Valentines Day for Hopeless Non-Romantics


 Wow! Janet did an excellent job spending our team’s entire social budget on this lovey-dovey ambiance. You know what they always say: leave romance out of the workplace -EXCEPT ON FEBRUARY 14TH! It’s the one day of the year that Ron and Linda’s daily affair in the men’s handicap stall is “passionate” and not “unfair to their spouses and young children.” Speaking of children, there's a box of chalky heart shaped candies at my desk. I’ll place them in my drawer and save them for… never. Delicious! Would so rather have company resources spent on these than something dumb like SURPRISE PIZZA. Oh I’m not annoyed!  This is just my Valentines Day resting face – the one I make when I can’t see what I’m purchasing from the snack machine.  Is that a bag of delicious potato chips or a popped/baked/dehydrated vegetable-crisp situation?  I can’t see through the anatomically incorrect hearts taped to the glass.  Can you imagine if our critical blood-pumping mechanisms looked like these upside-down triangles with boobs?  WE’D DIE.  But today isn’t a day to think about death. Today is a holiday for LOVE.  Ah yes, love, that ocean of warmth, that flutter of a hummingbird’s wings, that feeling arbitrarily associated with the heart even though it clearly is a product of brain chemistry.  Why can’t we just decorate with brains or symbols of oxytocin?  Oh, you think THAT would be weird.  Of course.  My mistake.


 Look, I’m playing along and wearing red. Am I pure sex in this over-sized scratchy wool sweater?  It lives in the back of my closet and emerges once a year for this precise occasion. Does it elicit an amorous response? Good. It is my intention to seduce my mate.  No, not you, sticky-hand Dave.  No, not you, Leo from sales who calls his cubicle “ANNIHILATION STATION.”  No, not you, alarmingly attracting high-school intern.  By “mate” I mean my live-in boyfriend of three years.  I care about him deeply.  He excels at Microsoft Excel and can make one good soup. 


 Hello sweet partner!  I’m home from work.  Ooooo flowers?  What sweetness of you to transfer these plants from outdoors to indoors where flowers do not generally belong.  I appreciate these dying bits of vegetation.  Let me just put them into a container.  A vase?  No, I use that to hold my fun pencils.  A cup?  No, I use that to drink liquids when I’m thirsty. Ah, an empty shampoo bottle. Exquisite!  I shall keep these flowers upon the table until I find their extent of decay to be aesthetically displeasing.  In no way will they remind me of my own mortality.


 My darling, I did not forget you!  Here is a card that I bought from CVS with a silly romantic message on it written by a stranger.  I signed it to show that although I did not write the card I do endorse its sentiment. Now you must keep this card somewhere.  In a desk or in a shoebox, perhaps in that pile of papers you’ve cultivated behind the keyboard we don’t play. Whatever you do, I suppose you can’t throw it away. It’s now a symbol of our relationship and to discard it somehow disrespects our love.  Of course, one day we will move or de-clutter and you will throw it away but feel slightly shitty about it.  You’re welcome for this future piece of guilt.


 In honor of our burning love we light these tiny fires! Tiny fires on the floor, tiny fires on the wooden table, tiny fires on the desk right by the curtains.  How brave of us to create so many indoor flames. For the evening we forsake the miracle of electricity to squint and stumble.  Now, am I eating the spaghetti you made or strands from my grandmother’s burial shroud?  It was sitting right here…


 The time has arrived for the ultimate Valentine's Day act.  Could anything be sexier than having sex on a day specifically designated for having sex?  I find joy in this; the same joy I find in arriving to work on time or paying a parking meter. So let’s have some steamy sex in honor of St. Valentine who was murdered in 270 A.D.  Let’s be adventurous and kinky!  The shower? But then one person’s dry while the other person drowns in the pelting of our aggressive water pressure.  The kitchen?  But that’s where we cook meat and use knives. The floor?  You’re allergic to cat hair and I’m allergic to having sex on hard surfaces.  The bed?  Meh…


 Let’s have sex tomorrow and eat these Valentine’s chocolates instead.  Chocolate is always good. How can you find fault in chocolate?... Although this was overpriced and the packaging is ridiculous. FRILLS?  FRILLS ON FOOD?  Ok I’ll stop but only because I love you.


