People. I work. I can’t participate in your midday, weekday activities. I work, from Monday to Friday, from 9AM to 5PM. Some people call it the “9-to-5.” Apparently this isn’t sinking in. Let me coin a new phrase (suitable for backwards tattooing on your forehead or other visible area of epidermis).

I work the Ni-Fi-Mo-Fri. For the publicly educated, that’s pronounced “Nye-Figh-Moe-Fry.” Say it as quickly as possible whenever needed. You don’t have much time during your 15-minute coffee break.

This is a phrase sure to sweep the nation. It has much more specificity than the 9-to-5. But hey, why stop there? Indicate that you’re, in fact, not a seasonal farm worker. “I work the Ni-Fi-Mo-Fri-12-Mo.”

While we’re at it, why not make a remark about the state of Social Security? “I work the Ni-Fi-Mo-Fri-12-Mo-til-the-Day-I-Die.” This will indicate your availability for the next 50 years (unless if you’re weighty).

My new work schedule lingo is so catchy, it may reach a point of Jon Heder-ism. I’m sorry, that’s You’re-Not-Jon-Heder-ism. In other words, you may find the phrase so invasive that it has become a nuisance. You’ll know this has occurred when the malnourished fake techno-tool referenced in my other article is grinning like an idiot while wearing a shirt emblazoned with the phrase. “Oooh, I’m so ironic! Don’t you just love my wry humor?! Please, someone affirm my person. I’m so douchey and fragile!”

The preceding was an example of the t-shirt wearer’s inner monologue. Punch him in the face. It will only mean that he cries now rather than later that night in pitch darkness while listening to Bright Eyes.

Unless you live in Houston, you appreciate good zoning. This area is designated for housing. This area is designated for agriculture. And so forth. Not only does this reduce the chances of a head-on with a John Deere, it keeps things nicely divided. Otherwise, you’re cramming the apples into the butter tray and the 20-pound turkey into the crisper.

I elect this division of appropriate activity be extended to work. Nay. I demand. The break room is zoned for recreation. John’s desk is zoned for the John Zone (a nonstop 24/7 affair of unadulterated vigor). The desk of the “up-and-coming” worthless new-age technoshit is zoned for eating, sleeping, stupid horned-rimmed glasses, and secretly hating his life before he crawls back to his Jetta. The restroom is zoned for business and business only.

Yes, when I’m returning God’s call, I simply don’t want to speak to you. You may get a nod or a “hey,” but the niceties end there. If you hear a grunt, it’s not for you; it’s simply a matter of circumstance.

I don’t want to know how things are going as we stand three across at the urinals. This isn’t a bar. No one is serving me a brewskie. In fact, I’m vacating the remnants. Don’t tell me a joke. Don’t discuss politics, the weather, or your recent mole removal. Shut up and piss.

I rue the day I am once again subjected to a higher-up, hands-free at the urinal turning slightly to give me a “Hey, how’s it goin’?!” Better before I walked in. This is a business zone and it requires a concentrated hands-on approach lest anything spill over into leisure.

If you live in Houston, your neighborhood is likely zoned for cousins and nothing else.

that people should be brought up with more confidence in themselves. Nobody's willing to go against the grain and be unpopularly positive. Everyone's ready and willing to be a nay-sayer however. How many people that you know will say "No, I think that's a great idea!", when the masses think it will suck? Probably not a whole lot. I present a case study for you:

How many times have you been sitting at a table with like 5 other people eating your Honey Bunches of Oats? I don't mean you just got there either. You're on like, bowl number three. You're a fat, fat man (or woman), but that's a subject for another entry. Anyway, on your 3rd bowl, some douché bag sits down and goes "Hey, does this milk smell bad to you?" All of a sudden everyone at the table starts shitting golden bricks.

"Oh my God! It does!"
"Yeah douché bag is right."
"Gross."

You know damn well there's nothing wrong with the milk. The expiration date is clearly a week away. Don't be such a sucker.

Today's shape is: RhumbusHey, I think you're gay.
"Oh my God! It does!"
"Yeah douché bag is right."
"Gross."