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I heard you call me a weenie under your breath and that makes it hard for me to focus. Could we all agree to put a moratorium on the word weenie?
I threw out my back yesterday and can’t even move today. I’m going to need to take a sick day. (Translation: My cat is sleeping on my lap)
First up, we’ve got That Email You Sent Your Boss Last Week Regarding Your Upcoming Time Off.
Do you like charades? Well you’ll love it when my college acquaintance puts "Malcolm Gladwell" in the bowl for you to act out.
Your friend could have an annoying voice, or he only talks about his personal issues and you’d rather not listen to that during your hour commute.
Please refrain from kicking the waxwork likeness of Canada’s first Prime Minister, Sir John A. Macdonald, between his legs.
I mean, surely five minutes have already passed since I started this internal monologue. Oh, it’s only been 30 seconds? Well.
The public thinks this job is all colorful vinyl and happy bouncing. They're wrong. Catastrophically wrong.
How come I could tell where everybody was in space? Did you mean for the shots to make me feel things?
Don’t you love it? It’s got a nice high collar, but three-quarters-length sleeves, so it’s not too formal.
My house got robbed and my tree did nothing. In fact, I’m pretty sure it gave the burglars the alarm code.
We settled our feud with the local breeder, and will once again have nine living, breathing reindeer on site as in days of yore.