I Quit. Sincerely, John Q. Public
Dear Mr. Torrance and distinguished members of the Board,
It is with great joy and a Maker's Mark-induced belligerence that I present you with my resignation. Five years ago, I began pissing my days away as Department Manager in this stale, fluorescent poisoned hovel you so generously call an office. Today, I stand before you as a nothing more than a sad, hallow shell of a man. I'd like to congratulate you in successfully breaking what my wife once called my "iron percerverance". Please know that I will take the horrific lessons I learned here to my grave and when I wake in the night screaming in terror, take comfort it's all because of you and your horrible horrible company.
Of course, one could always argue I'm partly to blame for my gradual mental deterioration. Some might say I should've up and ran from that first interview, when the 400lb bi-polar monster (with whom I would later share a five year "temporary" office) told me he liked both boys AND girls. Its probably true that I would've been better off quitting midway through year three, when large clumps of my own hair began falling out and my wife begged me to stop crying on Sundays. But I soldiered on, knowing that my hard work and determination would surely pay off in the form of a promotion or raise. Instead, my countless hours of overtime were rewarded with pay deductions for "Friday free donuts" and "company oxygen use". When the work load began to increase as a direct result of my own talents, you pushed my hours back to nearly part time and stripped me of my benefits, causing me to fall behind on projects. Your drunken attempts to "rally me" with personal insults and threats of black mail at the company picnic did not go unnoticed by my wife, children and recent cancer surviving Mother-in-Law.
I was promised my own office when I accepted the position, even though I'd be sharing a space with the afore mentioned 400lb monster for the first month. That month turned into a year and eventually stretched into four more. To add insult to bi-polar injury, at each weekly staff meeting I would be informed that the notion of my office mate moving into his own area would only be entertained after all the morning's Howard Stern jokes had been exhausted. Needless to say, my notion was never entertained. As a result, I had ringside seats to an overweight bi-sexual relationship breakdown, an overweight bi-sexual relationship reconciliation and an overweight bi-sexual habitually filling his lip with Kodiak chewing tobacco, awarding me the pleasure of cleaning make-shift Snapple bottle spitoons from my own desk, chair and car hood. I have been privy to smells that would displease the hoboest of hobos and have removed countless kittens from "the warm spot" of my printer. In addition, I've been the sounding board for such pearls of wisdom as, "I collect power tools, I'm weird like that." and "My doctor told me last week that I'm probably an alcoholic, but this week I saw on Oprah that I'm really not"
So to summarize, Fuck you all. I wouldn't trust any of you to hand me an oxygen mask during a plane crash.
Yours in eternal damnation,
Employee #34457
P.S. When you all come to that final stop of your little road to perdition and you're kneeling before Satan, awaiting judgement, be sure and throw me a wave. I'll be the one poking at your eyeballs with a gasoline-soaked stick.
It is with great joy and a Maker's Mark-induced belligerence that I present you with my resignation. Five years ago, I began pissing my days away as Department Manager in this stale, fluorescent poisoned hovel you so generously call an office. Today, I stand before you as a nothing more than a sad, hallow shell of a man. I'd like to congratulate you in successfully breaking what my wife once called my "iron percerverance". Please know that I will take the horrific lessons I learned here to my grave and when I wake in the night screaming in terror, take comfort it's all because of you and your horrible horrible company.
Of course, one could always argue I'm partly to blame for my gradual mental deterioration. Some might say I should've up and ran from that first interview, when the 400lb bi-polar monster (with whom I would later share a five year "temporary" office) told me he liked both boys AND girls. Its probably true that I would've been better off quitting midway through year three, when large clumps of my own hair began falling out and my wife begged me to stop crying on Sundays. But I soldiered on, knowing that my hard work and determination would surely pay off in the form of a promotion or raise. Instead, my countless hours of overtime were rewarded with pay deductions for "Friday free donuts" and "company oxygen use". When the work load began to increase as a direct result of my own talents, you pushed my hours back to nearly part time and stripped me of my benefits, causing me to fall behind on projects. Your drunken attempts to "rally me" with personal insults and threats of black mail at the company picnic did not go unnoticed by my wife, children and recent cancer surviving Mother-in-Law.
I was promised my own office when I accepted the position, even though I'd be sharing a space with the afore mentioned 400lb monster for the first month. That month turned into a year and eventually stretched into four more. To add insult to bi-polar injury, at each weekly staff meeting I would be informed that the notion of my office mate moving into his own area would only be entertained after all the morning's Howard Stern jokes had been exhausted. Needless to say, my notion was never entertained. As a result, I had ringside seats to an overweight bi-sexual relationship breakdown, an overweight bi-sexual relationship reconciliation and an overweight bi-sexual habitually filling his lip with Kodiak chewing tobacco, awarding me the pleasure of cleaning make-shift Snapple bottle spitoons from my own desk, chair and car hood. I have been privy to smells that would displease the hoboest of hobos and have removed countless kittens from "the warm spot" of my printer. In addition, I've been the sounding board for such pearls of wisdom as, "I collect power tools, I'm weird like that." and "My doctor told me last week that I'm probably an alcoholic, but this week I saw on Oprah that I'm really not"
So to summarize, Fuck you all. I wouldn't trust any of you to hand me an oxygen mask during a plane crash.
Yours in eternal damnation,
Employee #34457
P.S. When you all come to that final stop of your little road to perdition and you're kneeling before Satan, awaiting judgement, be sure and throw me a wave. I'll be the one poking at your eyeballs with a gasoline-soaked stick.