I didn’t mean you personally. I’m not singling you out. I meant the collective you. As in, I hate all of you ignorant, backwoods, Bible toting, Jesus freaks. Maybe you missed the memo, but this is a business. It’s not a worship service. It’s not a prayer meeting. It’s not fucking church camp. I am not here to fellowship, commune, or group-fucking-hug. I’m here to work. So shut the fuck up, you hymn-humming cousin fucker.
I have no problem with you plastering your cube with Jesus. If buying tacky Jesus crap gets you into heaven, you’re there. I’ve never seen so many freakin’ Jesuses. You’ve got big Jesus, little Jesus, white Jesus, black Jesus, Fabio Jesus, Jesus figurines, Jesus snow globes, and life-like Jesus action figures with Kung Fu grip. You’ve got posters, scriptures, bumper stickers, magnets, flags, plates, mugs, and coasters. It’s scary as hell, but it’s your cube. Jesus it up. I could care less.
But if I hear you hum one more round of Amazing fucking Grace, I’m coming over this wall. I mean it you tone deaf cow. It’s like sitting next to a fucking garbage disposal, and it has to stop. Put something in that enormous piehole for god’s sake. Chew some fucking gum. Suck your cud. Something. Just shut the fuck up. Holy shit, woman.
Find a hobby. Say a prayer.
Pray that I don’t rip your fucking lips off.