Unspoken Rules Of Office Conduct, Vol. 1

I’m going to let dre222 TRY to relate the debacle of drunkenness we experienced this weekend at her house, but she may come up short. Main points of interest: Team America losing Ultimate Flip-Cup to Mexican Laser Tag (non-sanctioned game); drunken story competition, with a close race between “Embassy Mission” and “Bush Sleeper”; and exploiting Friendly’s Restaurant (and the birth of the “exploitation” hand signal). While she focuses on that mess of non-linear thoughts, I’m going to relate an incident from the weekend that struck a personal chord.

Nothing gets you psyched to blog more than talking to someone who reads your blog semi-religiously. It’s as close to fan worship as I’m ever going to get, not that the person involved was anywhere NEAR a fanatic, and it makes you realize that just because people don’t comment doesn’t mean they don’t read.

But, seriously? You really SHOULD fucking comment. I’m not going to run into most of you at a random party to get that warm, tingly feeling I got on Saturday. So, c’mon and man up. It doesn’t have to be witty, it really shouldn’t be touchy-feely, and it sure as hell doesn’t have to be long.

Still, I give props to my mystery reader and appreciate her taking the time to let me know she’s reading. I may not be as emo and deep as that chick whose blog she’s been reading for 6+ years, but… who wants to be emo and deep?

Now, something that’s been building inside me and must be expelled.

As most of you know, I work in a pretty decently-sized corporate office. I’ve somewhat assimilated into the corporate culture, although I fight a daily losing battle to save my sanity and independent nature. Perhaps it’s this “loose cannon” attitude (yeah, I fucking said it) that causes me to get riled up at common indecency in the workplace.

I’m not talking about, like, nipple slips or office parties where that drunk slut from accounting xeroxes her cooter and hands it out. That’s called “good times” (or “ocular diarrhea” if that accounting chick is nasty). I’m talking about shit that pretty much any decent human being would know to do or not do, but somehow escapes people in business suits.

So, to help prepare you readers who have yet to enter the modern workplace, I present an ongoing list of Unspoken Office Rules to live by.

#1312 – The Common Area Is Not A Fucking Meeting Room
“Common areas” are described as any area where the general workforce may travel, interact, and generally see one another. This can be a walkway, a hallway, a set of stairs, etc. Anything that ISN’T an office/cubicle/conference room. If you see people walking to and fro, do NOT stop and chat up profit/returns with the asshole beside you.

Imagine if you were driving your car, and the person ahead of you braked unexpectedly to start a conversation with the dude in the adjacent car? The light’s green, there’s people behind you, and this prick dropped from 35 to 0mph to have an impromptu “rap session” with the Audi in the next lane. Realistically, you’d probably rear-end the guy and be at fault for the accident. Still, a policeman in the area isn’t going to let this douchebag stop traffic to chat. That fucker’s getting a ticket.

So why is this shit tolerated in the workplace? Why am I forced to sidestep around a suited prick because HE decides that whatever he has to say can’t wait until he’s out of traffic’s way? Why do I look like an ass when I bump into this person when HE’S the fucker who stopped suddenly and caused the jam? Honestly. The additional fact that you look at me like I’M interrupting YOUR day makes me want to go all Jason Bourne on your ass with whatever pointy object is handy.

Step out of the way, dicks, and schedule a fucking conference room if you need to discuss the numbers. I don’t stop and take a shit in your office, so don’t use the common areas as your fucking meeting rooms.

Rule #11 – Do Not Converse In The Men’s Room
Why the hell I’m even bringing this up is beyond me. You should learn this unspoken rule at the age of, um, “pissing age”. After rewarding you for making it in the trainer toilet, your father should tell you to never ever ever talk when you’re tinkling. If you talk, you get fucking hit.

Hard lesson, I’m sure, but you’ll shut your fucking mouth the next time you unzip. I promise.

Obviously, this parental guidance isn’t being taught universally. It’s bad enough that the urinals at my office have NO FUCKING DIVIDERS. Did some creative genius “think outside the box” and decide he wanted the freedom to peruse his neighbor’s cock? C’mon, it’s only a fucking piece of plastic and it saves me from having to practically rub my dick on the urinal wall to prevent stray eyes from sneaking peeks at the pay-nay. Scrounge up the money from the budget and fix this egregious error.

So, mixing that atrocity in with a “Chatty Cathy” equals nothing but annoyance and anger on my part. I don’t give a shit what the weather’s like at your urinal. I really have no interest whatsoever in how the local sports team is doing. And for the love of fuck, NOW is NOT the time to discuss what you’re doing this weekend.

PISSING PROTOCOL
1. Eyes forward.
2. Mouth shut.
3. And for god’s sake, flush afterwards. Your piss didn’t make the previous dude’s piss magically disappear. We have indoor plumbing… use it.

Not difficult at all. Stop fucking up the program with your unnecessary words, asshole.

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More to come, and I welcome any additions. Just comment.