The Holy Book of Trump

In the beginning Trump created the heavens and the earth – the ENTIRE universe, tremendous, spectacular, really very tremendous– out of NOTHING.  There was a small loan from his father but that was very small.  And look, reader, if you know business like Trump knows business, you know that money – compared with how rich he is, not being braggadocious but $650 million, under-leveraged, HIGHLY under-leveraged – just look at the financial statement.  It’s better than a tax return.

 So on the first day the Donald said, “Let there be light!” And by “light” he meant GOLD. And suddenly there was the top highest quality- the best, very best - gold everywhere.  Gold buildings and gold toilet seats and gold kazoos and tiny gold teakettles that Sean Hannity said were the greatest he’d ever seen. And the crazy thing is he didn’t pay for any of it because he made it himself.  All with his big Trump hands – before anyone even knew what gold was. It was really good business because of that.

 Then on the second day Trump separated the water and the sky – believe it or not – he really did this.  This is true.  And when he was finished Trump pursed his lips and took a drink of the water. It was exquisite and beautiful and gorgeous so he bottled it up and called it “Trump Ice.” One of Donald’s advisors suggested is might be misleading to call bottled water “ice” but he was WRONG so Trump fired him.

 On the third day Trump saw the sky make rain and he said, “Hey! Sky, you’re making water.  Stop stealing water’s job!” So Trump built a wall between the sky and the water and called it land. And he made the sky pay for it- in fact, the sky was HAPPY to pay for the wall.  Then when the massive, impenetrable, solid, physical, massive, wall was finished Trump built a thousand casinos on top of it. The casinos were castles and national treasures - just the most astounding pieces of architecture you’ve seen with any of your eyes. Next Trump built a million HUGE towers that were all the tallest towers on earth, each taller than the one before and also taller than the next one but mostly taller than the one prior.  Someone said they should all be named wonders of the world.  He can’t remember who said that. It was someone vey famous and very important.

 The fourth day was even better than the other days.  Trump didn’t think it could be better but it was really a ginormous day because that was the day he made ALL the biggest stars in the heavens.  He made Kristie Alley and young Aaron Carter and Stephen Baldwin - who is undoubtedly the best and biggest Baldwin.  Rosie O’Donnell tweeted something very mean about not being included in the stars and Trump called that fat ugly pig a “FAT UGLY PIG!” And she deserved it because she is not a nice person – really a very bad person if you ever meet her in person.

 Then on the fifth day Donald was inspired by Rosie O’Donnell to make a bunch of disgusting animals so he made some weird sloths and hippos and pigs.  He also made some okay looking cows that were delicious –just INCREDIBLE – to eat.  He butchered the best biggest cows and made them into Trump Steaks and everyone in the world said that he had raised the stakes on steaks but Trump said, “WRONG!” Because he had actually raised the steaks on grass or whatever cows eat typically. 

 Then on the sixth day Trump made billions and billions – no trillions, approximately almost a trillion-ish people.  He made black people and white people and Asian people and Japanese people and all the people who wear sombreros – also fat people too. And there was no discrimination. NONE.  No discrimination and Trump was very proud of that and people gave him tons of credit for that because- you have to understand- not all businesses do it– but he let blacks into his golf club and even Muslims, at least one time, during the winter, at night.  And they love him – the blacks and everyone – he has a great relationship with them – because it’s not politics as typical. He’s a WINNER and he knows how to WIN.

Finally, on the seventh day, everything was finished – the entire world – under-budget, ahead of schedule, incredible, brilliant.  So Trump rested for the last little while because he had made the world great again – but also for the first time.

A PSA RE: The Unholy Terror of Moving Desks

It is coming my friends: THE GREAT MOVE.  The men behind the mahogany doors have declared a seating rearrangement to promote synergy, collaboration and unholy terror.  We know not what the future holds but we must face it with a brave face and courageous spirit.

