A Letter to Insects Concerning Trespassing

Dear Nature's Hobos,

So, I was at the coffee shop the other day and I saw this huge guy who had, uh, what is that on my back? It feels like someone taped a OHMYMOTHERFUCKINGMONKEYRACECAR that's a wasp!

Get off me you little piece of shit. I'm not a big meaty perch. Nor am I a giant snack for you to take your aggression out on. Just go about your business and get the hell away from me.

That's right. Fly away you tiny bastard. Just keep on flying. But, not into my house.

No! No, you are not allowed in there! That is not for you, don't you dare AWWWWW damnit! Asshole!

I hate it when you fly into the house. You don't fly in like a bird does. A missile of terror that knows not where it goes but surely it is to freedom. You don't even fly in like a bat. A Tasmanian devil blur of fury and confusion, squeeking as if do gently say, "WHERE THE FUCK AM I WHERE THE FUCK AM I WHERE THE FUCK AM I!"

No, when you fly in, you stop right inside the door way and, for lack of a better term, case the joint. I can almost hear Curly's voice from the Three Stooges attached to your every action.

Aw, nice digs professor.

I'm not a professor, get out of my house.

Hey, brownies!

Get away from those!

Wooopwoopwoopwoop!

Asshole!

Look, this isn't your house. You can't live here, it makes people uncomfortable. The buzzing and your enormous stinger are kind of off putting and, get off the chair, and I just don't think it's going to work out. Do you see where I'm coming from? I'm just trying to make it so that everybody is, don't touch my headphones just get the fuck off of them, just so that everybody is happy.

Why can't you be like your cousin out there building his own little home under the carport? I mean, granted, he is probably slightly retarded, what with building his home in on of the small wind chimes. I mean his house literally vibrates every time the wind blows. But, at least he is attempting to have a place of his own. He's trying. He's putting himself out there.

You, you just think you can move back in and that every thing is going to be handed to you on a silver GETTHEFUCKOUTOFMYHAIR! AAAHHHHH! SHIT!

ASS! HOLE!

OK. That's it. It's go time.

That's right; I got the squeegee on a stick. No soft broomstick straw for you, my friend. This is nice sturdy rubber coming right at you. They will speak of this battle in the tomes of your people, for you will be the quickest one of your kind ever to be dispatched by the hand of the mighty giant. Prepare to meet your tiny asshole maker, you tiny asshole.

What the? Get off the ceiling! That's some bullshit! Come back down here so I can smoosh you against the easily cleanable wall!

No, sir! No! We do NOT try to crawl into the heater vent! No, we do not! Time out you little shit! Time out! Fuck me! Fuck!

Oh, you may be cunning, but I'm big enough to turn the thermostat. Let's see how much crawling you do with a torrent of hell fire blasted against your crimson carapace! Ah HA HA! That's right! Feel the burn you flying mini-satan!

That's right, fly back down here so I can get a good major league swing at you! AGH! That's ok. I missed but that's ok. You're not going anywhere.

Damn, it's a little hot in here. No, matter, you will perish nonetheless.

After I throw up.

Jesus, is it like 300 hundred degrees in here. How come you're ok with that? Don't you feel that? I think I might need a ten minute break is that cool? I think we both deserve a little sit down and DOOOOONTTOUCHME DONTTOUCHME! GET OFF OF MY FACE OHBABYJESUS DON’T STING ME IN THE FACE!

Oh you bastard. Your legs feel like a tiny witch's bones! I won't be able to sleep for days.

Look, I don't want you in here; you probably want to leave too. I'll just stand back and open the doors, and you just head out whenever you're comfortable, OK? That's civil. A mutual agreement that we are both formidable opponents and that living in harmony is better than all this senseless violence and bloodshAAAAAHHHH STACY! STACY THERE'S A WASP IN MY SHIRT! I CAN FEEL HIM BUZZING AGAINST MY NIPPLE! STACY! STACY, HE'S GOING TO STAB MY TUMMY WITH HIS HUGE INSECT BUTT-KNIFE! CALL THE POLICE! STACY!

Sincerely,
Chiggie Von Richthofen
SONOFABUTTNUGGETMONKEYFUCKINGDONKEYBALLSOFARABIA!

A Letter to Managers, All Managers, Concerning Threats

Dear Fat Idiot That Has Wasted His Life And Now Thinks I'm Going To Let Him Waste Mine,

I've noticed lately in our meetings and our phone calls, and just in general conversation, that, well, you don't seem to know what the fuck you're talking about. Ever. It took me a while to pick up on this because, when you first arrived here as our Director, we didn't really talk much. Therefore, it wasn't until our first conversation that I realized that you were a big ol' useless sack stuffed with about as much bullshit that I've ever seen in one place at one time. Still, you were a manager with absolutely no background in what our department does, and then were put in charge of it, so I wasn't really expecting more than you. You meaning a dumb sack of shit.

