When I Suggested the Topic I was Thinking About A Scene in Arrested Development When Gob says, "I Fear I've Said Too Much"

You guys all know me pretty well. They say don't think coworkers are your friends because it's all competitive and there's nothing holding you guys together besides the fact that you're all working together. Well, even though I know the advice "They" have given, every place I work at I forget "They"'s important council and bare my soul to all my coworkers. I need to stop this because coworkers either smell bad or they can't stop smiling.

I've done it all, man. I've sang in front of my coworkers, I've air-guitared in front of my coworkers, I told my coworkers/managers I smoke dope, and I told my supervisor he's "hot" right to his face. I did all this in one day at a hotel job I had. I need to stop this because I've just started to realize the importance of references and what's my hotel boss going to say? "Oh yeah, he knows the guitar solo to Led Zeppelin's Rock and Roll." First off, who doesn't? Second of all, I worked at this place for almost a year and I can't list them as a reference. Well, I have a girlfriend now so I can bug her with my neediness. Thee end

Professional Office Etiquette

I work in an office. We office workers have strange customs.

We don't talk to people; we "reach out" to people, like technological beggars who will just be so mad if we don't get that document.

We don't think logically about the way things work; we "process model out" a "flowchart."

And we don't leave the office at 5PM; we work until "2AM."

We're a skiddish bunch and we hold to our reverse-Sharia norms (no beards allowed!) like heroin addicts hold to their heroin. Anything out of our ordinary frightens us.

So I probably told my coworkers too much when I said that I murdered their families.

A fictitious story about a fictitious event with fictitious people

I am writing this story from my writing room, in the drawing wing of my Tudor house (I am not really writing this from there, it's all fiction).  As I look out over the meadows of evergreen grass and the slow moving clouds in the crisp blue sky I think deeply into a moment, an hour, a day, a week, a month, a year.  It was when I was younger, probably.   The thought of it still haunts me today.  It haunts me like Casper haunted that house and Christina Ricci in that movie, Casper. Shivers are running down my spine as I type this (yours too, probably, because writing), and I wonder whether to divulge this moment, this deep dark past that I have locked far back in the recesses of the swing wing of my Tudor house. It must come out, I decided. It must be heard.  I must tell the story about that time when I feared I told my coworkers too much.

Cue Intro.


I was a stable boy for a flower shop back then.  I remember old Mr. Hutchins would yell, 'You boy, Jenkins, stable these daisies.'  And I would say back to him, 'Yessir Mr. Hutchins. Right away sir.'  Or something like that.  My memory fails me often these days.  I'm not as fresh of mind as I once was, I'm afraid. Yes, the days at Hutchins, Montgomery, Blueberry, and Ross Flower and Apiary Symposium Incorporated, A Subsidiary of Glemco, a joint venture of StrongArm Oil & Chemical and Glemmings Diamond Consilidated were some of the best and most carefree days of my life.  And by carefree I mean extremely stressful and angst-ridden, for I had a secret.  A secret so great that I will waste no time in telling you what it is.  I will not build it up to unworthy proportions.  Make it seem that this secret may change the face of history or time. Or will I drag it out only to lead to an unsavory reveal that could be labeled anti-climatic or disappointing.  I will do the opposite of that.  So more like Snakes on a Plane than The Sixth Sense.  Or more like Eat, Pray, Love than Murder on the Orient Express.  So I'll just reveal my secret now, to get it over with and out there and then I can move on with my story. My name wasn't Jenkins. And I was a CIA agent, or something cool like that. And my real name was Brad Pitt. And I was also really wealthy so I didn't really need to be a stable boy at a flower shop, I just did it for some reason that I can't think of right now.  Probably because I was in the CIA.  Yeah, it definitely had to do with the CIA, and being Brad Pitt.  All of these things together were my secrets.

Cue Midtro.