In 24 hours time you will be torn from the comfort of your cloth and laminate coffee-stained cubicle and shoved into the foreign territory of a cloth and laminate cubicle that may or may not have a stain.  You will be ripped from a location that is close to both a bathroom and a window and transplanted into a location with a bathroom but no guarantee of afternoon sunlight. The only certainty is that there is no certainty. 

For now, soak in the affiliates around you. Say Goodbye to Melinda, and her neat row of big headed dolls.  Farewell to Jasmine and her 6 bottles of pinot noir and three shoeboxes.  So long to Nick and his ever-shedding beard.  Hold Mike’s hand tightly and whisper sweetly,  “we should go get burgers this weekend.”  For now is not the time for honesty.  Now is the time for nostalgia.

Remember when Jasmine got stuck in the elevator for three minutes before the building operator helped her out?  Remember when Melinda ordered too few pizzas for the work party?  Remember when Brad had a hard time pronouncing “concierge”?  Remember when you said “hi” to Nick at the Container Store and then you continued your shopping?  Hug them close and know that though you will be separated your friendship will last as long as they are in your sightline. 

Now is the time to pack up your workspace. Hold back your tears as you pack up the letter from your mom that shows you have a family.  Brace your heart as you file away the photo of you at a party that proves you regularly receive intercourse. With a heavy heart, pack up your copy of Hard Choices by Hilary Clinton that illustrates your political awareness.  Whimper to yourself as you box up the little troll and the tie-dye stress ball that advertise that you have a personality.  You’re so fun!  You’re never too old for toys!

Look to the cubicle walls. There’s the note from Jennifer about how good you are at doing your job. She's right, you do make copies so fast! Revisit the birthday card that everyone signed for you.  You really are very well liked! 

Now with boundless sorrow throw out one rubber band, three leaky pens, five crumpled packets of splenda, and a belt that you could wear when you ate only soybeans. Dwell in the catharsis of cleansing and move forward.

Finally, look at your empty desk – the place where your bum has sat for the past four years.   Thank your bum for it’s service and draft it for another 4 years. Breath in the tepid air and florescent lights of this specific pod one last time.  Smell the putrid exhales of the old fridge and the hint of BBQ sauce from Brad's lunch. It is time make the move.  The move is upon us!



 Do not let my cutesy exterior fool you.  The bouncy blond bob and velvet floral dress is merely a distraction. My dear grandmother’s ring that I wear on a delicate strand around my neck is all for show.  The warm smile I give whenever I see you – it means nothing.  

 I assure you, I am a monster.

. I do not wish for you to stop me; you couldn’t if you tried.  My only desire is that you know of the great and terrible work that I do.  Know me.  Fear me.  I AM THE DERANGED MURDERER OF YULETIDE EVERGREENS!



 I’ve done it for as long as I can remember.  As a child, every Christmas season my parents took me into the Green Mountain Forest to find our victim: a pretty little thing in a clearing with no friends or family to be seen.  Father brought a handsaw and methodically cut back and forth away at its stump, periodically wiping the sap and bark from his favorite murder coat: the Land’s End Expedition Down Parka.  Mother fussed about the cold and nibbled on her favorite murder snack: candied pecans. I watched in awe as the evergreen lost its life source, all the while singing my favorite murder song:  Mariah Carey’s “All I Want for Christmas is You.” When the tree collapsed we bound it’s limbs with harsh plastic rope and dragged the still-living body to our Toyota Tacoma where it was unceremoniously shoved in the trunk bed.  Then we buckled up and drove back to our suburban household as if nothing at all had transpired.

 Our tree fell in the forest and no one ever heard it scream.



Now that I am grown I must do the dirty work alone. I live in Chicago where fine evergreens are hard to come by but luckily I have “a guy”.  His name is Kipper (clearly a fake name) and he understands my particular brand of yuletide bloodlust.  Every December Kipper sets up shop in the parking lot of my local Jewel Osco.  He pedals his unholy wares to all the creeps and lunatics in my neighborhood; types with which I loathe to associate – my work is an art and not merely an impulse.

