Key Work Phrases for Every Occasion

Lunch/Mingling with Co-Workers
The saying "the people are as important as the work"” has gotten a lot of airtime over the years for good reason. Mundane jobs become tolerable when an employee can feel comfortable around his or her co-workers. If a job takes up at least 40 hours of your week, why not make it as enjoyable as possible? Invite your fellow employees into your secret garden of trust and by all means, don't be afraid to tell them what you're thinking. An open line of communication is the foundation of any good relationship. Some examples:

Wow Tom, that suit makes you look like a ten pound bag of shit squeezed into a five pound bag. What gives?

My weekend was grand Sally, I blew through five eightballs like it was going out of style. Then I attempted to freebase my new kitten. That didn't go so well.

When You Have to Say No
Everyone loves to be included in the party but when duty calls, work must come first. Here are some nice excuses to have handy when you need to pass on the invite, but appreciate the offer.

I think I'll pass on lunch today. I have some raw codfish I've been storing in my file cabinet for over a week now. It should be ripe.

To be honest, I'd rather shave my eyebrows with a rusty razor before I eat lunch with you. Thanks for the offer though.

No thanks. You chew too loudly and you smell like my Uncle Sal.

Filing/Administrative
A key responsibility and vital skill for many in today's corporate America centers around the ability to file, organize and pay attention to the little things. God lies in the details. Seriously, I saw him. The details are like a puffy little pillow for him.

What file? Oh, that file. I filed it under "I" for I hate you.

I was supposed to read that? My bad.

Client Relationship Building
Clients appreciate unabashed candor. They find it refreshing. Be sure to incorporate it into all your relationships as people feel more comfortable around those they trust and consider to be straight shooters.

I know you're my client Bo, but you could really use a handjob from a Thai hooker.

What you are about to hear is perhaps the greatest piece of business advice you will ever receive. Do not — I repeat — do not eat the urinal cakes.

Hey Jim, you want a piece of this? (flex bicep)

You know, this econometrics model you've established that predicts ROI results is pretty substantial. At least, that's what your mom said to me last night. HIYOOOOOOOO!

Limited Lunch Options

The only thing I’m really finding solace in today is that I don’t have a mustache.

This is a shift in policy for me as it is in stark contrast to how I typically view a bushy lip. However, this drastic change in facial hair ideology is being driven solely by the fact that I have a head cold which is absolutely driving me bonkers. Like I said, at least I don’t have a mustache though. Because of that blessed fact, I don’t have to worry about some errant piece of freeloading mucus balling up when I’m unawares and making me look like a maroon when I ask for a donut or a coffee, or give someone the “What up, blood?” head nod in the hallway. On the other hand, not having a mustache makes me wonder what it’s like to have one which in turn makes me infinitely sad. Unfortunately, I cannot reverse this trend because the reality is I couldn’t grow one even if I tried. God has not deemed me fit for such endeavors so I shall not wander. On to the cold.

It hit me hardest on Friday evening after a few beers. On the walk back home, I began to feel like a bobble head doll; this ten pound bowling ball trapped in my sinus passages forced me to sway my head to and fro’ involuntarily. It sucked. I then sat on my couch and proceeded to sleep on and off until Monday morning, only sporadically waking up to refill on NyQuil and DayQuil and Diet Coke.

On Monday I was informed that I needed to feed a cold and hydrate it. Apparently, Diet Coke dehydrates you so I was making matters worse. Now this cold is really fucking up my program because it’s playing with my lunch options. If I could, I’d take this cold to the curb and give it a good old Ed Norton-style American History X stomping. I drink Diet Coke in the morning, two with lunch, one in the afternoon and then a handful in the evening. If there is no Diet Coke, I drink beer because that’s the way I’ve been rolling since 5th grade. Nevertheless, I want to beat this cold so I’m trying to do as I’m told.

