You knew what you were doing all along, didn’t you, you skeevy prick?
You couldn’t have possibly thought this would actually save us time, could you? You must have known this would, in fact, cause more confusion, that a simple, one-syllable prefix there to provide temporal clarity would do JUST the opposite? You know what I could have done with all the time I’ve wasted wondering whether someone meant BIANNUAL as in TWICE A YEAR or ONCE EVERY OTHER YEAR?
Or were you just being careless?
Actually, I’m not sure which is worse: Intentionally instigating confusion and needless strife in office emails for centuries to come OR being completely unaware of the strife you’re about to cause. Either you’re oblivious to the needs of others, or you’re a moron. Take your pick.
CHARLES FROM HR HAS SENT YOUR BIANNUAL PAYCHECK. Well, am I getting paid TWICE this year or ONCE every OTHER year? That’s a difference of THREE paychecks. That’s not trivial. Will my kids get Christmas presents this year or ONLY next year? (Yes, I could simply “ask” Charles and be direct, upfront and transparent. But that’s besides the point. You created this world and this pathetic excuse for efficient, clean communication. And I will not rest ‘til you FIX this faulty PRE-fix.)
BIMONTHLY STREET CLEANING. PLEASE PARK ELSEWHERE THURSDAY MORNINGS FROM 8—10 ON A BIMONTHLY BASIS. Do I need to worry about my car getting towed once every 14 days or once every 60 days? That is an EGREGIOUS disparity, Mr. Bi Hard. I can already hear your dumb, pestering follow-up questions: Why can’t you set an iCal reminder and just park elsewhere during that time? Or, why can’t you do some errands then or talk to your kids for once or stop following your ex-wife’s new boyfriend around with binoculars? To that, I say, WHICH TIME DO YOU MEAN FOR STREET-CLEANING? And to your follow-up question to THAT, Lady Bi, I say, NO, I WILL NOT REACH OUT TO THE CITY’S PARKING DEPARTMENT. I could theoretically send them a one-sentence email asking to clarify this confusion, or I could physically walk into their building on my own two feet. But instead, I want to send a message to you, again, loud and clear (and I sort of envision this being the chorus if/when Lin-Manuel Miranda adapts this into a rap): I will not rest ‘til you FIX this faulty pre-FIX (I’m not married to which syllable Lin would emphasize in the word, “pre-fix.” I’m not married to anything anymore, really. But that doesn’t solve this street-cleaning linguistic HELLSCAPE.).
BIWEEKLY CHILD SUPPORT PAYMENTS ARE LATE. Here’s the thing, and I’m not sure this memo ever got to your desk: A week is seven days. Your inattentiveness is harming others. You can’t divide an odd-number by two EVENLY, you mouth-breathing degenerate. This isn’t The Beatles—there aren’t eight days in this week as much I wish there were. Alas, there are seven. You can’t possibly expect someone to know WHICH days this might mean. Tuesday then Friday? Thursday then Monday? When does the week even start? When does it end? What are we even doing here? Why won’t my kids talk to me? How do you sleep at night? One more time, everyone, and really go for it this time: I will not rest til WHAT? TIL WE FIX THIS FAULTY PREFIX.
Bi for now,
Will’s comedic work has been featured on The Huffington Post and on the sites Points In Case, Little Old Lady Comedy, The Daily Drunk Mag and is forthcoming on Slackjaw.