"Do you consider yourself humorous?"

My office is moving to a new location in the spring. Meanwhile, we are trying to sell the current building. This means we all have to do a little cleanup work, since most of our organizational systems at the moment are not especially appealing.

The boss has also seized this purging opportunity to get rid of a few things she dislikes.

I had been noticing that most of the helpful notes I put up around the office came down after a few days or weeks. No one ever mentioned a problem, though, so I naturally assumed that the cleaning crew was amassing a valuable collection of original Clara artwork.

To prove authenticity and drive up the Antiques Roadshow price quote for future generations, I started signing my masterpieces.

In retrospect, that may have been a bad idea. Rather than illustration enthusiasts, my gifts to the art world were falling to the CEO, who apparently really hates it when I do stuff like this:

That one stayed up for about three hours, so I toned down the alert level, aiming for more “Get off my lawn!” and less “THEY WILL NEVER FIND YOUR BODY!”

The new version lasted another three days, due to some key staff taking vacation leave. I didn’t learn the awful truth, though, until another round of guerrilla seat-peeing inspired this:

With the scotch tape still fresh on its corners, another manager finally told me that the Big Boss found such missives distinctly less than entertaining, and I lost my last thin excuse to draw pictures at work.

Now I’m limited to being this obnoxious at home. My roommate is a really good sport, but it’s a little too passive-aggressive to communicate via notes with the only other member of your household. That restraint reduces me to posting warnings for myself in my own bathroom, which is considerably less satisfying.

I guess the other option is to learn a lesson about maturity and appropriate forms of workplace communication. I’d really prefer it if everyone else had to adapt and grow instead of me, though, so please just quit peeing on stuff and find me amusing.

You can't pass inspection with pieces left behind

Do you ever stop and realize that somewhere in this country there are rooms full of people discussing which euphemisms it's okay to use in toilet paper commercials?

Marketer: "How about 'breakthrough'? Can we say 'This product reduces breakthrough'?"

Other Marketer: "Sounds better than 'streaks.' Go try it on the Squirm Panel and see if they can handle hearing that in the middle of Dancing with the Stars."

Marketing Intern: "Does this run before or after that fungus commercial where they lift off the toenails?"

Anyway, I'm sorry if you're eating or something. This might help.

Listen to All My Slacker Excuses

I’m in a play* that opens this weekend. We are rehearsing a lot at the moment. I currently get to spend 7 ½ to 9 hours out of every 24 at home, and that time has to be carefully divided among dining, bathing, and setting my laptop background to a slideshow of Star Wars screenshots. Also, my roommates keep insisting that sleep is nice, and I figure I should humor them and at least see what it’s like.

The point here is that all I can post this week is another passive-aggressive public service announcement I drew for my office. I will most likely actually write something new by Monday or Tuesday, so you can hold out for that.

In the meantime, just know that someone periodically takes down the stuff I post at work, so I have a tendency to replace it with updated material.

*If you live in Albuquerque, come see the show! Please don’t bring impressionable children or, in most cases, your grandparents. And yes, I’m the one with my head in the fridge on the theatre web site. I knew my wombat skills would come in handy.

Boom De Yada

This is the latest artwork commissioned for my office.

I keep all this stuff on the network in a file labeled "I'm kind of a jerk," because that pretty well sums up the general tenor of my signs.

It's also why I enjoy making them.

*With apologies to my Girl Scout upbringing, xkcd, and The Discovery Channel

Grocery Shopping for the Chronically Paranoid

I like to get all of my embarrassing grocery shopping done at once.

This is because I believe that the checker is judging me, and I’d rather get it all in one concentrated dose than spread out over all my visits to the grocery store. By adhering to this method, I’m usually safe when I buy my chocolate Cheerios, aerosol cheese, and other staples.

But sometimes I’m getting dressed and realize, “Ooh, I’m almost out of extra-strength deodorant. I might as well stock up on tampons and acne cream!”

“Hey, I’m going shopping,” I tell my roommates. “Can I pick up anything? Preparation H? Pregnancy test? The Best of N*Sync?”

When I get to the store, my first order of business is to pick out a large decoy item that can be used to shield everything else in my cart. This is why I have so many decorative gift bags and $1 dishtowels. Also acceptable are giant bags of bargain breakfast cereal or, in a pinch, a whole lot of produce.

Next I begin collecting my items. I tend to stride purposefully from place to place, as if to say, “Naturally, I am merely walking down the Odor Control aisle on my way to another destination.”

To preserve this illusion, I usually avoid aisles containing others, unless they look equally uncomfortable. For instance, if you are only picking out shampoo, I will circle around and come back when you have left. If, however, you are deciding between liquid and paste fungal control, I am willing to stand next to you and compare the merits of Xtra Thin with Wings vs. Contour Leak Guard.

Finally, it’s time to pick a check-out lane. The ideal register is staffed by a woman in her mid-forties who was not the same person to ring up another jumbo-pack of toilet paper for me just last week. I arrange my items on the conveyor belt with the decoy at the end to distract the next person in line from my other purchases. As the checker rings everything up, I make a detailed study of the credit card PIN pad, punctuated by furtive glances to see if she has realized yet that I’m the most repulsive freak ever to shop there.

Of course, through all my paranoid shopping trips, no checker or bagger or fellow patron has ever commented—or even smirked—about my humiliating groceries. Retail employee training probably includes a session on not making crazy people self-conscious, lest we suddenly snap and tear through the aisles, squirting facial-hair remover and shouting Hanson lyrics.

I only hear smalltalk about my most innocuous purchases: