You Don't Wanna Smell Like That

Jack has developed an odor in the few years of working at General Standard Company. It is a stale, musty scent that lingers around him like a black cloud of death. He attempts to cover it up with old man cologne, but the cologne only feeds the original scent, making it stronger and thicker and heartier. His odor is like canned beef stew gone rancid, like mothballs and sour dentures concentrated into a gravy and smeared into the lining of our collective nostrils.

You Don't Wanna Hold

Jack puts people on hold by gently placing the telephone receiver down on his desk. He does not use the hold button because he does not know it exists.

You Don't Wanna Be Presidential

To the owner of a very small local business, Jack- who does not own any businesses and only works part time, fifteen hours per week, in a basic customer service role at General Standard Company- had this to say about President Obama: "He's very eloquent, sure, but he's not a businessman like you and me."

You Don't Wanna Think It's Cool

Jack's co-worker Billy, who is a third of Jack's age, said that something was cool. "Yeah," Jack said slowly. "It's 'cool.'" He let the word roll around in his mouth like a buttered marble as he tried it on for size, leaning back in his chair with a self-satisfied smirk on his wrinkled old face.

You Don't Wanna Run

For an old guy, Jack can really move. He runs into the office every day at top speed, his suit jacket flapping violently behind him. He is afraid of being late for work, as if anybody would notice or care. Once he was five minutes late, and he spent the next hour apologizing profusely and explaining that there had been an accident blocking all of the westbound lanes. His apology was neither accepted nor acknowledged. Calm down, Jack. Just calm down.

You Don't Wanna Be A Racist II

When hearing about a new client from his manager, Jack leaned back and casually asked, "Was this a camel-jockey type of person?" He asked this question as if asking whether or not the man had been wearing a tie, as if asking about the man's upcoming lunch schedule. Jack's manager, appalled and taken aback, stared at Jack for what seemed like an eternity before finally replying, "I'd prefer not to answer that question." The rest of us, while appalled and taken aback as well, would prefer to never have to hear Jack's voice again.

You Don't Wanna Get Spammed

Jack gets a lot of junk email, most of them for male enhancement products. He used to read all of this correspondence, but now he just deletes them. Lately, he's been going delete-crazy, though, and he accidentally deleted an email from his real estate agent, Candace. On the phone, he said to Candace, "I must have thought your email was about Viagra and deleted it! 'Candace' is such a sexy name, and I get a lot of emails about Viagra from girls with sexy names." He laughed, loudly, then continued, "Why don't you just send the email again, and this time I won't think it's about my penis."

You Don't Wanna Add It Up

Jack convinced the company to reimburse him for an adding machine- one of those monstrous, over-sized, outdated calculators with the huge digital read out and the big roll of receipt paper. He went out, purchased the machine, and set it up next to his computer (which would also work as an adding machine, I'm sure). Now he uses his adding machine at every chance he gets, and the sound of progress in reverse echoes through the entire building all day long. Clickety clackety whirr whirr whirr. Clickety clackety whirr whirr whirr. Clickety clackety go fuck yourself.

You Don't Wanna Cause A Stink

When we returned from lunch, we couldn't help but notice that the office smelled like poop. The stench had apparently originated in the men's bathroom and then wafted its way out to the rest of the building in an almost visible fog. We tried our best to breathe through our mouths, but it was hard to get any work done in such an offensive atmosphere. I suspected Jack from the very beginning, but my worst fears were confirmed when Jack stood up from his desk shortly after our return from lunch and, whistling, went into the bathroom, lingered in there for over ten minutes, and then came out, still whistling. He was the only one to not comment on the smell while the rest of gagged and giggled and pinched our noses, and he was the only one who could stand to go into the bathroom and not only stay in there for an extended period of time but also not pass out or seem even mildly put off. You never mind the smell of poop when it's your own poop. And this time, I am sure it was Jack's poop.

You Don't Wanna Smoke Like It's The Sixties

Jack brought in a pile of photographs to show his co-workers. The photographs were all old and yellowed and each of them prominently featured a younger version of Jack wearing a mustard colored suit and smoking a cigarette in a former, now certainly demolished, office. "I was quite the handsome business man, wasn't I?" Jack said, wiggling his eyebrows. "That was back when everyone smoked in their offices. It was back when a gentleman was a gentleman and a lady was a lady." Nobody, here in the present, knew what to say about the pictures, and so they said nothing. Jack, upset that they didn't seem to care, waited a long silent minute before finally placing his stack of photographs prominently in the center of his modern-day desk, complete with one of those new-fangled computer things and the noticeable absence of an ashtray and a subservient, steno-pad holding lady in waiting.

You Don't Wanna Get That Procedure Done Twice A Year

Mary told me about her mother's upcoming trip to the doctor. She expressed worry over an operation that her mother would have to undergo. Although we were speaking quietly, Jack, eavesdropping as always, interrupted and proclaimed, "I get that procedure done twice a year!" He made a dismissing sweeping motion with his hand to indicate that it was nothing. Mary and I exchanged looks and then went back to ignoring him.

You Don't Wanna Be Mistaken

I was in the bathroom, and when I came out, before I even had a chance to sit back down in my chair, Jack swiveled around and exclaimed, "Julie! Did you hear that client just mistake me for the manager?" I replied that I had not as I had, in fact, been in the bathroom. Jack chuckled to himself, shaking his head and boastfully telling me the whole story. "The client needed to speak to the manager. So he approached me and asked if I was the manager. He thought I was the manager! Must be how well-dressed I am. Me. The manager!" He chuckled some more and, with an air of cockiness, straightened his tie and turned around to call his wife.

You Don't Wanna Watch The System

A client sat at Jack's desk while Jack opened a new account. Jack took a long time to type in the client's information, slowly and deliberately poking down the keys in the keyboard. Click. Click. Clack. Finally, Jack leaned back and clasped his hands behind his head. "This is the part where we wait for the system," Jack confided to the client, proceeding to stare in silence at his computer monitor as if watching a mildly engrossing silent film. The client, in turn, stared at Jack and wondered what the hell was going on. Computers, the client knew, did not work that way, and the client wondered for a moment if the computer had even been turned on.