The One Where Stephanie Finally Does A Top Ten Post (AKA Stephanie Posts Again in the Same Week. It’s a Christmas Miracle!)

I’m not big on “Top Ten” or “Top Anything” posts (unless they’re snarky and funny), but there are some things I need to get off my chest. (And I don’t mean the spaghetti noodle that I dropped down into my decolletage a couple weeks ago, that had to be peeled from my boob. We need adult bibs, people.) So let me get right to it.

Top Ten Things My Coworkers Need to Cease. Immediately. Or I’ll Put Strychnine in the Guacamole.

Numero One-o: Ladies, I know you like to hover over the toilet. It’s probably the only time you ever hover over anything. Maybe you get off on it. Maybe it’s a workout for your quads. Maybe you’re doing some weird, fucked up kegel exercise that can only be done while hovering over the toilet. Look, you do you. And I’ll do me. (Or wait. Yeah, okay, I will. But hopefully not only me. Wow, can I digress.) But please, for the love of all that is good and dry, please wipe up your little piss puddles that you dribble all over the motherfucking seats. And while you’re at it – you know that can of Lysol on the back of every tank? CLEAN YO SHIT UP. Nasty twaffles. (That’s twat + waffle for those not in the know.) (Now you’re in the know.) (It’s better than being in the no.) (You’re welcome.) Oh. And one more thing, you nasty hagwipes.

Numero Two-o: I know you’re on your little New Years’ Resolution health kick that you’ll scrap in a few more weeks. Some of you have already scrapped them. (You’re my favorites.) I get it. Okay? I could stand to lost a donkey’s worth of pounds. And I know I should get on that, but fuckin’ hell I find it hard to self-motivate. (AND she’s off! Digressing again!) But you and those fucking green drinks. I have a bullet (I’m talking about the juicing bullet, not the one in my nightstand. Perverts.), and I used it for a while. Perhaps I’ll use it again when I’m feeling brave. They taste great if you do them right. But please, please, on behalf of everyone in this godforsaken room, please do not drink a thirty-two ouncer and then happily go about your day while you choke us all with the noxious fumes coming out of your exhaust pipe. I’m seriously choking on your colon clouds, and I can’t fucking take it. It brings tears to my eyes, and my clothes smell like your asshole. And I hate you for it. I fucking hate you for it. Cut that shit to a small drink every other day. Or I’ll kill you. Slowly. With a spork. Stinkhole.

Numero Three-o: Not exactly a cease immediately, but more like a WHAT THE FUCK. Ladies, again, I’m talking to you. Why the fuck are there footprints on the back of the stall doors in the bathroom? Are you propping your feet up  and using that for leverage while you push out the mess you’re about to leave on the toilet? Are you so backed up that you have to damage the lock on the door with your pushing? Are you propping your feet up to hide so that no one can see your feet and know it’s you making us plug in a candle warmer by the sink? (We totally still know it’s you, because we can recognize the ringtone on your phone. You do realize you’re getting the assgerms of everyone who’s ever used that stall today ON YOUR PHONE, right?) Are you in there getting fucked, propping your feet up? If so, I hope it’s not by Panel Van Paco. Because I’m pretty sure he prefers little boys. (Yes, I work with some fucked up people. And yes, I’m being mean and leaping to wild assumptions.) I don’t get it. But those footprints are about a size ten. So I’m pretty sure I know who’s doing it. Ahem. Queen Bitch.

Numero Four-o: Stop with the ginormous attention-seeking huffs you make at every little thing you’re working on. Every five fucking seconds. I don’t give a rat’s ass, and I’m not going to ask you. Every five fucking seconds. What the fuck is wrong with you. I’m not doing it. It’s bad enough I have to listen to your ragehuffs, I sure as hell am not going to willfully subject myself to your asinine rants that you only brought upon yourself by being such a fucking bitchwhore.

Numero Five-o: Could you please stop asking me every single time I cook soup, why it makes exploding sounds in the microwave? For the Last. Fucking. Time. It’s the carrots, people! Carrots go boom in the microwave. Next time you ask, I’m gonna tell you that you have 10 seconds to reach Minimum Safe Distance. And then Kablooey. Because I say we nuke the entire thing from orbit. It’s the only way to be sure.