Today at work, someone said, “We’re trying to penetrate all of our clients”. It didn’t change the fact that I have a cold, though. At lunch, I went to the Deli and looked at the menu. The whole fiasco about finding out Diet Coke produces a negative effect on cold fighting inspired me to try and make more enlightened food decisions. Turkey. That was my first choice but I decided against it in the end because of that whatever-it-is that makes you tired after you eat it. I’m already tired. So fuck you, turkey! How about a Grilled Cheese? That sounds delicious with some soup. Sounds like something Mrs. Cleaver would prescribe. The problem is I hate soup and refuse to drink my lunch, and cheese is the world’s second largest producer of phlegm right after orange juice. That combo was out. I could eat a salad, I thought, but salads are entirely no good without croutons which are salty and would dehydrate me further, or so I believed because I probably would have added bacon to it as well. Maybe the deli wasn’t such a good idea.

So I headed over to the hot bar and saw some raw broccoli and couldn’t stop thinking of that funny bit of Dana Carvey’s when he goes on and on about “chopping broccolaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaayyyyyy. She chop-a, she chop-a…” I passed on the broccoli.

All in all, I ended up walking out of the deli with a Red Bull, a 2-Liter of Diet Coke, some Pork Rinds, a box of pop tarts (blueberry and frosted) and the NY Post. It’s two days later and my cold is still here. It haunts me like Tim Allen’s performance in The Shaggy Dog. There is one good thing that has come out of all this though; I still don’t have a mustache. But you know who does? Your momma.

Oh, snap! You read all that way for that. Booya.

(Editor’s Note: normally this would be a much funnier, more well-written column but due to the extreme head cold, Nick is missing something. On a positive note, his lip has started to look a little hairier.)

Scenes from Next Week’s Episode of “Potato, Come Home!”

FADE IN:

INT. A SILO SOMEWHERE IN IDAHO – DAY

It is 1982 and the potatoes are piled atop one another in difficult living conditions, even for potatoes. The Spuds family sits around waiting to scrub each other after a tough day avoiding deportation to the French Fry Death Camps.

PAPA SPUD, (2 months old, slightly greenish) sits across from his son, SPUDSIE CRINKLE CUT (1 month old, the cleanest skinned potato in the silo).

PAPA SPUD glares at SPUDSIE through one of his 15 burgeoning eyes.

PAPA SPUD
Clean your eyes, they’re unsightly.

SPUDSIE
Maybe to you, Dad, but in some parts of this world, they’re scars of experience.

PAPA SPUD
Don’t wisecrack to me, Spudsie. I made you and I’ll just as quick pare your ass to pieces.

PAPA SPUD slaps SPUDSIE, sending one of SPUDSIE’s newly grown eyes flying across the silo.

SPUDSIE
The world isn’t the same anymore, Dad! You can’t just strong arm-your way through everything. Why can’t you get that through that thick tuber of yours.

PAPA SPUD is green from too much sunlight and the solanine makes him bitter and toxic. It’s widely known he’s a bad green potato. He shoves SPUDSIE into a pile of alfalfa.

SPUDSIE
Forget you, Dad!

PAPA SPUD
(slaps SPUDSIE again)
No, forget you, son!

SPUDSIE
Forget you!

SPUDSIE rolls awkwardly out of the silo and disappears into the night.

PAPA SPUD
(mumbling)
Waxy son of a bitch, he won’t make it solo out there one day.

CUT TO:

EXT. NIGHT

The red potato district of Dublin, OH. Filthy potatoes with enormous eyes and huge gouges cut out of their skins mill aimlessly about. Sirens can be heard.

PIMP (6 weeks old, a grizzled half-fried potato).

PIMP
Listen spud, you ain’t performin’.

SPUDSIE
But, but…

PIMP
Shut up Spudsie! You don’t talk to your pimp like that.

SPUDSIE
I want to go home!

PIMP throws SPUDSIE down on the sidewalk and threateningly holds a masher.

CUT TO:

INT. SILO - NIGHT

PAPA SPUD is lifted from the silo and thrown in a pile of green potatoes to be sold to Ore-Ida at discount wholesale prices.

MRS. SPUDSIE, (SPUDSIE’S mum) is penning a letter to SPUDSIE begging him to come home and take his rightful place as the head of the silo.

CUE MUSIC. (George Michael’s rare, better yet, never heard rendition of “Danny Boy”)

FADE OUT.

• • •
Next week’s episode of “Potato, Come Home” can be seen in Julienne-Vision only on the New WB!