LESS IS LESS

So USB is now selling a mini Paper Shredder. It takes only 4.8-inch wide paper, but still, its uses are nearly limitless. Say you need to shred your ticket stub from a Colin Ferrel romantic comedy or a past-use "CYCLE FOR PLEURISY" stamp...then you're all set. Or maybe your pal who works at a Lilliputian corporation has sent you compromising insider trading info using his people's diminutive paper stock and you need to get rid of it--but that regular shredder is just too darn big! Problem solved. Cause here's the new USB mini Paper Shredder!

Wait, did I say its uses were "nearly limitless?" I meant "there are no uses for this retarded machine."

Seriously, if you live a life so filled with deceit that you need to shred every paper-trace of your actions with a device like this, you probably deserve to be put in jail, not rewarded with more of the disposable income that allowed you to purchase this inane thing in the first place.

The feds should stop worrying about terrorists and start tracking people buying this device.

INT. BINGO HALL - DAY

BINGO CALLER: B-10.

USB MINI SHREDDER OWNER: Bingo!

BINGO CALLER: Hold on there, young feller. I'll be right there.

USB MINI SHREDDER OWNER: Crap, he's coming to check my card. Better shred the evidence.

BINGO CALLER: Congratu--Oh. Where's your card?

Buzz, shred, buzz!

BINGO CALLER: Are you shredding your bingo card?

USB MINI SHREDDER OWNER: Prove it, old man!

Suddenly, fifteen black-clad men wearing night vision goggles and light support rifles crash in through the roof, the windows, and even an elderly man's chest.

BINGO CALLER: Holy moly! It's the Freedom Fifteen! Hey fellers, this young'un over here just shredded his bing--

BANG!!! POP-POP-POP-POP!!

The Freedom Fifteen mercilessly shoot every person under 95 square between the eyes. Twice...just to be safe. They could be zombies. One 96 year old man is, at first, left alive to tell the tale, but since that's against regulations, he is immediately asked to shred himself in USB's new MACRO PERSON SHREDDER or MPS.




Well that was fun.

Here are a few other equally useless tiny items for your office. No, no, you don't have to thank us.

Nevertheless, you're welcome.


The USB MINI STAPLER

Great for stapling together the tiny, tiny shreds in your USB Mini Paper Shredder basket!


USB'S MINI COFFEE MUG

Hey, you were trying to cut down anyway. Plus, you can forget about Grandes and Ventis. Now you'll be the first person on your floor to be able to order a Minisculo from Starbucks. When they finally catch on and team up with USB. I'm sure they will. This is USB we’re talking about! They never make stupid products!


USB MINI NYC SKYLINE

Tired of grandeur? Sick of breathtaking man made structures? Have we got the solution!


USB MINI SECRETARY

Fits in your pocket. She fits in your goddamn pocket! This is the best invention ever.



USB MINI HAGUE

No reason. None. None at all.

SEAN CRESPO: Big in Japan; MEDIUM LARGE: Big in Italy

Not surprisingly, many of us here at Drink At Work play a much larger role in the cultures of foreign nations. Our intelligent, well-conceived humor can't help but transcend language barriers and nationalistic conceits.

For instance, my weekly article "Sean Crespo Will Teach You Satire" distributed in the United States through the Drink At Work media empire and also on Cracked.com can be found translated into the native languages of hundreds of the world's most avid satire loving nations on various websites. For instance, in China, my column, "Sean Crespo Will Instruct Moments of Lucid Water Laughs" is the number one humor blog in the country. In Canada, my column is called "Sean Crespo Likes Geese." In Brazil, my column entitled "Tits Are Everywhere Down Here, Man!!!" is still struggling but we hope to pick up some traffic at year's end when we add "And Ass" to the title.

But nowhere am I more loved than in Japan. My column, "Sean-u San Shits Honor" is the #1 newspaper and internet column, and even a beloved television show in that country. Unfortunately, after dual taxes in Japan and here, and with dollar inflation, and bank fees, I only earn $200 a year off all that. But that doesn't take away from the love I get from my millions of bizarre Japanese fans. Thank you all...I think.

Well, I'm not alone in this multi-nationally appreciated group. Yesterday I was able to find a translated version of the Italian syndication of Ces' comic strip Medium Large, called GRANDE VENTI over there, on a wire service. In Italy, our friend Francesco Marciuliano is known only as "FRANCESCO!" but I think you'll find the spirit of the strip remains the same, although I must say and I think you'll agree once you read this strip, the idea of Italians being able to invent a working robot seems a bit far fetched. Although, it probably would make the trains run on time. Cheers!