 I survey Kipper’s trees as he wrings his sap-coated hands behind me.  He offers me hot chocolate and a candy cane.  Do I look like someone who wants treats?  NO!  I AM A KILLER OF FESTIVE TREES! Fine, I will take one candy cane in my pocket but not for the sake of juvenile merriment, only because I have garlic breath and even serial killers need good breath.

 Now comes my selection. Never a fir, they yell to god and won’t stop crying; not a spruce, they make everything sexual; but a pine, ah yes, a young innocent pine, that is always what I chose.  I pay Kipper in unmarked non-sequential bills, wrap my darling in plastic netting, and heave it onto my shoulder.  The dying weight bores into my back but the walk is short and my excitement is uncontainable. 



 In the seclusion of my apartment I get acquainted with my victim, careful never to hear its name.  I remove the netting and allow it to take in the surroundings.  To the untrained eye it may look like the quaint one-bedroom of a twenty-something with a penchant for books with charming titles, vanilla scented candles, and large decorative clocks, but in truth this is a place of PURE UNHINGED EVIL. 

 I introduce the pine to my first torture device: a red stand with screws that dig into my captive’s stump, forcing it to stand upright as though nothing were amiss.  Inside the stand I pour just enough water to keep the tree alive.  I will remind you: I’m a truly sick individual.

Next comes the adornment of the body.  I hang weighted red orbs upon the victim’s limbs, forcing them to stretch in unnatural directions. I wipe the sap from my hands and unlock my box of more disturbing trinkets: hand-made reindeer, family pictures in a child’s noodle frame, the tiny snow globe that was a gift from my grandmother.  Reminder after reminder after reminder of the joy of living and being with the ones you love; it is a joy this tree will never know again. I, however, will see my family again. Sure I’m not with them now –flights to Seattle are prohibitively expensive – but I will see them again.  I wipe a tear from my face and snap menacingly at the judging pine,  “I’m not crying, YOU are crying and you should be because you are about to DIE.”

 Finally the piece de resistance comes in the form of a long string of twinkling lights and a bright star I place atop my evergreen’s head. I plug the string in and my victim lights up like a…. goddamn it, there’s a simile here but I lost it.  Suffice to say it’s bright and beautiful and festive as fuck.

 I stand back and look at my masterpiece; more stunning as it dies than it ever was in living. Days will pass and life will drain from my captive.  Needles will fall and by New Years Day the evergreen will be green no more: an ugly, brittle, corpse out of place in my room for the living.  That is when I call the boy scouts to clear away my former masterpiece.  It is their problem now. 

 I wipe my hands clean of the sap and lie in wait for next Christmas...when I shall murder yet again.

The Annual Report on the Economy of Fuck-Giving

An alarming study by the Fuck Market Analysis Group or FMAG reports that in 2015 the average American gave a record-breaking 1,763 fucks a day.  That is twice as many fucks-given as Americans in 1970 and over a 35% increase in fuck expenditure from just last year.

 FMAG leading analyst, Robert Wilton, believes that this influx of fucks is flooding the market and depreciating the value of the fuck.  In a recent press conference Wilton warned that, “young Americans are giving fucks at a dangerous rate. If the market isn’t stabilized soon we are headed towards a world in which individuals as young as 40 will have few or no fucks left to give and those they retain will have no value.”

 Such a collapse of the fuck-market would, undoubtedly, be the biggest economic failure since the Great Fucking Depression. The following breakdown of 2015’s fucks-given by demographic corroborates Wilton’s fear that we are in a full-blown fucking crisis.


 This past year - despite ever-increasing pressure to have a perfect body, successful career, and vibrant sex life - infants and toddlers continued to give basically zero fucks.*

 2015 Average Daily Fucks-Given (ADFG) Ages 0-3

 Fucks given regarding excrement in diaper: 1

Fucks given regarding object permanence: 2

Fucks given regarding “holy shit I have hands that I can move myself”: 4

 *”Basically zero fucks,” is based on a calculation that excludes infant and toddlers’ aggressive preference for certain people, textures, colors and horse sounds from which their parents can derive little to know rational pattern. To include such data in the fuck-count would drastically skew the Annual Fuck-Giving Report, placing the fuck market almost solely in the hands of babies.  It is the belief of the FMAG that such a report would not be an accurate reflection of fucking reality, as babies are not active fuckers but rather accidental fuckers.