So one day at my work where I had a secret, I was stabling the flowers when I heard Old Mr. Hutchins and Old Mr. Blueberry hatching plans to take over the world or something close to that. It could also have been like, we should take over that ward on the corner (the one on 82nd and 1th).  But I swore I heard world.  So anyway I took one my coworkers, Diane, and I took her into this supply room that was filled with fertilizer!  And for a second I was like they are going to bomb the world (!), and then I was like no they probably are going to use it on the flowers because there wasn't that much fertilizer. So Diane and I had been having this crazy on again, off again, will they? won't they? sort of deal and I pushed her up against the flower fertilizer and I said, 'Diane! Listen to me. Don't you understand?  My name isn't Roscoe Jenkins. And I am no ordinary stable boy. What I am about to tell you will change the face of history or time.' And then I told her all that stuff that I said like 10 sentences ago. And she was totally like OMG, but this was before OMG was a thing and I was all like iknowright? but this was before iknowright? was a thing, so our facebook statuses were like it's complicated, but this was before facebook. After that she ran out of the room screaming, probably because we just invented the internet and we both knew we were going to become super duper rich and famous.  And then right then I was all like, 'I fear I told my co-workers too much.'  Because if I hadn't I could've invented the internet all by myself and I wouldn't have to split all the money in the world with stupid Diane.

Cue Outro.


So that's it. That's my story. That's my secret and I have to admit it feels good to get that off my chest.  I never figured out if Hutchins, Montgomery, Blueberry, and Ross Flower and Apiary Symposium Incorporated, A Subsidiary of Glemco, a joint venture of StrongArm Oil & Chemical and Glemmings Diamond Consilidated were going to take over the world.  It still haunts me a little bit to this day.  But what do I care? I am extremely wealthy, and work for the CIA or something, and I am Brad Pitt, and I live in a Tudor House.  So I think I am doing pretty good, pretty pretty good.

Cue Explosion.

Spam ME?! How DARE You

Mr. Hacker; Sir Hack-a-lot; can you, like, put some effort into it?

So you P me O by replying to my email, a reply to a job-ad on Craigslist, with an email that is so obviously fake. Which company, organization, institution, cooperative, group, non-profit, for-profit, would give an applicant an online quiz to complete? So I'm already frustrated that an ad promising riches and good times is fake, but then you insult me by thinking I'm THAT gullible?! I'll have you know I am a college graduate. I know things, kay? And for you to think I'm just going to fall into this trap by clicking on your link-kuh, is downright absurd. And a link to a quiz? What is this, freaking Jeopardy? And who the holy bologna are you to mislead the growing number of unemployed people in America? You have the gall to fake spam as an opportunity for employment when mothers, fathers, college graduates are out there looking for hope; and you reply to them with an email saying, "oh yeah, let's set up an appointment but hey can I make you feel like a dildo and click on this link to do a quiz?"

Well Mr. Hacker, I just have one thing to say to you.....that woman in the ad at the left side of your website is kinda hot. Good day to you SIR, HARUMPH!

Viroids and Infections

Spam. It ruins lives, costs money and ravages digestive tracts. No, I’m not referring to canned “meat” product.

[Laughs]

Boy, I haven’t laughed that hard in a while [laughs].

Internet viroids and email infections are no laughing matter. Since the Internet’s birth, there have been at least 281 spam attacks on unsuspecting surfers. Today, “hacking” a person’s information requires little knowledge about computers and more about human behavior.

We’ve all heard the stories:

Enter Tricia, an office worker. She receives an email notifying her that she won the UK lottery. Though Tricia never entered any lottery and lives in America, she instantly imagines how she will improve her life – quitting her job, shopping at Whole Foods, traveling to South Carolina.

Tricia excitedly replies to the “UK Loterry Commission” with her bank account information, only to return home that day and find a trail of blood soaked carpet leading to her decapitated children’s heads resting in her husband’s freshly disemboweled chest cavity.

As tears stream down Tricia’s shocked face, she notices a cup on the living room table filled with blood, ice cubes and her husband’s eyeballs.

Photograph courtesy of Flickr user Kash_if

Don’t let Tricia’s terrible tragedy happen to you. Take steps to protect yourself now:

1. Meet face-to-face instead of replying to emails
2. Buy guns instead of computers
3. Read street signs and posters instead of blogs
4. Imagine your co-workers and family naked instead of watching Internet porn
5. Sign up for our spam-protecting service by commenting on this post with your bank account and routing numbers^
6. Close your eyes.

^We will use your account information to verify your identity before initiating a service fee. After all, we wouldn’t want to be spammed ourselves.