place is loaded with cameras and Security is one of the few offices around here I haven't alienated this summer! Looks like someone's getting doughnuts!! (And a coupon for the gym!!)

Matthew Scissorhands

HAHAHAHAHAHA! Yes! At last! If you could see me right now, I'm doing a very happy dance in my cubicle, though if you can't it's probably for the best because my dance leaves a lot to be desired.

I finally was able to respond to my Phantom Noter in terms that he can understand: Eat shit and die! This is war and the tide is finally turning in my direction!

Also, my comedy stylings are way funnier than Gallagher, even with the extra fruit.

My Box Runneth Over

Complain and you shall receive! People were queuing up down the hall yesterday when they finally realized I had a comment box that they could explicitly tell me what they thought and as you can see, I instantly told them what they could do with their opinions.  It turns out though that everyone was going out of their way to write nice things like "you're so sweet," "keep doing an awesome job," "we need to hang out more, you're fun" and not writing me hate mail as expected.  So now just about the entire office is mad and not talking to me.  Maybe that's a good thing though; I hate everyone here too and the last thing I want to do is sit with one of them through lunch.

Wednesday the 29th

My cat is a she and she's far too much of a lady to come after me like that. Yes, she's a holy terror, but she's my holy terror.

Leave it to this guy to not follow instructions and use my fancy new comment box. Yes, a big part of me putting it there was to limit the area that people passing by could leave half-drunk cups of cold coffee, chewed pens, and their morning bagel remnants. But I also wanted to let my Phantom Noter know exactly what I think of him and his comments the moment he puts one inside the box.

You'd think figuring out his identity would be easy considering his complete lack of literacy, but then that covers so many people I work with.

Comment Box

To combat the summer onslaught of various love letters and/or death threats I've been receiving, I decided to build a receptacle to receive all manner of complaints.  It is truly amazing.

And yes, that's my bike in the photo. I'm that green. Eat it.

Fold This!

My "friend" keeps spending more and more time on these things. You'd think he'd have better things to do at work than coming up with annoying artwork. Facebook doesn't update itself.

Instead I get this stupid reverse Fold-Out. I would rather die than puke, I have never been fired (though I frequently quit), I don't wear pants at work (and my legs are much shapelier), and I don't drink beer (it makes me feel fat). C'mon, you can insult me better than that!

Also, it turns out my leaving the Post-Its in the I.T. guy's office wasn't his undoing; he was reselling computers he'd purchase on the company's dime for a nifty profit. I might still continue to take credit for his firing though, because I'm that kind of guy. History is written by the winners, or at least the person who gets to their blog first.

Guilt-Free

Are you freaking kidding me?!?!?!

I may have fingered the wrong man for the crime, but I agree with the Phantom Noter, there is no love lost among any of the staff here at our computer tech's departure. In fact, everyone with me on the second floor celebrated his demise over margaritas at lunch!

If you're wagging your finger in shame at me, I should point out that this Post-It is misleading.  The I.T. guy does not have any children. I can guarantee that no woman on earth would desire to procreate with that skinny-jeaned freak. Hell, I'm not even sure he knows how.

Post-I.T.

(to read the full letter, right-click and open in a new window or tab to zoom in)

Talk about resounding success! That asshole in I.T. got fired!! Game, set, and match! Now everyone has something to gossip about around here other than me for a good solid week. They should be kissing my feet for the service I selflessly performed on their behalf. No one around here liked that guy. Now I finally get a Post-It-free environment and I can go back to doing what I do best: being awesome and surfing the Internet.

I shall miss his near-daily suggestions for my death (both accidental and intentional) and somewhat entertainingly childish drawings of my cat and piles of poop, but not enough to care about his employment status. I certainly won't miss his surly attitude, greasy haircut, nonstop monologues about the latest superhero movies and why I should care about "The Hobbit", ironic soul patch, and inability to update my computer past Windows XP.  I could go on, but I won't.

You're welcome, co-workers!

3-Legged Bitches

I can't believe the women in Legal won AGAIN. It's infuriating enough losing to one lesbian, but two?  I can't even tell you. And I recruited some real talent this time; I was able to convince my work-friend Mr. Black to do it. (He's not actually black--that's just a codename for the Internet--though he is quite lithe and athletic.) It looked like we might win when I suddenly found myself eating a dirt sandwich, which I can tell you did not impress my superiors. I've spent so much time trying to figure out the identity the Phantom Noter that I wasn't practicing my three-legged exercises or coming up with ways to cheat like I should have been doing. Next year, ladies. Next year.

A Bone to Pick

I have been losing weight; I am not anorexic as my Phantom Noter insists on depicting me.

I like that the ants have eaten everything but my hair and that they find me more delicious than the giant basket of food next to me. I am pretty damn tasty though, if I do say so myself.

