Illustration by Bob AulSend anonymous thanks, confessions or accusations—changing or deleting the names of the guilty and innocent—to “Hey, You!” c/oOC Weekly, P.O. Box 10788, Costa Mesa, CA 92627-0247, or e-mail us at
ma***********@oc******.com
“>letters@ ocweekly.com.
Hey! You! The so-called “office manager” who doesn't manage a damn thing. You, the person who gripes about having so much work to do. Yeah, right—reading catalogs and balancing your checkbook is really, really hard work. You, who sends the memos about personal phone calls and then spends all day telling and retelling the same damn stories over and over and over again to every person you know. We make personal phone calls? What fucking personal phone calls? The rest of us don't have time for personal phone calls because we're too busy doing all the work that your lazy fat ass is supposed to be doing as part of your job description. And by the way, so what if I leave exactly at closing time and I'm the first person out the door at the end of the day? I get here an hour before I'm supposed to start my day (and two hours before you drag your lazy ass into the office). If I want to leave early to see a doctor, I can forget it because, according to you, doctor appointments should be scheduled before and after work hours. Oh, yeah: How many doctors do you know who set appointments at 6 a.m. or 6 p.m.? But if you want to see a doctor or get your hair or nails done in the middle of the day (or if your ass-kissing flunky wants to), the double standard applies for both of you. If I'm sick? Fine. If you want me to show up at work and spread my germs to everyone in the office, including you, then I'll gladly come and sneeze on your phone. Oh, and one more thing. In case you're wondering why the president of the company is an alcoholic, it's because he's married to you, you bitch!
