Just overheard near my desk: “Mike, do you want to split a protein bar?” If Mike says ‘yes,’ it’s confirmation that we can never be friends.
I wish the donuts they occasionally put in the break room better helped me forget my divorce and my failed dreams.
I sometimes walk to the bathroom at work simply as an excuse to leave my desk.
I find the receptionist’s intense conversations with Rebekah about cats very distracting.
I’m not concerned with the volume of my typing and its effect on my coworkers because I believe that each and every keystroke should demonstrate a conviction in the righteousness of your text.
When I have a terrible song in my head, I become self-conscious that people around me can tell what it is and are quietly judging me for it.
Milli Vanilli’s “Blame It on the Rain” has a terrible message for children and may be responsible for millennials’ refusal to accept responsibility for their actions.
Mariachi bands are the Mexican restaurant equivalent of the Chuck E. Cheese Rock-afire Explosion animatronic house band.
Sound systems in Reno, Nevada, should never play anything other than Train, Barenaked Ladies, and Creed because as a city, it doesn’t deserve anything better.
If I were a serial killer, I’d play nothing but Yanni and Enya while torturing my victims, just to make it that much worse.
I have one very long, very gray, very errant eyebrow hair.
I’m convinced that somewhere, someone has posted a video of me picking my nose in my car. And I don’t care.
I regard my toenails like estranged, illegitimate children. I have no emotional connection to them, and they can get very obtrusive and unruly.
I’m very concerned about being found dead in the bathtub after slipping as I struggle to see myself in the bathroom mirror while trying to shave my back.
They say that you should never ask a woman with a large stomach about her pregnancy because she may just be fat and not pregnant. Second on that list of things you should never do is ask your chiseled-chinned coworker if she was born a man.
When coworkers bring their children to work with them, it only reaffirms my endorsement of late-term abortions and my opposition to breeding in general.
No one commented on my recent haircut, which leads me to believe that I made a poor decision with respect to its style.
I am not impressed with grown men who attend office meetings wearing sandals with manicured nails.
I suspect that no one has ever told the attractive intern to just shut the fuck up.
The man seated next to me during opening night of the new Marvel movie was alone and proceeded to chew loudly on his fingernails throughout the entirety of the film.
People who don’t throw away their own trash after a movie should be sterilized.
I’m pretty sure that if I replaced movie theater popcorn with a bag of children’s scabs covered in butter, no one would notice the difference because if you enjoy popcorn, especially the movie theater variety, chances are you’re a fucking idiot.
3D movie glasses don’t block out the sun, and they also don’t block out terrible plot and dialogue.
Advertisements before movies make me wish that a body-armored gunman would storm the theater and put me and the rest of the audience out of our collective misery.
The thirty-year-old cashier at Safeway near my house has the Superman logo tattooed on the side of his neck, and the only thing running through my mind as he’s ringing up my groceries is that this tattoo is probably what prevented him from getting a cashier’s job at Whole Foods.
Whenever Anderson Cooper is wearing glasses, you know he’s about to have a very serious discussion about politics.
Commercials for prescription laxatives to treat prescription opiate-induced constipation are the equivalent of Little Debbie including insulin shots with its packages of zebra cakes.
I’ll bet that PBS has a very low viewership among Trump supporters.
The second season of Serial podcast gave the second season of True Detective a run for its money in terms of who can suck more.
You know, a little pinch of microcephaly would have done Rihanna a lot of good, actually.
Anyone who says “the exception that proves the rule” doesn’t have the slightest understanding of how science works.
HLN needs to find another sexy murderer—I’m beginning to tire of my Jodi Arias and Casey Anthony sex fantasies.
I consider it a violation on par with physical and/or sexual assault when a coworker approaches my desk to use my trash can and walks away without a single word.
I’m pretty sure I could choke to death on a piece of fruit in my cubicle and no one would notice for several days. No one at work even says “bless you” when I sneeze.
Fashion faux pas should be a prosecutable offense. I.E., penitentiaries should be filled with middle management who tuck their iZod golf shirts into their stone-washed jeans.
I enjoy catching people staring at my twitching right eyelid during meetings.
Choking on your own spit is God’s way of punishing you for not paying more attention to your passing life.