There are just some things....

Sometimes there are things that just need to be said.....

Dear Secretary: While I do appreciate everything you do for me, really, there are a few things I need to get off my chest. Please take a memo. Or something.


1. i can't tell you how fucking irritating it is that you always type your emails in lower case. we all learned in first grade that the first letter of a sentence is always capitalized, names are capitalized, and when referring to yourself, "i" is capitalized. you're a secretary for christ's sake. nobody, especially you, is that fucking busy to make one extra mother-fucking keystroke to properly punctuate.

2. In the same vein: Please, quit using the asshat Smiley Face, Wink Face, Sad Face, or Crying Face characters in your emails. I am going to walk over to your cubicle and Kick You In The Face if you persist with using those stupid little emoticons or whatever the fuck they're called. The last thing I want to see in your email is some retarded yellow blob, bouncing up and down with its eyes bugging out, and its tongue wagging at me. Knock that shit off. We're grown adults. It's embarrassing. Really.

3. I don't care, and really don't want to hear, about your personal health issues. I understand you are getting a little long in the tooth these days, and have scheduled more doctor appointments than that fucking boy in the bubble. Honestly, I don't really care. What bothers me is that you felt compelled to explain how the gynecologist kept you in stirrups for "hours" with your clothes off. I really did not need to visualize your saggy, white cottage cheese-ass and varicose-veined legs pinned up, spread eagle into the air. That was so very, very wrong of you to burn such a vile image into the deep recesses of my ganglia. Shame on you.

4. You are _right outside_ my office door. You have a cubicle, which is generally not conducive to keeping conversations private. When you're on the phone, making personal calls, guess what? I can hear you. Again, I'm not a hard ass, and I could give a shit if you make personal calls. But if you're going to talk TO YOUR DAUGHTER about how badly you need "dick" (and I'm not talking about Richard, either) -- please do it somewhere else. Although I understand that women over 55 need sex too, the thought of you getting "dick" in any shape or form, honestly, makes me want to hurl. For all that is good and sacred, please stop.

5. I don't do the hiring or the firing here, and I don't have anything to do with how much money you make. So don't complain to me. I realize you have a car payment and rent. Guess what? So does almost everyone else, sweets. Make it work. Maybe instead of buying out the Macy's make-up department and using every known cosmetic cover-up known to mankind, perhaps you could use some of that money for your bills? Hmmmm. Just a thought.

6. You're a short, pudgy woman. God cursed you and holy shit do you hold a grudge. But you don't have to make it up for it by playing Hitler around here to the rest of the staff. In particular, there is the hot little number they just hired in accounting, and already, she's complained about the way you've been treating her. God help you if she quits because of you. I have never been happier coming to work these last few weeks, lusting after this particular hottie like a sex-starved teenager. Don't screw it up or I'll take away your computer and force you to use carbon paper and that old manual typewriter in the storage room. Good luck surfing the 'net on that puppy.

7. Last, but certainly not least, BRUSH YOUR TEETH. Oh. My. God. What in the holy fuck do you eat in the morning? Onion and garlic sandwiches with a side of shit? Within 30 seconds of you arriving here each morning, those horrific, hell-sent mutant molecules from your disgusting piehole find their way into my office, mounting a full-on assault. I brace myself, because I know within moments you will step foot into my office, spouting your fog of pure evil into my face, forcing me to internally chant "smells like roses ... smells like roses ... smells like roses" to keep you from wearing my breakfast burrito all over the front of your blouse. All this could be prevented with a $3 Oral B and some fucking Colgate. Please. I beg you. Brush those things.

Okay, that should do it. Thanks.