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Dear Overweight Customers Who Consistently Go to the Bakery I Work At:

Every morning I make blueberry and raspberry muffins, delicious sticky buns, braided breads coated in coffee and sugar, assorted cookies and golden pies. I see what goes into these desserts as I make them by scratch, and will admit to eating a cookie or two during my lunch break more than once. However, coming into this store and requesting “one of each kind of cookie” is absolutely absurd. Sure, they look harmless lying on their bed of wax paper and a shiny metal sheet pan. This does not mean that they will not contribute significantly over time to your growing crotch fat.
A plate of almond cake samples sprinkled lightly with confectioners’ sugar is extremely tempting—please, take one, that’s what they’re there for. Hopefully, you’ll buy one and contribute to the growing economy of America. Oh, a second is fine. I hope you enjoy it, they’re on the rack directly behind you, and though they are quite large I’m sure you’ll have no problem eating half on the way back home. No, please, a third is not necessary. I am here to provide you with free food so you’ll buy some more, not to give you your third lunch. Your continuance in getting up from your large bistro-style coffee with four sugars and heavy cream to grab “just one more, they’re so delicious!” is entirely not necessary. You have now eaten the equivalent of one third of a cake whose first ingredient is a cup of margarine and the old lady behind you is struggling to contain her grandson, who continues to grow antsy at the sight of a poppy seed muffin.
How do I work at a bakery and stay so healthy, you ask? Why, just because I work here does not mean I need to eat every meal here. I am here to serve you, nonetheless, and would love to give you a suggestion: we do offer such options at oatmeal bread and dinner rolls; you should give it a shot.

Most Sincerely,
Your Ever-Smiling Baker

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Hey idiot,

What the hell, Mike? It’s not like you’re ever on time either, so shut your crap hole. Your son doesn’t do anything around here either (which is still better than you), so who fucking cares if he’s late? Really… shut… up. You probably have a gazillion price quotes to do, so get out of this room you lazy-ass old fart. Leave the support room… this is where the intelligent people sit.

It’s like the cool bench at school, except you’re so not cool that sitting anywhere on campus is too good for you. Get the hell out of here and do some work or just freaking retire you freaking moron. You really want to know why we’re losing clients? It’s because you’re a moron and you keep lying to them, making promises you can’t keep, insulting them, trying to explain things you can’t, failing to clearly explain things a 2 year old could, rambling on about how you want to change the world but can’t, making prejudice comments, offering them our services for free, and being so nice to the lead programmer here that he has never once felt inclined to listen to a single thing you’ve said.

About 10% of your ideas are good ones at best, but you don’t have the management skills to put their development into action – you own the damn company, for the love of potatoes, just tell your employees what you want them to do. Telling your son to pick up food from McDonald’s on the way because he’s already late is not managing your employees. It is, in fact, making your employee later. Why are you so incompetent?

Go away, and never come back. A vast vacuum of space could fill your seat more appropriately than you do. Frick off.

Richard

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Isabeau,  a PhD. candidate in Punishment

10) She’s one of those touchy-feeling types who gets her twat out of whack if you don’t greet her properly and enthusiastically each morning like a little puppy. (Note: This is impossible after dragging my ass in after drinking all night)

9) Her lunch is exactly the same, every day: cup of fat-free strawberry yogurt, container of calcium-enriched orange juice and a small bag of Pretzels.

8) If she doesn’t have written, step-by-step instructions, she is completely unable to use her computer, digital camera, fork, etc. Worse, she expects me to write these instructions for her.

7) She wears elastic waist pants.

6) She consistently mispronounces the word “October” as “Ogdober.”

5) The hand lotion she uses smells like a nursing home.

4) Anxiety is her middle name. Her knob is always set to “Freak Out.” Luckily, I keep my phaser set to “Stun.”

3) One glass of wine gets her completely sauced.

2) She has a crew cut, and she is not a lesbian.

1) She should NOT be my boss. I am pursuing a Ph.D. — she is pursuing her head up her butt.

Rantasaurus Says: Now, I don’t exactly see exactly why strawberry yogurt is offensive. My lunch of rotting, smelly carrion? I can see that being offensive, but pretzels?

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Joe B., with the keen food instincts 

It was a warm August day and my 5 year old son and I were coming back from a walk and visit to the park and decided to stop in at one of our local Chinese restaurants to get a lunch special. There were only two other patrons in the restaurant. An older women and an older man, each of whom sat at different tables. The older man seemed to be having a tough time eating as he coughed and hacked continuously while he ate.

Before we finished our meal the older hacking man got up and left. The waitress went over and grabbed his plate and then walked over to our table and, with the fork she had picked up along with the older man’s plate, scraped the departed customer’s food on to my plate and said ” He no eat. You eat.” and walked away.

My son and I looked at the food the waitress had just unloaded on to my plate without my requesting she do so. We didn’t speak as we didn’t know what to say. The other old lady patron was watching all this but expressionless and she never stopped chewing and swallowing.

Within a minute or two I suggested to my son we leave. My appetite had suddenly dissipated.

The waitress grabbed our plates and put our left-overs into a to-go container, again without my asking her to do this. We paid our bill and left with the to-go container.

Soon we made it to the corner of the block in which we had to turn and go down the street to our home. Just as we did this a friendly stray dog ran up to greet us.