And I'm planning on winning the three-legged race at this company picnic. The ladies in Legal win it every year and I'm determined to wipe those overly-lipsticked, snaggletoothed smiles right off their faces. Those bitches better look out.  As soon as I find a partner.

01000110 01001101 01001100

I had to plug this into the Internet to figure out what it means:

S-H-I-T-H-E-A-D

I can only conclude that this is the work of that douche bag in I.T. because why on earth would anyone else go to such lengthy trouble to send me a binary-coded message? It's probably second nature to him and we haven't gotten the new Post-Its in yet, so this could only be from the stash I actually hid in his office.  I know for a fact Legal doesn't have any because I stole theirs myself.  It also explains the marginally tech-savvy DVD the other day and the steno pad he's been using this week is as outdated as the computers this place makes us use.

I don't know why this guy hates my guts so much. I've never done anything to him, and I mean literally nothing; I don't even say "Hello".

Special Features

A DVD! New Post-its still haven't arrived nor have they found the hidden ones in the I.T. guy's office, so the Phantom Noter has made do with a DVD.  I put it in my computer and was promptly greeted with the full screen message "SHUT THE FUCK UP". Classy. I always like this guy when he uses his words. It's invigorating.

Apparently this person doesn't work on my floor because if he did, he'd know that we're already out of toilet paper.  That's because of the long procession of "gentlemen" who use the facilities 20 feet from my desk like it's Hiroshima and they leave the door wide open for the fallout to knock out everyone in my area. I've complained to management about the noxious smell you can taste and custodial about getting the door to automatically close itself, but to no avail. My next move is to accost the staff in the office commissary and strongly urge them to provide healthier meals with less red meat and bacon.

Also, I've been wanting to put a bullet through Bart Simpson's head for years. He's just not that funny anymore.

Post-it Partum

(to read the full letter, right-click and open in a new window or tab to zoom in)

Oh my god. This has made my day! What better way to smoke out the Phantom Noter than an inter-office witch hunt?! The last time we had one of these here, it was a cross between the McCarthy hearings and the Nuremberg trials.  Largely over e-mail and all about a missing stapler. (It was eventually returned anonymously, but reeked of the homeless.)

Last week, fearing some kind of reprisal for getting caught hiding all of the Post-its in the office, I decided to stash them in a plastic grocery bag behind the potted plant in the I.T. guy's office. They're very eco-friendly here, so that would be doubly damning.  Plus, he's a dick, so it might even make me a folk hero among my co-workers when we look back on this at the Christmas party. I've asked him seven times to fix my computer and he keeps brushing me off, so he can burn in Hell. (But after the company picnic, because he makes the best ambrosia salad.)

Highway to Hello

It's not my death this time, just my cat's. And of course, there's the obligatory pile of poo again. These sketches of doom are getting mighty epic now that he's switched to the wide screen format of a steno pad. Who even uses those anymore?  It should help me in my search to discover the identity of my secret admirer, though the quality of the artwork might suggest it's just some over-educated five-year-old and not one of my co-workers at all, in which case I might be the one arrested when all of this is said and done.

What I don't understand is, why am I eating in such a low-rent restaurant with a view of the freeway and vermin?  Yes, I may work in a cubicle in a bullpen with no corner office in sight, but I still treat myself right when I go out.  And I never dine alone, even if I have to pay for it.

Mad About the Boy

I think we all know where all the Post-Its have gone: the Internet! Yes, I have locked them in my desk but my friend has persisted, just as I knew he would.  It's like he's the Marquis de Sade at the end of "Quills", determined to write, despite his lack of parchment and quill, on the wall in his own feces (without all the savagery, of course). Or it's like I'm being pestered by a Mad Magazine writer with a moderately entertaining fold-in.

It's something I find quite admirable about him and he's definitely grown as an artist. Just look at the perspective work on the lower doodle. I might frame it. Or use it as toilet paper, because we've also run out of that.

Who Shot HR?

(to read the full letter, right-click and open in a new window or tab to zoom in)

Human Resources speaks!  I have never gotten a response from them so quickly before. I once contacted them about a suspicious smell coming through the vents last year and they only just sent someone to inspect the first floor offices last Thursday.  I was convinced it was Legionnaire's and this was Management's not-so-subtle way of getting rid of some of the higher paid staff, but the workmen insisted it was just a rotting, half-eaten burrito the janitors missed (or more likely left behind).

I don't know what I was expecting. And the letter's not even spell-checked!  Statuettes instead of statutes? Must-fire instead of must-hire?  I'm not even sure "untowardity" is an actual word.  And leave it to them to put the blame of all of this on me! I'm not the one wasting company stationery to antagonize.  What did I do to deserve any of this unwarranted attention from a co-worker? I mean, I get it: I am--let's face it--amazing at my job. So what if it looks like I spend my day lounging around and chatting with my fellow man? Should I be penalized for a devil-may-care attitude, winning smile, and need for a generous inseam?  That just means my work is done and with style. If I'm running around screaming unnecessarily like the other morons around here, that's the real time to panic.

