The Tragically Unhip

Some of you may think that I’ve fallen off the grid or that I’ve eloped with a nice girl to an island with blue waters, tiki torches, and neverending alcohol. Unfortunately, that type of vacation will have to come later, because right now I’m basking in the warm and ecstatic comfort of Vicodin and homemade spaghetti that I probably won’t even be able to eat due to a recent trip to the dentist’s chair. I’m at my parents’ place in Maryland’s fabulous Eastern Shore: home of blue crabs, the Chesapeake, restaurants called The Red Roost, and other assorted wonders of half-country/half-beach living.

You might be wondering how I’m enjoying my stay thus far. I can happily report that there is still alcohol in the house and enough food to make me create my very own eating disorder. (Although it would seem I already have a drinking disorder, however.) Truth be told, I miss New York. I miss the hedonistic parties I find myself perpetually partaking in and documenting, I miss the Brooklyn bar-hopping, and I miss ingesting such strange and appetizing drinks as Pickle Backs. However, one thing I realized I did miss about Maryland is the incredible clarity of the stars at night. It’s also a welcome change to sit outside with a cigarette and not hear gunshots, incessant horn honking, or the same damn drum beat blaring from some tricked out shitwagon speeding down my residential street. Ah, Brooklyn.

But I have readers to entertain and I’m sure you already suspected that there is a whiskey and coke keeping me company as I write this. With that said, I would like to tell you about a site out there on the interwebs that has had me laughing more times than a few. I can’t really remember why I haven’t posted this sooner; could be a number of reasons, blackout being the most likely. So without further ado, I link you to Passive Aggressive Notes, a site declaring itself as “painfully polite and hilariously hostile writings from shared spaces the world over.” This claim doesn’t disappoint, its content comprised of submissions from readers from all over the world, taking photos of public notes (slash tell-offs) like ”Your stairs think you’re fat“ and my personal favorite: ”Any 17 year olds who thinks they are the man of the house needs a psych eval.” These sassy notes are the complete antitheses to the friendly notes that Craig and Chris have been posting around their respective towns (and subsequently warring over, as I reported here).

Reading the passive-aggressive notes brings back memories of my own office wars. My last job was at a staffing firm in Midtown, where we shared office space with the famed Beau Deitl and a law firm that will go nameless due to its incredibly immature (even by middle school standards) staff. What I remember most fondly is the Milk War. My co-worker Priscilla and I had a decent working relationship: we freaked out over deadlines and staffing requirements, and had a habit of making fun of everything and anyone (even our COO was fair game). One morning, Priscilla went to the kitchen and used some milk from the communal fridge for her cereal. This milk was obviously for the employees because I can’t imagine any one person buying five cartons each of fat free, skim, whole, and half and half out of their generous, beating little hearts.

Priscilla ate her cereal and we went about our day. Later that afternoon, when we went back to the kitchen to refill our water, we stumbled upon a huge, new note pasted onto the refrigerator door: “Milk is for COFFEE ONLY“. Priscilla immediately went to Duane Reade and bought her own carton of 2% milk and labeled it with her name in the fridge.

The next day, her milk was frozen solid. I can’t tell you how amazed and shocked we were that someone had spitefully put it in the freezer, but I can tell you that it sparked our office’s Milk War. Every chance we got, we’d go into that kitchen and take milk, sometimes with enormous flair, even if we didn’t drink milk. It got so bad that the kitchen staff began hiding the milk. We never knew where they were hiding it or if they were just taking the milk home, but we knew they were serious. Eventually, the office manager had to create a separate fridge for Beau Dietl and ourselves, because even people who were not involved in our direct assault were getting their hands slapped (literally!) for using milk for other purposes than coffee.

The length of this war? Six whole months.