Chunk love Sloth.

I don’t know how much the rest of you slag off during work hours. Me, I go balls to the wall on work-related stuff for about five hours a day. The rest of time is spent writing out grocery lists, harassing Cigna about their quote unquote coverage, updating myself on the state of Britney Spears’ marriage to K-Fed or working on freelance. As I write this post, it’s 10:47 a.m. on Thursday morning, and I have no less than 11 things on my work to-do list.

Take yesterday afternoon, for instance. I spent two hours browsing Zappos in search of the perfect pair of summer shoes. I found two contenders. This pair here seemed to say, “I country club, chase my Zoloft with gin and tonics, and leaf through my lawyer husband’s copy of ‘Juggs’ while masturbating on the wicker chaise in my sunroom.” But I also found myself drawn to the organic earthiness of this pair, which said, “My girlfriend says my snootch tastes like tuna-flavored tofu and Cherry Garcia ice cream. And no, I didn’t shave my arm pits for this occasion.”

Oooh, how delicious. I just realized that both pairs of shoes are lesbians! As if shopping during work time on a work computer using a work connection wasn’t naughty enough, I have to up the ante and find me some luscious lesbo shoes. Perfect!

Now, before you get all up in my grill about pulling my weight (which would literally be impossible without a team of Clydesdales), I must put forth my hypothesis, which justifies, at least in my mind, all of the above said activity. I refer to it as untitled’s Law of Relativity: untitled’s five hours of work X my stress-fueled efficiency = everyone else’s calm eight hours of work. Squared. My hypothesis, or law – whatever – is supported by the fact that here at my job, I really do have a great reputation. I still manage to churn out a staggering amount of work. No one would ever think I’m doing what I do half the time.

Yes, I feel guilty at times (eyes batting, lips pouting). I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I simply cannot work until I’ve completed my daily allotment of non-work – tasks that will neither further my career or my productivity, and which may in fact do just the opposite.

Living this duplicitous life requires me to practice a variety of masking techniques. For example, I take care to have one or two safety windows open on my computer at all times – applications I can click to in a second’s notice, in case someone scuffles by or god forbid, stops by my cube for something work-related.

But every now and then, my browser locks and I am left scurrying, looking for a way – any way – to close the cursed window displaying the photo of Tara Reid’s floppy flapjack popping out of her party dress or something equally as salacious and embarrassing. Usually, the person innocently passes by, leaving me to clean up the mess resulting from me shitting myself.

Well, I’d better wrap it up. Even though I’m writing a post, I am doing so in Word, which is a program I also use for work. So technically, this is work, and frankly, I’ve already put in my five hour-quota. OK four hours. OK OK! Three. Happy now? The depths you drag me to, people.

Car talk.

I have to carpool with a co-worker to an offsite meeting today. As we were talking about driving arrangements, I asked her if she wanted to drive. She was all like, “I don’t know. My car is REALLY SMALL. Like knees-in-the-dashboard small. When I ride with my dad or even my boyfriend, we are like on top of each other practically.”

OK bitch. Code breakin’ time. What you’re really trying to say is that I AM TOO FAT FOR YOUR PIECE-OF-SHIT SATURN. Jesus. I may be fat, but I’m not a goddamned circus freak. I FIT in cars already.

Couldn’t she have said that her transmission is on the fritz, or that the oil is leaking? Christ. Sure, I’ll drive. But I can tell you right now that I’m pushing the passenger seat all the way to the dashboard, so that Little Miss Honesty is in the birthing postion for the entire two-hour ride. Speed bumps take on a whole new dimension when your snootch is pressed up against the frosty windshield like a suction-cup Garfield.

Let’s make a deal, lady. You don’t get all up in my bizness about my weight, and I’ll refrain from singing the theme from “Yentl” when you and your Streisandesque schnoz enter the room.

Open letter to the Outbreak Monkey.

What is it with people refusing to stay at home when they are sick? I mean, GODDAMN, people.

Last week, the Diet Coke Bandit insisted on coming to work regardless of the fact that she was packing the black death. Since I grew up in a household with two smoking parents, the slightest cold sends me on a journey into the Shadow of Death. This last week, I spent a total of three full days on my sofa in a viral-fueled hallucination, coughing out husky reditions of Salman Rushdie’s “Satanic Verses.”

