Skrip - tyur' - i - ent: adj. Possessing the violent desire to write.


#014 In which our hero chats with a co-worker.

Dear chatty co-worker,

First of all, you're not even really my co-worker - you know that, right? You happen to rent space in the same building in which the agency is located, but if our separate businesses didn't share a men's room, I would never interact with you.

Matter of fact, I'd rather not interact with you. Here's the thing: it is completely possible to pass me in the hall and not comment on the passing. I pass my co-workers (my real co-workers) every day and they don't feel the need to expel some quip to mark the occasion. I don't really think you're sincere when you tell me I'm "Lookin' good!", so you can stow that shit right now. I also don't know "what's the good word," so stop asking. And for the love of God don't ever ask me "how's it hangin'?" again... you're a 50-year-old man for chrissake!

And from this point onward, why don't you just take it for a given that everyone in my family is "doing good." I don't mean to hurt your feelings, but if my wife or child were sick or injured, you wouldn't be the first person I'd consult. Ever.

And finally, I'm okay with you just saying "hi" or "hello" as you pass me, and I'll return the greeting - but if I don't raise my eyes from my newspaper or engage you in further conversation, you can take it as a big hint that I'm not likely to. Again, ever.

You are not a quip-master, playa, or cool cat. I don't want to hear about your grandchildren, your open-heart surgery or your resulting switch to vegetarianism. You seem like a nice guy at heart so let's play it cool before I act on my desire to stomp on your sternum and force-feed bratwurst down your piehole, okay?

I'm glad we had this talk.


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