A MESSAGE FROM THE SUPPLIES CLOSET

Hi guys. I hope you're all having a great end of the quarter and an even better July. I'm sure many of you already have vacation plans--Joan, I see you already have your bags packed! Haha, yes, Aruba does sound nice. Hot hot hot! Yes, I love Buster Poindexter too. Ahhhh...

Okeedokee! To business!

The reason I requested you all take time from your lunch breaks--sorry for that but this does concern us all--I wanted to ask everyone one simple question, more of a request really. That question is, "Would everyone please stop fucking in me?"

Please? Would you? It would mean a lot. I know that you're all in a high-stress environment here, but let me assure you, having sex inside of me isn't going to make that go away. It's just going to leave stains. So would you mind?

That's great. Thank you. I know it's kind of an awkward thing for me to bring up in front of everyone, but the shear horror I experience almost nightly when people like, uh, like Martin over there--Hey Martin--ejaculate inside of me overrides any sense of responsibility to act politely. Really, it's that bad. You know how when you're at a bar and someone next to you just accidentally rubs a leg against you and it makes you feel a little gross because they've broken your "personal space bubble?" Well imagine if two people crawled into your peehole and started having sex in your bladder. Then you'll get some idea of what it's like to be me after-hours.

Hmmm...I'm looking around and I see a lot of disbelieving faces. Is it possible that you think I'm making all this up? I don't really see what I could gain from accusing a room full of people I see every day of having sex inside of me, but then I'm only a Supply Closet so what would I know, right? Well, for one, I know that Melina from Processing--hi Melina--I know that Melina likes to role play. Isn't that right Melina, or should I call you "The Captain?" Oh and I meant to ask, did you enjoy your latest overtime voyage to Spanktopia? I believe it was just last night that you sailed there with the new intern. Anal Ahoy!

Hey, speaking of long journeys, where are you sneaking off to, Joan? Trying to get to the airport early, or more likely do you have a little afternoon delight planned? I hope you're not planning on doing it inside of me as per usual, because Raoul will be restocking for the next few hours. But then, maybe you can ask him to participate! I'm sure he'd be into it. Hold on, I'll ask for you. Raoul, Raoul! Come here! Hey, what do you think about having a three-way with Joan and whoever she's doing this time? Great. See Joan, he's up for it. And yes, Raoul, she is a maricon.

Oh Rachel, you're blanching! Is it because your children are here--hello Jimmy, Janice, and... Jerry is it? Kids, let's take a little quiz. Have you ever wondered why mommy and daddy are both blue eyed and blond and yet all of you were miraculously born with curly black hair and brown eyes? What was mommy's explanation for that genetic anomaly again? Recessive alleles from grandpa, was it? That's funny, kids. Did he own a plantation? No I'm kidding, but do you know what my explanation is?

Dean. From Cost-Planning. Good work, Dean.

Oh hey Dean! Didn't see you there! What's that--you didn't know? Well, Happy Belated Father's Day, buddy. Good on ya. Kids, go ahead and wave hello to your real daddy. One last quiz children. Guess where you were conceived? I'll give you one hint:

It happened in a certain office supplies closet which is currently tired of being fucked in.

Give up? It was in me! Oh you guys are good at this!

Are we having fun yet, people?! I do so love these work functions.

And look, I know this will make intra-office affairs more difficult. I am aware of that, and God forbid fucking comes to a complete halt in the hallowed halls of American enterprise. Feel free to fuck. Fuck all you fucking want for fuck's fucking sake.

Just, for my sake, and the sake of the cleaning staff, don't do it inside of me anymore.

And so I don't to leave you in the proverbial lurch, I've already spoken to the Stairwell on your collective, fucking behalves, and he's agreed to take on a certain percentage of the current fucking going on, but only on floors 6 and above. The in-office day care is on 5 and he doesn't want to risk scarring your children the way you've scarred me.

So that's it. Just wanted to air it all out, so you know how I feel regarding the Herculean, nearly continuously parade of fucking that occurs inside of me. Ok, I have to get back to being a Supply Closet and you all have your individual jobs to do, which do not, I assume, involve fucking.

Have a great summer, have some fun, and don't forget to keep your work stations clean.

An Open Letter to Spiderman from the Sanitation Workers of NYC

September 26, 2005
TO: Spiderman


Subject:
AN OPEN LETTER TO SPIDERMAN
FROM THE SANITATION DEPARTMENT OF NEW YORK CITY

Dear Spiderman,
First of all, thank you very much for all that you have done for New York City and its inhabitants. We all feel safer knowing you are out "webslinging" among the skyscrapers of New York for violent criminals, tentacled super geniuses, hovering color-themed goblins, et al. No one can argue that.

