What’s EVEN FUCKING SADDER than being so pants-shittingly retarded and incompetent at one of the easiest jobs in your office that, upon seeing you’ve actually been given some, what do they call it, RESPONSIBILTY, your coworkers snort Pepsi out their nose and start taking bets not on IF the train wreck is coming, but WHEN and how many will be slain?
That being the case… and you being so proud of your new “title” that you MAKE YOURSELF A LITTLE NAMEPLATE FOR YOUR DOOR. By printing it out on the computer, cutting it out (crookedly, I might add) and Scotch-taping it to your door. Which, by the way, is not an office, it is a storage closet. That is why it is full of expired Sierra Mist that no one will drink. Not to mention, even the people who DO have offices… they don’t have nameplates. This is not McMahon and Tate.
Why don’t you get some crayons and make it pretty? And maybe fold another piece of paper in half to make a mailbox so we can all give you Valentines?
FUCK. ME. SIDEWAYS.
And P.S. — congrats to all y’all who caught the Eddie Izzard reference. If you don’t know who he is, shame on you! And we’re out of juice boxes, so your choices just became “… or death?” And of course, the vegetarian plate for Mr. Hitler.