Numero Six-o: Stop showing me pictures of your baby. It’s ugly. And I don’t give a fuck. It’s all wrinkled, and I know it came out of your or your wife’s vagina, and that squicks me out. Stop making me think of your vagina. Stop making me picture your vagina. Stop telling me how many stitches it took to make your wife’s vagina fuckable again. Stop telling me about your precious babe’s head that was misshapen by your wife’s vagina. I DON’T WANT TO KNOW ABOUT ANYONE’S VAGINA. And I don’t want to look at eighteen thousand pictures of your baby Every. Single. Day. You’ve done what almost every human in the history of ever has done. Pop. Pop. Pop. Pop. Popopopopopopopopopopop. Like gremlins. And gremlins were mean, and mischievous and stole all my candy. And had to be exploded because of their vaginas. Stop. It.

Numero Seven-o: Stop spoiling shows and movies that you know I have every intention of seeing but haven’t gotten around to it yet. You know who I’m talking about, geek boy. I know you’re doing it on purpose. You even admitted it. Stop it before I stab you in the nuts. And I know all about the pain you suffered for your vasectomy to keep from reproducing again with your cheating-ass wife. You’re a good dude. You’re fun. You make me laugh, uproariously. But if you don’t stop willfully spoiling shit for me, I will stab you in the nuts with those scissors you keep in a little leather case on your waist. What the fuck is that about, anyway? FOR NUT STABBING, SPOILERHEAD!

Numero Eight-o: For the umpteen-zillionth time, I don’t drink coffee. I’m not gonna suddenly sprout the coffee drinking gene today. Yes, I’m human. Yes, I’m an adult (mostly). Yes, I’m American. Yes, I’m tired. I don’t like coffee. I love the aroma, but I hate the bitter flavor. Yes, I’ve tried it with milk. Yes, I’ve tried it with sugar. Yes, I’ve tried it with honey straight from a bee’s asshole. (Yes, I know that’s not how bees make honey. Shut up.) No, I’m not gonna change my mind when you wave a mug of coffee fresh from the shit piles of Guatemalan bats that’s been further flavored with hazelnut or vanilla or your grandmother’s earwax. I. Don’t. Drink. Coffee. You’ve quizzed me about this every fucking day for three and a half fucking years. Leave me alone! Or I’ll steal your cane and beat you with it!

Numero Nein! Nein! Nein!-o: I know it’s January. I know it’s cold. I know you can’t wait for summer. I know you’ll say you can’t wait for cooler weather when summer does hit. I know it’s Wednesday, and we’re “halfway through the week, yay!” I know you can’t wait for Friday. I know you can’t wait for the weekend. I know the supervisor is a lily-livered dickwhistle. I know you can’t wait for lunch. I know the time is dragging. I know it’s 3:00, which means fresh coffee time. I know you’re pissed because he got “your” parking space again. I know you hate me and the world and life, because you say so every fucking day. I know the networks are running slow. You say these things. Every. Single. Day. Almost all of you. And I’m sick to death of it! I hate the office humdrum. I loathe the monotony. I hate Corporate America with my whole being. And I know I’ve been guilty of the same. And I know it’s not all your fault. And I know you’re just trying to find ways to make it through the hell of working for the man. But I’m fucking sick of it. And you’re not helping.

Numero Last-o: Please stop looking at the clock and reminding me of the time every quarter hour. You are not helping the day pass any faster or easier. You are, in fact, making it drag on indefinitely. You are reminding me that my life is slipping away second by second, minute by minute, hour by hour, day by day, week by week, month by month…and I resent you for it. I know you’re a sweet lady. Aside from your raging racism. (Thankfully, you actually let me gently point out when you say racist things.) But please. You’re lengthening my work days, and it pains me so.

Numero Bonus-o: You know how you always bitch and moan about people interrupting you when you’re so clearly mired knee-deep in a hodonkey of a project? You know how when you’re done and you see me so clearly mired knee-deep in my own hodonkey of a project? You know how you do that thing you hate other people for doing, by interrupting me for mindless chit-chat or to brag about your life, or to complain about your life and how you have it worse than anyone else on earth, or how if you were in charge you’d change everything because you’re so obviously doing all the work around here while you surf Facebook and Pinterest or take phone calls about your upcoming cruise, or by finding something you need to one-up someone about? You know? Ringing any bells? Stop. Fucking. Doing it. Queen Bitch, I’m looking at you again.

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I know I’ve missed a shitton. I’ll probably think of heaps more right after I hit publish. But these still stand. What are your biggest work-related pet peeves? Or hell, any! Oh Oh, I just thought of one! (See Numero Bonus-o.)

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This post brought to you by:

Assholes and butterbeans. Because butterbeans are assholes.

Queen Bitch for inspiring so much of this post.

Cold green tea with honey and ginseng. Because I’m trying not to drink soda, and I’m tired of water.

People that soothe my soul and make it all okay. You know who you are.