Post-I.T.

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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

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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.