Anyway, I've notice that you and I haven't really been seeing eye-to-eye lately so I decided to make you a list of "No-No's" for you. Just things to avoid in our professional discourse.

1) Don't ever think I owe you a fucking thing in this lifetime or the next you arrogant, numb-nuts, asshole. Did you save me from a rushing river? Did you help me with my rent one month? Did you lie to the principal to keep me out of trouble when I was 12? No.

You are just my manager. And, what does that mean to me? Fuck. All.

2) Don't condescendingly describe parts of my job I've been doing for three and a half years when you've only been here nine months. "Do you know what the after hours number is for? It's so people can get in touch with us after hours." Really? Do you know what keeping you goddamned mouth shut is for? Because you're about to find out.

Don't come over to me when you see me busting my ass for hours and then ask some asinine rhetorical question. You don't have to prove to me that you're a total douche bag. I figured that out a while ago so let's just cut out this wooing shit you seem to be doing and get down to what the fuck you want or get the fuck out of my face.

3) Don't send errand boys to threaten my job. If you want to tell me to clean out my desk you do it to my face or I'm going to assume that every single threat that comes out of their mouths is void. In fact. Don't threaten me period. If you have a problem with the way I do things then tell me or give me a pink slip.

I know why you don't do that. It's because you can't figure out half the shit we do without me, because everyone else quit when YOU showed up. So how's about you just back the hell off and admit you wouldn't even know what questions to ask if you were trying to figure out what it is that I do for a living.

4) And while we're on the subject, don't act like you are part of some happy family when you won't even take the time to familiarize yourself with our work. You're supposed to be the one selling this shit out on the open market and you don't even know what it does.

You have a little booklet we made for you and if the question isn't answered in your book, then you pretty much just stand there like a jackass caught in headlights. So don't come down to me and try to tell me why we're losing money. I'm looking at the reason, and it smells like Wild Turkey, Marlboro Lights, and sweat.

5) This one is important, because this one is the reason I almost dump hot coffee in your face on a daily basis. Don't say our CTO's name like it means anything. My name doesn't mean anything. I can't say my name downstairs and expect people to work harder. So why should his?

What you're telling me is that this guy; this beady eyed, greedy, leech that pretends to run this company is more important than I am. I'm sorry but he's not. I'm not a fucking indentured servant. I'm not a serf on some inbred lord's plot of land. I work because I want to feed my family and because I want them to be as comfortable as possible, which means, I work for money. If that evil bastard is hit by a truck tomorrow my paycheck still gets here on time so don't drop his name and expect me to jump. It makes me sick with hate when I see in your eyes that you think his, or your name means a damn thing, to anyone.

That's all I've got for right now, but I think this will be a good base for future conversations.

One thing I feel I should clarify, though, is that I don't hate you just because you're my boss. Everyone "hates" their boss. No one likes being told what to do. But, with you it's different, you see, because I don't hate you just because you're my boss.

I hate you, because of you. I just hate you. I hate the way you smile when you know you are swindling people who work hard and don't know any better. I hate the way you act all offended when you think something bad has happened but you aren't smart enough to understand if it did or not. I hate your bullshit excuses for not doing your job right before you accuse me of not doing mine. I hate how you brought in an old employee so you could force me out because you thought he knew more than me, and he didn't. I hate how you try to convince me that comp days are more valuable than overtime because you assume I can't multiply even though my job requires it.

I could go on but what's the point? Listing your faults is like trying to describe each blade of grass in my front lawn. After a while you just write "Green, Long, Ants" and move on to something else.

I do want to plant this little seed of thought in your head, though. You like to throw your weight around and snap of threats like it's no big deal, but when you threaten my job, you aren't threatening my job. You're threatening me. You're threatening my wife and my dog and my house and my car and my entire livelihood.

Pretend you are in my house, and it's dark, and you threaten my wife. What happens?

They say a better man turns the other cheek, let's bygones be bygones, and has the integrity to walk away. Well it takes two men for that to work. That better man has to walk away from someone. Someone who has a temper, who holds a grudge, who makes quick judgments and jumps to rash conclusions. Someone who doesn't like it when he's shoved and sure as hell doesn't like taking shit off some middle aged walking heart attack.

