Today someone complained that I had my feet on my desk. Yes, this occurred at work.
You know that I normally don’t write about work and several people at work may read this blog. But today I have decided that I don’t care about that. Today I care about that there is some whiney know it all there that is so offended that I keep my god damned feet on my desk.
This is just one of those things that really get you going. The fact that I put my feet on my desk has absolutely nothing to do with you. My job in all likelihood has nothing to do with you. In fact, it is more than likely that you are some depressed nutjob that has nothing better to do than to be offended at feet on desks. Most likely because you have very bad BO and no one can stand you.
But I understand, I really do. I mean if my life was so boring that my cat couldn’t even stand to be around me, I would want to create some drama to. I mean why not? I would imagine that there is only so much paint drying you can actually do while you are not doing your work and instead checking up on me and my feet on my desk. It’s down right understandable that you find this as offensive as your last date found you. So sure, let’s create some drama here and get really riled that my fucking feet are on my fucking desk in my fucking office.
I mean sure, there is absolutely no reason for anyone to come to my into my office other than my boss and fellow members of my unit as my job has nothing to do with anyone else’s job that works here. But that shouldn’t stop you, whoever you are, from making special trips to my office just to look at my offensive feet. Come on down and take a stroll, I’m sure your heart needs the work to break up that last cheese fry blockage that you may have there.
But listen, I’m sure that by now, as it is mid afternoon, your butt is nice and settled in your special order cow chair and you can’t be bothered to get out and actually come down here and take a gander at my feet on my desk. I got your back. What I’ll do, if you ever decide to make yourself known to me, is to take a picture right now of my offensive feet and then I’ll send you it in an email every ten minutes. Then you can huff and puff about how offended you are and thus get back to your Jerry Springer.
I know that a long time ago your stories let you down and that you no longer find them interesting. I know that Days of Our Lives and General Hospital just doesn’t tickle you in your special places anymore and that you have grown tired and weary without your drama. But maybe in the future you can instead go find your ex-husband and bug his newer and more beautiful wife that he replaced you with rather than making complaints about my feet being on my desk.
I know that I have been hard on you today, Mr. Or Mrs. Complainer. But seriously, I gotta know, is this really fucking for real? I mean seriously, who complains to somebody’s boss about his type of shit? I really don’t get it, I swear to god I just don’t. Please Oh Please explain it to me. I really want to know what’s going on in your fucked up head. Honestly, I won’t be all that mad. I would be more intrigued, like you are an alien that needs to be studied so we can understand how to really communicate with you. Of course, my message at that time may be “Get the fuck out of my office” but still, at least we would be on talking terms.
I know that this is a pipe dream because you obviously didn’t have the courage to come to me directly to complain about my feet. Because no one does this because no one is really at all fucking concerned about it, except you of course. But you may want to know a reason why I do this. Sure, I’ll give you an explanation. Because each and every day I go through thousands of applications for people who want jobs. Basically I read all the freaking day. It is more comfortable for me to put my feet up when I do this. And yes, normally I close my door because of dipshits like you but somehow you have found a way around this and still made the complaint. It would appear that you are trying awfully fucking hard to see my feet on my desk.
I know that you are to embarrassed to come to me in person. You know that if you did come to me the first thing I would do is to complain about your single buck tooth and hillbilly mullet because those are the only type of people that really give two shits about this. So it’s really out of your own sense of self worth that you haven’t gone to me in person and instead followed the chain of command.
For that, I salute you. There is nothing quite like bringing down someone else to make you feel better about yourself. Congratulations, I mean it. If I knew who you were, I would gladly give you a trophy for cocksucker of the year. But don’t show up in person, that really wouldn’t be your style.
Lick. My. Balls.