Illustration by Bob AulSend anonymous thanks, confessions or accusations—changing or deleting the names of the guilty and innocent—to "Hey, You!" c/oOC Weekly, P.O. Box 10788, Costa Mesa, CA 92627-0247, or e-mail us at email@example.com.
This is your last week of work, and we are glad. After spending a year working with you, we hope you never come back. You are an idiot, the most disorganized person any of us ever worked with. You are a birdbrain. We spend our breaks wondering how you made it through college. We resent you when you come in late. We resent you when you schedule conferences and then call in sick, when you make us do your work for you, when you give us that birdbrain look that says you can't do anything to help yourself. You think you're better than us because you have a title. But the fact is we accomplish everything in spite of you. We work around you. You plan almost nothing, and when you plan anything, it's always last-minute. Brick walls are smarter. You tell us you're busy when all you're doing is planning your wedding. You're a pain in the ass to the office staff. The secretary could be performing heart surgery, and it wouldn't matter to you: you'd butt in and ask her, "How do I use the copy machine? How do I use the fax?" This is your last week, but you don't even know it yet. We told the Big Boss about your laziness. You are in trouble. A storm is brewing. You are the weakest link. Good-bye. Have a bitchen summer. Congratulations on your wedding. Enjoy your pink slip.