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.