But what really pisses me off is the fact that I can’t talk in anything but a whisper, lest I break out in uncontrollable hacks. I can’t taste food, not even hot wings, which is a goddamn shame. And I pee my pants just a little bit every hour, on the hour, due to the sheer force of my coughing. In fact, I’m feeling a little trickle right now. Or is that an air bubble. Fuck. Me.

Following each indignity, I find myself cursing the name of DCB. Given the depths of my discomfort, I have made a conscious decision to sully DCB’s name until her dying day. Or mine. Whichever comes first. And since the lung I just coughed up is lying in repose on top of my keyboard in a heaving, steaming pile, it seems I’ve only got a few more minutes to say my peace.

First off, there is no shame in staying home from work when you are sick. It’s not considered cutting or ditching when you’re protecting the rest of us from your nastiness. On the contrary, it is a show of respect for your co-workers and their spouses and their kids and all the little minions at daycare whose soft pink lungs would be far better off without infected green loogies hanging like unripe bananas off the branches of their bronchii. But since my outrage is brutally outweighed by my amiable nature and wussiness in general, tomorrow will find me silent at my desk. But make no mistake — I WILL find the time to commando my way to the mailroom and wipe my sticky kleenex all over her mailbox when she’s not looking. Take that, beotch.

Dirty Harry.

Prince Harry. Deborah Harry. Harry Houdini. Harry Caray. Of all the Harrys in the world, I get to work with one Harry Johnson. Hi, I’m Harry. It’s me, Harry. My friends call me Harry. Harry “King Kong Schlong Dong Show Me Your Thong I Use It to Play Ping Pong” Johnson.

What would possess a 50-something balding man named Harold to eschew his proper name for Harry — especially when his last name is what it is? Does he do it for those moments when co-workers like me walk past his cube, read his nameplate and shudder at the image that comes to mind? Or does he still get a kick out of those times when he calls Pizza Hut and gets to hear the dude say “Two medium stuffed crusts and an order of cheesey bread for a Harry Johnson.”

Further proof that all twats have a button.

It was a Monday morning, and I was late for work (as usual). I arrive at the office door, and proceed to dig around my briefcase for the omnipotent security badge that gets me in and allows me to move about the cabin freely. My inner Gary Busey tells me that this same security badge also provides my boss with a detailed report of my comings and goings, which means I really should re-think my mid-afternoon trips to Target and all those emails I schedule for sending at 6:47 p.m. on Friday night. What’s that you say? You didn’t realize you could leave work at 4:30 and have emails send out at 6:30? Why, it’s one of the oldest slacker tricks in the book. I believe it’s on page 7, to be exact. But that’s another post.

When my badge failed to come up for air in the first 10 seconds, I realized that it was time to put out an Amber Alert. So I dropped all other belongings on the floor and proceeded to rifle through my briefcase like a crackwhore looking for her last eight-ball. Badge? Last week’s grocery list. Badge? Lean Cuisine. Badge? Hot Wheels. Fuck. Me. Why can’t big brother just surgically embed a tracking device in my skull or a microchip in my retina? I decide that this here is the reason they make break-away lanyards — they’re afraid people will hang themselves with them, having lost their ID one too many times.

As my arms flailed about my person in a big circular blur, ala Roadrunner, our evile admin sat at her post, not four feet away from me. Judging by the cocky, pleasured look on her face, she must’ve taken time on this particular morning to shove the requisite yard stick squarely up her cooch. Her eyes were fixed on her work (i.e. the latest issue of Prevention magazine). But I could tell that she was watching me, and loving it. Fucking whore. The button that would open the door for me was but a few inches from her fingers. How difficult would it have been to PRESS THE GODDAMNED BUTTON! Finally she relents and lets me in. “Thanks,” I say, while she barely lifts her eyes from an article detailing the secret connection between yams and menopause. Why the attitude, I wonder. What did I ever do to her, besides the majority of her job? I don’t get admins — and I never will. They do these nicey nicey things, like make everyone Christmas stockings to hang in their cubes. But then, when no one else is looking, they piss in your peace lily and steal your stapler.