As for the pittance I can roll-over into my even smaller 401K, I'm going to use that to buy a churro with which I can bribe the security guard to let me into HR and leave a few choice Post-Its of my own.

Summer Vacation

If only I could take a vacation.  It's obviously not one of my bosses with the Post-Its because they don't like it when I so much as get up to go to the bathroom, let alone have one measly day off.  I suspect one morning I will come in to work and find shackles and chains in my cubicle.

I am most certainly owed the money from my unclaimed vacation days and I will promptly issue a memo to HR demanding both my hard-earned cash and some kind of action taken against the Phantom Noter, though if they gave me a raise or an office with walls, I would gladly shut my mouth.

Concentration

No flowery language like last time, just an incredibly simple pictographic message. Of course this person couldn't even make an easy statement like "I hate your guts" without messing it up. In a classic rebus one wouldn't use an Uncle Sam-style finger point to represent "your"; I would have used a Euro sign followed by a minus "O". Clearly this person has never watched a game show before.  And I am losing weight, still.  Why do people have to be so jealous?

Out on a Limerick

You know what? At least he knows how to properly pronounce Bangor. And rhyming "his desk" with "grotesque" is actually quite impressive.  And there's my adorable cat again.  Could this be Stockholm Syndrome?  Am I falling in love with my tormentor?  No, the rhythm and structure of his limerick is complete shit.  Also, he's making fun of Dark Shadows.  It would never work between us. I have standards.

Pig Latin

Okay, I admit, I had to look this one up on the Internet.  But my education was not about studying dead languages nor was it anything I'd call "fancy pants".  In fact, there was decidedly a lack of pants while I was in school.  Hey-ho! It seems to me this fool is just jealous that I can conjugate better than anyone.  So I'm narrowing my search parameters to someone around here with far too much time on their hands and a decent Internet connection.

Here's what I say to you, Phantom Noter: Podex perfectus es! 

Spoil Sport

No, I have not seen the latest and ridiculously long cinematic entry in the Batman franchise, but yes, I did go around the office telling everyone that Bane was Bruce Wayne's father and Catwoman runs off with Alfred.  The real spoiler is that they're all assholes who can't take a joke.  It's not like I shot someone!

Cross Words

I'm really good at crosswords and even this one stumped me.  2-Down was a particular struggle because "bitch tits" didn't jive with the given letters and "sophisticated", "solid gold", and "stud" are all too many or too few letters.

I guess I can cross off Wil Shortz from my list of possible offenders.

Language of Love

I like this one because of its simple message: "I love you".  It has certainly buoyed my spirits after a long, hellish week.  I'm really interested in who among me understands sign language because most of them can barely string three words together cohesively, let alone remember to close the bathroom door behind them after they use the facilities.

No one has lost their voice here, so the lies keep coming.  And it is definitely a man with all those Chippendales-type wrist cuffs, though certainly not a Chippendales dancer because no one has that good of a body here.  Fatties.

Scales

The Phantom obviously fashions himself some kind of erudite asshole.  Sadly, I think that describes nearly every person I've ever worked with in L.A.  Could it possibly be one of the several PAs lurking the halls?  I can think of several far more efficient ways of getting ahead in this town that don't involve stationery.  Ahh, memories!

That reminds me, this whole endeavor would be a whole lot easier if I ever bothered to learned people's names.  Eh, hasn't killed me yet!

Post-It Envy

That is the weirdest looking penis I've ever seen.

They Shoot Horses, Don't They?

I don't get this.  It's the handwriting of a serial killer. Or a doctor. Or a sitcom writer.  It really changes everything in my investigation.  I was starting to warm up to the idea of this mousy gal with a penchant for Red Vines and rugby who works on the second floor as the culprit but these are obviously the feverish chicken scratches of a man.  A man with no sense of smell, but a man.

Tailgating

This very well may be my favorite one to date.  Our extreme environmental laws here in California keep mufflers from actually belching out such filth, but I like the cheerful step-by-step directions to kill myself.  I find it interesting that this person takes such passive measures to get me to reach a grisly fate, especially when I'm planning on a much more gruesome end for them should I ever discover their identity involving a lumpy mattress, a tiki torch, and several voracious goldfish.

I should point out that I look nothing like Bart Simpson.

Because I'm Worth It

Sadly, I have been tired lately and all four of these options seem like a good idea.  Does this mean that the Phantom Noter wins? Or are the real winners the Powers That Be, who have forced me to put my investigation on hold so that I can be a "Team Player"?  No one likes the guy who scores all the goals. It's hard being amazing.

Encyclopedia Brown

Mother of God.

