This office is not a nursery for your coked-out, alcoholic husband. Yes, you are the president of the company and have been eating the CEO's 70-year-old, age-spotted banana for more than a decade now, but we can't take this anymore. We have come to terms with the fact that he gets paid four times more than us to sit in his corner office betting on college football games, but when he asks us if we remember if he drove to work or not, or if we can send a "data tape" (WTF is that?!) to clients, it is a distraction to those of us working our asses off to keep this company going. The day I lost any sort of sympathy for him was when one of our elderly clients passed out at a reception, and he didn't miss a beat as he stepped over the client (literally) to get one more Jack-and-ginger at the bar, for fear they might be closing it when the paramedics came. The lesions on his forehead from his coke habit are repulsive—and yes, we all took DARE in middle school so we know it wasn't "just an accident." Please take your hot-mess hubby home, give him a fifth of Jack and some of Colombia's finest, and I'm sure he'll be right where you left him when you come back from work. Just do this one thing for us so we can make you fuckers more money and keep our pathetic jobs until we get the fuck out. Help me help you.

—Anonymous