Look at me. Do I look like someone who loves the idea of turning either of my cheeks anywhere?

Maybe the next time you feel like threatening someone because it makes you feel big, think about who you're talking to. Think about whether that person is the new girl, or someone who knows how every fucking piece of our product works and exactly which pins to pull out to watch it disintegrate.

Maybe that someone doesn't just quit when he's finally had it. Maybe he takes something with him. Something from you. Compensation for stresses rendered.

After that, I guarantee my name will mean something to you. Asshole.


Sincerely,
Chiggie Von Richthofen
Not available between the hours of 5 P.M. and 8 A.M.

A Letter to "People" Concerning Decisions

Dear confused, sleepy, nervous, prosimian, space-wasting jackasses,

I want you to ask yourself a question. And, don't just take it for granted. I want you to really search your soul, you're very being, for the truth. For what you think is your one true answer.

Are you ready? Ok, good, because here it comes.

What do you want to eat?

Did that question catch you off guard a little bit? Weren't expecting something quite like that to be the question I wanted you to ask yourself? Well, it fucking should be! Because we're in a fucking burrito place and you're first in MOTHER FUCKING LINE!

What did you think was going to happen once you got to that sad-faced minimum wage teenager with surgical gloves on inside out? Did you think he wasn't going to ask what you wanted to eat? Just like you thought I wasn't going to get so pissed I wanted to punch you in the neck while you just stand there like a fucking moron?

Don't look at me!

Don't you fucking look at me, Hoss. You look at that goddamned menu! It's go time! It's time to be a big boy and tell the nice man what you want for snackies. Instead you're standing there frozen in fear. Like your back in that harsh spotlight at the '82 regionals all over again, forgetting the words to Over The Rainbow right before tinkling your panties in front of everybody. Just pick something!

Look, this is a fast food restaurant, OK? Let me give you a bit of advice. Odds are any place where you order your food before you sit down isn't going to have too much variation on the menu. So just close your eyes, raise your arm, point at anything and say, "that one." You know, like a pressured witness at a police line-up.

OK. Hard part is over.

What are you doing? Pay the lady. Why did you just put your credit card back in your wallet? You want to pay with cash? What the fuck does it matter? It's 7 dollars, just give it to her!

Ok, that didn't work. It didn't work because you only have 4 dollars. That means that as far as your cash goes, you can't afford to eat here. Give her your credit card! What are you doing? Why are you looking in your wallet again? I can see from here there is no more money in there! It's not going to suddenly appear! Just give her your goddamned cred …don't count your change!

Son of a bitch, Ernest, if you don't pay that lady for your food right now and let me get out of here I swear to god I'm going to slam your head against the counter until your dead. Then, me and the other guy you've been holding up for the past half hour are going to walk you around, Weekend at Bernie's style. All making you wave at ladies and getting into crazy adventures. The only difference being, that instead of trying to convince everyone in town that you're alive, we'll probably just leave you face down in that dumpster behind Courtyard Coffee.

All fantasizing aside, it really seizes the gears in my clockwork brain to see a grown person staring slack jawed and rubber necked up at a glowing menu, like it's a UFO in the back forty, not able to decide if they want a hamburger, or a hamburger. I mean, really, how worse is your life going to be if you mess this one up, Chief? Do you think the ten minutes it takes you to wolf down that half ounce of beef and 3 pounds of grease are even going to register in 2 hours? You know, besides the painful explosive diarrhea?

And while we're on that subject, let's be honest, there's nothing on the menu that's going to change the consequences of this meal, as it is the establishment itself that promotes the full scale evacuation of your internal organs. So just by walking in here you've signed the contract absolving the restaurant of any and all accidental anal demolition for the next 12 hours.

What I'm getting at is this. No matter what you pick from this menu, you're going to need at least five dollars, it's going to be ready in about 10 minutes, and you're going to need a can to shit in later at work in case you can't get out of your cubicle fast enough.

Maybe you already have a can to shit in. I don't know. But you just don't strike me as a prepared individual so I went ahead and threw that in there.

All I ask is that when you walk up to that counter and it's time for you to place your order, just place it. Decide first, then order. Decide first, then order.

Try not to be such a fucking loser all the time. Try not to be such a fucking loser all the time.

At the rate you're going, it's going to be tomorrow before I'm able to piss and moan about how this place got my fucking order wrong while some crack head trucker tries to kill me on the way home.

Sincerely,
Chiggie Von RichthGODAMNIT STOP ASKING FOR HASHBROWNS, IT'S 6 IN THE EVENING!

JESUS CHRIST!