I HATE PETER IN THE CORNER OFFICE WITH A VIEW

I hate you, Peter.

You sit in your office all day and you don't do shit. That Ph.D. didn't get you anywhere- it only taught you that thinking is somehow equivalent to working. That's why I prefer to call it "getting shit done." Are you solving the world's problems in there? Better hire someone to write while you dictate, otherwise it will never be passed down and we will never understand the depth of your profound arguments. But I forgot- we are incompetent. We wouldn't understand anyway.

That must be why your emails are so long - because we aren't smart enough to understand concision. One must need a Ph.D. to understand exactly how fucking smart you really are. You are so goddamn smart that you take credit for all of our work and give us a "Thanks!" email with a smily face it in. However did you practice your manipulative techniques before email? Whatever would you have done without CC: and BCC:? You get so much work done that way!

Peter, one day I'm going to walk smiley-faced into your office and tell you about the new job I have. I'm going to thank you for the opportunity I had to learn so much from doing all of your work. My face will be smiling but my brain will be saying "I hate you, Peter. Fuck you very much."

Shot out to my ladies cube-side that hate Peter, too.

Love/Hate,
Restless in Wisconsin

I HATE PETER WITH A LITTLE MOTHER******

i hate you peter. you are so full of shit. you spent so much damn money on that litte mother****** taht you wont fucking spend what you can safely invest in. Fucking barbie dolls, a damn laptop, a effing scooter, AND A FUCKING FLIP CELL PHONE, AND THEIR EFFING 8 YRS OLD!!!! You irritate me peter, you make my ass itch with a sensation so bad i can't damnit attempt to scratch it.

I HATE PETER IN MY FAMILY

i hate you peter. my eggs are old and you keep reminding me:

"wow! you're already 30?"
"you should keep your body temp up so you can be fertile later."
"you know you need to have babies by a certain age, right?"

FOR THE LUV OF GOD -- STOP IT.

why do you care so much about my ovaries? they don't affect you in any way. if anything, you should be thanking me for not contributing to society's unwanted mess of mistakes, failures, and bastard children. my eggs may be old, but they're MY EGGS.

i hate you peter. i so hate you.

Sincerely,
Miserable in Minneapolis

I HATE PETER IN ANCIENT MESOAMERICA

Oh, Peter, you thought I forgot about you since I hadn't posted in a few months. I have not. I have not, my friend.

I hate you. I hate you and your damn recipes. Why, Peter? Why did you have to invent the taco? I realize that the contemporary taco recipe is not nearly the same as the original conception, but your plan to fold meat and vegetable inside a corn or flour tortilla was the genesis of this whole taco fiasco. It might have started as a humble snack after a hard day of field labor. But now it passes itself off as building blocks for a delicious fifth meal. And I continue to eat that fifth meal, Peter. I'm ashamed to say that you've hooked me. When it comes to the taco, the burrito, the taquito, the quesadilla, the pupusa - the whole enchilada - I can't control myself. I ingest the cheesy, salty, spicy goodness by the fistful. I recently determined I have donated at least ten percent of my income over the past seven years to your cause sabroso. At this point I should be granted honorary stock in Taco Bell, Del Taco, El Pollo Loco and every taco stand or truck across Southern California in the same way that Bill Cosby or Jerry Seinfeld received honorary doctorates. You owe me at least that, Peter. You have made me fat, lazy and explosively gassy.

I hate you, Peter. I always will.

-Lard Ass in Los Feliz

I HATE PETER IN MY DREAMS

I hate you Peter. You told me you were single... and then surprise you are married...
And now, 4 years later you dare to appear in my dreams... I still hate you...

Odio ke hayas aparecido en mis sueños y me hayas abrazado.... y es ke ahora te veo en la cara de un frances estupido ke solo juega conmigo..... estoy harta!!!.... y vete a la...

I HATE PETER ON THE BUS TO WORK

I hate you peter. You and all your coffee. I would be perky in the morning to if I had coffee but I am too tired to make it. I bet you have one of those machines that will make it for you. So you are probably rich. Why are you taking the bus if you have a machine that makes coffee for you?

-Lambasting Latte Lovers in Lakewood

I HATE PETER ON THE METRO

Peter, I see you every morning on the Metro train. You sit there in your power suit, with your checkered collared shirt and solid blue tie, carefully scrutinizing that bible-sized hardcover biography of that boring ex-presidential appointee like it's your job, with your rimless eyeglasses and your undeserved sense of propriety. You can't be more than 23, but you act like every glance, every "excuse me" and every human interaction at 7 am or 6 pm is the most painful event your important day has to offer. You've got important things to do in your stupid Capitol Hill job at your stupid Capitol Hill office. That's why you stand directly in front of the metro doors when they open, why you stand on the left of the escalator when everyone is trying to get by, why you push through people, why you stand so close I can feel your hot breath on the back of my neck, why you take the open seat when old women are waiting, and why, when I sit down next to you in the only open seat on the train, you shudder and shirk away as if I've got the bubonic plague. I wouldn't want to infect you with the normal gene. God, I hate you. I hate you in the depths of my soul.

You're important. I get that.

What I don't get is, if you're so God-damned important, why you have to commute 45 minutes both ways every day in the worst display of directionless ire I've ever seen? If it pains you that much to rub elbows with the masses your boss represents, get in your fucking Lexus and drive to work from your overpriced, 24-hour gym and your little box condo in northern Virginia.

Oh yeah, that's right. You can't afford a membership, can't afford a Lexus, can't afford a condo (yet) and can't afford that suit dad gave you for Christmas. You work on the Hill. God, Peter, I hate you. But not nearly as much as you must hate yourself. Stick it out, though ... just two more years and you'll be in Law school, and then back working on K street.

-Passive-aggressive in D.C.

p.s., I hate you, I hate you, I hate you. I wish you would die. I hate you.