Tag: work

The Viking Attack

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It was around two in the morning that Mike the security guard got it in his head to protect the office building from Viking attack.
Maybe it was his medication, or it could have been the booze.
Probably both.
He didn’t have a backhoe to dig a moat or pile up earthworks, but he did manage to park the golf cart in the lobby to block the doors.
Soda machines were far too heavy for him to move, but couches from the lobby were perfect.
When he was fired, he disputed the termination with: “Well, no Vikings got through, right?”

Sealed with a kiss of death

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At first, we thought that Stanley was being attacked by flesh-eating bacteria, but the bacteria turned out to be the mailman.
It seems that the Postal Service is forcibly retiring as many of its older workforce as possible and replacing them with less-expensive cannibals.
“They don’t need a lunch break,” said the Postmaster General, giggling with glee.
Bastard.
Because of the danger, I pay all my bills online now.
Christmas is 8 months away, but I’m already thinking ahead for the Christmas gift season.
Just leave the packages on the doorstep and back away, Chief.
Otherwise, I’m firing my blunderbuss.

The Joker

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I work for a practical joke factory.
I started leading group therapy for depressed whoopie cushions. I’d ask them how they’d feel, they’d say PFFFFFFTTTTP!
I tried my hand in R&D, but after two years of working on an invisible ink formula, I had nothing to show for it.
I moved to the testing lab. I’d rather not talk about when I thought I was working with artificial dog poop and vomit, okay?
Now I’m the biggest joke of all: Human Resources.
Yes, your benefits will be enough to cover any issue that might come up. Trust me on this.

Icons

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One of my favorite computer pranks is to capture a desktop screen, make a wallpaper out of it, and then delete all the icons.
When the user comes back to their workstation, they double-click on the icons on the wallpaper, but nothing happens because they’re not really there.
After a while, they start to panic, clicking and dragging and pounding the keyboard in frustration.
It’s funny to watch. I let them freak out for a while before revealing the prank.
One time, I wasn’t there to reveal the trick, and they slashed their wrists.
I don’t do that prank anymore.

Patrick

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Patrick hated St. Patrick’s Day.
Every March, people would start calling him “Saint Patrick” and expect him to wear green.
They’d call him “Paddy” in a really bad Irish brogue, rub their hands through his red hair, and pinch his rosy cheeks.
This year, he caught wind that he was going to be paid in pennies in a pot.
“A pot of gold!” the payroll specialist chirped.
“Pennies are zinc and copper, you idiot!” Patrick shouted.
That’s when he snapped.
That night, carrying a thick sack into the office, Patrick loosened the rope around the end and released the snakes.

Hostage

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I was moving music between computers when I came across a file I didn’t recognize.
Virus scan: Safe.
So, I opened it and heard the most hideous scream.
“HELP ME!” it said. “THEY’LL KILL ME!”
The file was called “Sound File” and there weren’t any tags on it.
And I didn’t know who it was.
So, I deleted it and didn’t think another minute about it.
Severed fingers and ears started showing up in the mail. Bloody ransom notes.
But who they belonged to, not a clue. Everyone I knew was okay.
I’d call the cops, but… I’m busy.
Sorry.

Talking To Candy

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It’s the holiday season, and I am busy as a bee.
I work in a chocolate shop, and there’s no busier time than Christmas.
You’d think it would be Valentine’s Day.
No.
Just before I wrap each of these chocolate-dipped apples and hand-rolled jellies into their packaging, I whisper a message for each to announce as they are unwrapped.
“Your teeth will all rot out,” I say. “You will get fat and then suffer from diabetes.”
Then I close the foil and cellophane over the treat, affix a label, and add it to the completed batch in the shop window.

Regifting

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Santa slides down the chimney, opens his sack, and puts the presents under the tree.
Then he picks up the presents sitting by the fireplace and stuffs those into his sack.
Back up the chimney, into the sleigh, and the helper-elf double-checks the inventory and flight plans.
“I know that business is bad, Boss, but did you have to add regifting to your services?” asked Twinky.
“Shut up,” said Santa, watching the GPS flash a new destination. The time display next to it flashes an unjolly red. “Fucking eBay.”
He cracks his whip, and the eight miserable reindeer take flight.

The Death of Walter

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Walter ran with a tough crowd.
They were the Boston Mafia, jogging through their Framingham neighborhood in the morning, bodyguards forming a protective cloud.
Once, Walter was out jogging on his own, and he crossed paths with that Mafia group.
The bodyguards checked him for weapons, recognized him from the travel agency, and invited him along.
Now, in an era of online airline reservations, Walter still got steady business from this group. Cruises and extended vacations, a little something extra for a private villa for a week.
And Walter never testified against them.
They killed him anyway.
It’s only business.

The Wreathmaker

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I work for a place that makes wreaths.
Year-round, we make memorial wreaths.
But during the holidays, we get a lot of orders for Christmas wreaths.
Sure, they’re just fancy flowers and branches and twists of wire, but each one gets a serial number and a chip in them that lets us double-check and triple-check they’re going to the right place.
Nobody wants to hang a memorial wreath on their front door. And the one time we sent a Christmas wreath to a funeral, well, this is why we now keep one or two extra wreaths in the delivery vans.