However, I would like to draw your attention to what may seem at first a trivial issue but which when seen in its proper perspective will perhaps cause you to reconsider your primary mode of locomotion.

You get about the city by means of the aforementioned "webslinging." And it's fantastic to watch. It always amazes me when I hear nearby police sirens and there's an audible gasp from everyone on the sidewalk. I look up and there you are swinging away. Used to take my breath away, Spiderman. But then one day, about a week into my tenure as a sanitation worker, I started asking myself all these crazy questions, like, "What happens to those web lines of his? Do they dissolve right away? Are they dangerous if left alone? Who has to clean them up?" It turns out I do.

Do you have any idea how difficult it is to remove a superdense organic polymer with the tensile strength of a steel cable from the underside of an 17th century Rhineland gargoyle 83 stories up without damaging the building or the gargoyle?

No, I bet you don't. You're a superhero. You don't have time for all those niggling questions, questions like, "At what rate do open-air activated enzyme strands biodegrade?" or "How many chisels have to be lost to attempted web removals before the city starts making sanitation workers pay for it out of pocket?" or even, "What happens to one of those sharp, heavy tools suspended hundreds of feet in the air when the web they're attached to finally dissolves months later?" The answer, funnily enough: it plummets to the earth and maims Ronald P. Devlin. That's me, Spiderman. Just as you can't recall the location of every web you disease our city with like so many gangrenous capillaries, I can't recall the hundreds of cleaning tools I've now lost to your arm snot. Heck, I can't recall a lot of things these days, but that happens when your brain is given an impromptu amputation by plunging construction tools.

In a way, though, I should thank you. You see, since the accident, I have been bound to a motorized wheel chair and unable to move any of my appendages. I even have a machine that breathes for me! That's not the thank you part. The thank you part is that I won a sizable workman's compensation reward and, after recovering consciousness, have had the "leisure" time to become the President of the sanitation worker's union Local 117.


Yeah for me.


And I couldn't have done it without the razor sharp focus brought on by the crushing loneliness imposed upon me by complete immobility. Thanks Spiderman! (Before you ask: I dictated this letter by blinking my eyes in Morse Code. So I guess I fibbed a little about being completely immobile. Woopsy.)

But it's not just the people of New York you're hurting. Your glue-ropes are like enormous roach motels, trapping thousands of birds and squirrels every year, and on three recorded occasions, horses. Yes, horses. "How did horses get stuck in my webs?" you ask. We don't know. But that's ok, we're not detectives. We're sanitation workers. Our job is to clean up average every day messes, you know, like this completely common scenario:

A beautiful chestnut pony walks under one of Central Park's historic bridges and manages to become entangled in some of your home made projectile wrist-jizz left to dangle from above. The beautiful equestrian rears up in terror, tragically, ensnaring and twisting itself ever further, until it eventually is pulled off the ground by the shear elasticity of your web. It bays in terrible agony as the weight of its own body begins to cause its own skin, hair, and even superficial muscles to be ripped right off its body and onto your adhesive death vines, leaving a grisly tithe ot your complacency, and forcing a hundred little girls and boys who had the misfortune to pass by just then to witness the aftermath and cry aloud, "Why does that horse have no skin on its tummy, mommy? Why can I see its rib bones poking out, mommy? Mommy, why is foam coming out of its mouth? Why are its eyes rolling back in their sockets, mommy? Why are the police pulling out their guns, mommy? Why are ravens pecking at its dead eyes mommy? Why am I never going to sleep again mommy Why WHY WHY?"

I bet you've never had to listen to those questions. Well, we have.

Listen, this has been fun, but I must wrap things up. My eyes are beginning to redden from the constant friction inherent in my particular form of communication, if you know what I mean (wink wink). Please note the effort involved in actually having to communicate "wink wink" and the ensuing explanation.

A couple final thoughts though: if you were really a 'Spider' 'Man,' wouldn't it be more accurate for the webbing to shoot out of your ass, like it does with spiders? It would be more fitting considering you've been shitting all over our city and leaving the employees of local 117 to clean up after you for years now.

Also, I know it fits with the "cleaning up the streets" metaphors that superheroes and Republicans enjoy using so much, but could you refrain from leaving recently captured miscreants cocooned in New York City trash cans. We get it. They're filthy criminals and you've put them where they belong. In the trash. Very subtle. I guess your spider sense doesn't go off for belabored metaphors.

Anyway, that's it. Thank you for your time and attention in this matter. Oh, and my kids think you're the greatest.

Cordially,
Ronald P. Devlin
The Sanitation Department of New York City