 Children 4-11 years old had a 5% increase in their fuck expenditure.  While continuing to give little to no fucks about romantic relationships, personal hygiene or their 401K, child-given fucks saw a rise in the specialty food sector and in entertainment.

 2015 Summary of ADFG Ages 4-11

 Fucks given regarding burnt toast being aesthetically displeasing: 2

Fucks given regarding kids next door having cooler nerf guns that really hurt when they hit you: 5

Fucks given regarding having the sickest Minecraft castle: 8

Fucks given regarding shape of fruit snacks in lunchbox: 9

Fucks regarding Disney’s Frozen: 185



 Teens and tweens are notorious for their unapologetic giving of fucks and this year was no exception.  This demographic doled out 25% more fucks than last year and managed to decrease fucks given only in the category of “Fucks regarding transportation to One Direction concerts,” a decline widely attributed to the fact that teens now take Ubers or Lyfts to public events more often than Mom and Dad’s minivan.   

 2015 Summary of ADFG Ages 12-19

 Fucks given regarding eyebrows being totally “on fleek” - 12

Fucks given regarding instragram likes (lol, jk…but for realsies) – 52

Fucks given regarding an 11PM curfew that “makes no sense ‘cause I’m basically an adult!”- 235

Fucks given regarding getting sufficiently “turned up” at prom - 327

Fucks given regarding wanting others to think you are attractive enough to get fucked not just once but on multiple occasions and with people who are attractive and therefore enviable fuck partners - 604


 Upon first examination, this year proved to be a record low of fuck-giving for the 20-34 year old demographic.  Across the board young adults proudly claimed to be “GIVING NO FUCKS,” in their daily lives.  Unfortunately, upon further investigation these findings were revealed to be gross examples of under-reporting.   FMAG investigative reporter, Nikki Bilgren, found that twenty-somethings were compelled to skew data regarding their own fuck-giving because they gave an excess of fucks about appearing as though they gave no fucks at all.

 2015 Summary of ADFG ages 20-34 (Actual vs. Self-Reported)

 Fucks given regarding the desire for an in-unit washer/dyer

Self-reported average 0

Actual average: 8

 Fucks given regarding rapid development of cellulite on ass

Self-reported average: 0

Actual average: 62

 Fucks given regarding turning 30

Self-reported: 0

Actual Average: 388

 Fucks given regarding desperately wanting to make your parents proud

Self-Reported average: 0

Actual average: 417

 Fucks given regarding your ex’s hot new boyfriend/girlfriend’s facebook page

Self reported average:  0

Actual average: 582

 Fucks given regarding your best friend having a beautiful baby boy and a thriving career in finance while you wait tables at a “kid friendly” diner

Self reported average: 0

Actual average: 769

 Fucks given regarding the desire to appear as though no fucks are given

Self-reported: 0

Actual average: 1,576


 Adults in this demographic maintained their pattern of giving a reasonable amount of sensible fucks.  The majority of Americans polled had spent 80% of their total fucks in earlier years, leaving them only able to give a few refined and substantive fucks.

 2015 Summary of ADFG ages 35-50

 Fucks given regarding increased property tax: 23

Fucks given regarding appreciation of “earthy” wine: 34

Fucks given regarding their labradoodle’s weight gain: 52

Fucks given regarding proper leather care of $250 loafers: 57

Fucks given regarding sodium content of lean cuisines: 77

Fucks given regarding getting kids into a hypoallergenic elementary school: 101


 In 2015 this demographic enjoyed a blissful increase in fuck retention.  After throwing kids out of the house and becoming legit experts in their field, 51-75 year olds gave fucks in only two subjects: arthritis and marijuana. 

 2015 Summary of ADFG 51-75

 Fucks given regarding treating swollen joints: 7

Fucks given regarding finding a swollen joint to smoke in the garage: 15


 For the 8th year in a row Americans ages 75+ not only gave zero fucks but also had zero fucks to give.

 2015 Summary of ADFG ages 75+

 Not Fucking Applicable