Just overheard near my desk: “Mike, do you want to split a protein bar?” If Mike says ‘yes,’ 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 know 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.
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 overweight 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 support for 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 an 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 landing 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 her 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 which can suck more.
You know, a pinch of microcephaly might have done Rihanna a lot of good.
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 at least 24 hours. No one at work even says “bless you” when I sneeze.
Fashion faux pas should be a prosecutable offense, and penitentiaries filled with middle management who tuck their iZod golf shirts into their stone-washed denim 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 quickly passing life.
My coworker looks like Lee Harvey Oswald.
I always walk fast, not just to get where I’m going more quickly but also to get away from other people.
I didn’t wear a belt to work today. If anyone noticed, they didn’t say anything.
It turns out that my resting heart rate is 49 beats-per-minute. I told the nurse that it’s just a physiological reflection of how much I don’t care about genetically modified foods. She responded by asking if I use drugs.
The woman who sits in the cubicle nearest the doors to the restroom knows too much about everyone’s bathroom habits. Especially mine.
When I’m at work, I try to be as discreet as possible when listening to either Seal or Coldplay. People already consider me enough of an asshole.
Laser pointers are the office equivalent of Ed Hardy t-shirts.
Nothing is more pleasurable than watching a group of Asian businessmen arrive to the beach in dress clothes, remove their shoes, and wade into the water while yammering endlessly among themselves.
The beach is the great human unifier wherein everyone becomes an awe-inspired child.
The Planter’s Trail Mix I purchased consists mostly of generic M&Ms and raisins with the texture of jerky made from Bambi’s eyeballs.
I believe the beach may be the only socially acceptable place in which to wear Crocs.
Putting Thule racks on your Porsche 911 makes you both an idiot and an asshole.
I wish it were socially acceptable to kick over the finished sandcastle of the overweight children playing on the beach. Because every child needs to be taught a lesson, and overweight children need the extra work.
Apparently, it is incumbent upon everyone else to tolerate your adorable screaming baby.
If after you press the flight attendant call button the flight attendant does not immediately appear, start pressing it repeatedly. They respect that.
The autistic child seated next to me on the plane was better company than you might otherwise expect. Upon landing he pointed to a Canadian Airlines plane and asked, “Why would anyone want to go to Canada?” I said I didn’t know.
He told me that he wasn’t supposed to talk to strangers because they might be dangerous. He then asked me if I was dangerous. I told him that depends on who you ask.
He later asked if I would be sitting next to him on his return flight home. I had to help him unbuckle his seatbelt.
If you prefer to sit in the middle of the walkway near the terminal gate with your backpack serving as a backrest, thereby causing people to walk around you as they struggle to get to and from their own gates, I can’t help but hope that your plane takes a nosedive shortly after takeoff. The other passengers will be collateral damage in the service of a higher purpose. Not unlike the brave men who stormed the beaches at Normandy.