On impulse I opened our to-go container and dumped the contents out on the sidewalk thinking this hungry looking dog would love a treat of human food. This was a combination of our uneaten food and the hacking man’s left overs.

This stray dog seemed very excited at first but during it’s cursury sniffing and checking out of this generous but gooey mess, it kept stopping and lifting it’s head as if it was thinking” something ain’t right here.”

After 2 or 3 attempts to reassure itself that we weren’t trying to poison him…this now suspicious hound obviously decided that it wasn’t worth the risk and gave us both a look of ” you think I’m that dumb?” and just scampered off.

Again my son and I glanced at each other. Again we didn’t know what to say. We continued on home silently contemplating what we just witnessed. In the 18 years since this experiencing this curious event, we still occasionally bring it up. No laughing…just incredulous wonder.

Rantasaurus Says: You disrespectful ignoramus. In many cultures, especially the cultures that value their ancestors, old man snot is a delicacy. I would’ve eaten it all up and asked for more.

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BeTheBoy, primo heartbreaker.

I had wanted to go out with her for a long time but I was unable to because things just got in the way. Finally, when things were out of the way I asked her out and we made plans for dinner. When the night finally arrived we were sitting over a dinner that had been a long time coming and talking about why it had taken so long to get there when her phone rang and she was told that her father had suffered a heart attack. I paid the check and we left the food on the table. Damn it, the way things were going I was pretty sure this night was going to end with some booze and ass slapping and now I have to drive her to the hospital. Damn stupid heart attack having father ruining my chances to see his daughter nekkid.

So we get to the hospital where I meet her family, it was awkward but at least I didn’t have to meet her father who busy at the time. Having not eaten much in the way of dinner we finished our date over vending machine candy bars and sodas in the hospital waiting room while we waited for the doctor.

As it turns out her dad only THOUGHT he was having a heart attack and after some tests he was cleared to go home. By this time it was too late to pick up where we left off, but we had the next day and night.

Rantasaurus Says: At least you didn’t get to see Daddy nekkid… with a tag on his foot as they wheeled him downstairs.

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Dear Pentagenarian Coworker,

You are 52, not 15.  Your short skirts, low-cut tops, and god-awful high-heeled “clicky shoes” are an abomination to all that is good and beneficial to a non-insane work day.

You know, if you would actually park yourself at your desk for a second and, I don’t know, do some actual WORK, instead of flitting around the office [while shaking your 52-year-old ass] every few minutes, I’d hate you a lot less.

Next time you feel like “venting” about how you do “so much work” and are “just worn out” let me remind you: there has never been a time, in the past year or so, that I have, albeit unwillingly, entered your office to find you actually working.  You are either surfing the Internet, sending inane forwards, or listening to e-cards that are turned up way too loud.

If you still feel “tension between us” just read the above and you’ll know why I glare at you any time you set foot near my office.

Definitely no love,

Me

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Dear BB,

Like my frustrated office mate, CC, I find that I must also take a moment to ask: “Why?”

Why is it that you must share with us the minutiae that is your everyday life? Besides our profession, we have pretty much nothing in common. Seriously. Yet, that somehow does not stop the endless drivel that comes out of your mouth Monday through Friday.

Do I care who you voted for on American Idol or Dancing With the Stars? No.

Do I care about the adorable little antics and what your so-called “designer dogs” did last night? No.

Do I care about the recent activities of your alcoholic husband, stoner son, twit daughter or feeb mother-in-law? No.

C’mon, BB. You must know we feel this way… on some level, right?

We. Don’t. Care.

Surely you have noticed the polite attempts to get back to work as you begin prattling on about how much you love the new Clay Aiken song or whatever other piece of trendy pop culture trash you are now into? Surely you have noticed how my headphones are now on my ears whenever you are present? I’ll let you in on a little secret: half of the time, there is not even any music on….it’s the only way I can ignore you and get away with it (cuz you know as well as I do, if I don’t have the headphones on, I’m fair game).

Really, you must notice the way we smirk through your stories of the way you live oh-so-vicariously through your perfect peppy blonde daughter? I can’t tell you how many times a day I wish you had a daughter that wasn’t a thin, blonde dance-major sorority snob….that instead you had birthed a mousy, plain daughter who was into RPG 24-7 and brought home boys who looked like Napoleon Dynamite. What would you do then? What stories would you have to tell your family, your neighbors, your coworkers, etc? Methinks someone would be a bit embarrassed if that was the case.

The sad thing is that even with ignoring the fact that you are almost 50 but are holding onto your self-proclaimed “coolness” with your artificially tanned little hands, you make it incredibly hard professionally to get along with you. Even though we are looked at as equals in our department, you make into some sort of competition to see who can get the most certifications, you spy on us for pretty much the entire 8-9 hours we are here, you know what time we clock in and out at, what we have up on our monitors, if we are on personal calls, you make comments about how you’re certain you make more money than we do….the list goes on and on. The thing that makes me twitch the most over your immature behavior is that you are almost 50 years old and you run to our supervisor day in and day out like you’re a GD lapdog!!! Don’t you have any self-respect at all?!?!

It’s very sad. And you’ve made it very clear to me that you are the type of woman I do not want to grow up to be.

Signed, Your Frustrated Neighbor to the Left,

S

Rantasaurus Says: No joke. These two submissions were sent in side by side from the same office and about the same person. BB, whoever you are, may God have mercy on your soul.

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