Someone's been reading my blog.  They couldn't let me be content to have poo-free Post-Its on my desk, so they had to elaborately go 3-D and with fold-outs.

I should probably inform everyone that this was definitely chocolate, but the implication is truly frightening, especially since this one time a few years ago someone left a Pittsburgh Sampler of their own in the ladies late one night.  It brings back awful memories of a witch hunt for that provided no real answers and quite a few tears.  I wonder if it's the same person...?

Big Bang

All I can say is thank God this "Artist's" poop phase is finally over.  I use the quotation marks because their rendition of a bicycle is complete shit.  I initially thought the new seat was my cat because the hand grenade looked like handlebars and I couldn't figure out for the life of me how sitting on a cat, though unpleasant, would lead to death.  Though the concept is good, the execution is horrible.

Speaking of horrible ways to go, I cornered the office intern in the break room and might have been a little aggressive in my approach to see if they knew anything about the Phantom Noter.  He may have wet himself a bit.

The Biggest Loser

This one is just plain mean.  Is it wrong to be proud of such accomplishments when they're for your physical well-being?  Is it wrong to be devastatingly good-looking?  Is it wrong to be... perfect?

I suppose this narrows my list of possible suspects down a fair bit; at least half of my office are fatties and a select few are morbidly obese.  Apparently, Jealousy is a husky mistress.  I guess it leads me to ask: why aren't there more attractive people around here?  I know we should hire on merit, but c'mon, there are some serious mingers around here.

By the way, my head is that big.

Up, Up, and Away

This one actually took me a bit to decipher, as I wasn't entirely sure what I was looking at and thought it to be a much ruder picture. All I can say is that I was mistaking those skinny arms as legs...

Frankly, I'm not sure if this Post-It is even an insult.  Is it a depiction of my demeanor or a homophobic slur?  Could they possibly be witty enough to have accomplished both?  Okay, even I don't believe that given the several instances of poop cartoons I've had to endure so far.

That he/she is eavesdropping on my private conversations leads me to conclude that despite all of their venom they can't get enough of me and it is in fact one of my mostly wretched co-workers, though it brings me no solace since I work in one cubicle of many and my list of of enemies and ill-wishers has grown since I started this blog.  No one seems to appreciate my sly interrogation techniques.

Words, Words, Words

Disappointment.  All words and no doodles?  Asshole.

I guess there really is no love for me.  And yet, he/she did give me a heads up that the awful, germy douche bags that I work with were all over my things again.  Man, I hate those jerks. Nothing would give me greater pleasure than seeing all of them die in the same horrible, fiery bus crash and then extinguishing the last glowing ember of their mass grave with my pee.

9 Out of 10 Cats

I think I may frame this one; the artistry is superb!  I like that my Phantom Noter really took the time to draw out every cat.  Each has it's own distinct personality: some are happy, some are scared, concerned, angry, and there's even a mildly retarded, wall-eyed one in the center.  I also appreciate the nod to toxoplasmosis as a secondary method of death should the implied suicide not work out.  Not that I'm planning on getting pregnant or immunosuppressed any time soon, but you never know... I'm a man.

Though really, how do I actually get my hands on this many cats, because I can't imagine a life more perfect.  When they all purr at the same time?  Heaven!

The Fairest

Still not a death threat, though loaded with poo.  I'm surprised there's no cat in this one since my new best friend seems to be obsessed with my pet, though they have gotten very polite in their writing.  If you're reading this and don't know me, I feel I should point out that I look nothing like what he's implying. The idea that I appear to be a three-coil steamer is completely preposterous; I'm a two-coil at best.

Day Bidet

Yet another Post-It graced my desk this morning.  I'm a little concerned that this person may be a fecalpheliac.  There are stranger things out there.  This one doesn't contain a thinly veiled death threat like the last, nor is it a particular artistic achievement either.  Frankly, I expected more.  I'm not sure I even work with them because everyone in my office clearly knows that I operate outside the confines of the historical business hierarchy: I answer only to myself, come and go at my leisure, and dress in a perpetual state of Casual Friday.  Want coffee?  Make it your damned self!

At least my cat won't crap on the floor now that it lives in this shiny new office.

The Nose Knows Nothing!

So it looks like the phantom Post-it noter has struck again.  There's no denying the hate, but also the love because they are obviously searching through my garbage.  They are also caring, because they have made sure that I get the five basic food groups.  I like the stink rays now emanating from my cat's poop.  Realism.  Nice.

Why Do People Hate Me?

A co-worker (well, I suspect it was a co-worker; it very well could have been one of several shifty-eyed janitors lurking around the office) left this present for me this morning.  I'm not quite sure what to make of it.  It says "playful", but I think there's a menace to the rather decent cat doodle. 

If only my cat actually pooped in such a perfect little pyramid...