"What the f**k are you staring at??"

"What the f**k are you looking at?"

Dragon is frequently observed aimlessly slithering about in affluent suburban communities. Her rather fitting moniker can be attributed to her cold-blooded, reptilian personality and a vicious temper that could no doubt render the toaster obsolete. The fire that rockets from her mouth the majority of the time it’s open could easily produce a perfect brown crisp on any wheat, challah, or rye. Push the button that cranks her up to max power and an entire loaf would be reduced to a pile of black crumbs within milliseconds. And that’s exactly how she makes everyone around her feel – like the discarded burnt remnants that sit for weeks on end in the bottom of the toaster. Unseen, untouched, unwanted. Dragon could be referred to by some as high maintenance, but more appropriately as just a bitch.

Some of Dragon’s favorite hobbies around the house include yelling, slamming phones, and launching F-bombs in the direction of her helpless husband. The poor man has been beaten down to a mushy pulp by years of verbal abuse, such as being called a pussy every time he tries to call a plumber instead of fixing the toilet himself. The fact that he is directly responsible for all of the luxuries she enjoys in life is apparently of zero consequence. To show a sliver of appreciation, in between weeks of dining out and ordering gourmet delivery Dragon will occasionally cook a nice meal at home…after having been promised the latest grossly overpriced Gucci handbag in return.

If she didn’t consider it beneath her, Dragon would make an excellent telemarketer. She could sell pig shit to a hog farmer – the first sign of hesitation on the other end of the line would unleash a barrage of threats ranging from shattered kneecaps to Manolo Blahniks being placed so far up rectums that they’d be tickling the back of the throat. Sold. Instead, however, Dragon spends her days relieving stress by swiping plastic at Neiman Marcus and indulging in the latest spa treatment involving exorbitant volcanic mud from the exotic island of Firmatitti. This stress is, of course, entirely brought on by her own obnoxiousness and general intolerance for any breathing creature that doesn’t acquiesce to her every whim.

Frequently heard saying: “Don’t piss in my face and tell me it’s raining!”

Last seen: Extending a courteous middle finger out of her Benz moonroof to the bastard driving at the speed limit.


The perfect ensemble for any upscale sports bar.

The perfect ensemble for any upscale sports bar.

Bigshot has the misfortune of being the guy that everyone else just wants to punch in the face. He is in his late twenties to early thirties, and lives as a manager or director in a consulting or investment banking firm. He eats, sleeps, breathes, and shits work. If asked to describe himself in three words, instead of the usual “fun-loving, friendly, and adventurous” he would simply provide his job title. He and his clone colleagues rank their importance by the number of hours worked, air miles accumulated, and degree of wear on their Blackberry’s QWERTY keyboard. This latter-mentioned, God-like device is, of course, Bigshot’s lifeblood and girlfriend. If he ever has to leave his desk for even a nanosecond, you can bet he’ll have his face buried in his Blackberry and will probably almost mow you down while barging out of the elevator. Yea, he’s kinda a big deal.

When Bigshot decides to leave the office early on a Saturday night, he can be seen having some beers with chums at a nearby sports bar-cum-dance club. In order to not feel too underdressed out of his business suit, Bigshot wears jeans so dressy they could almost certainly be worn to a wedding. The darker blue the better, and even a tiny trace of wear and tear is strictly forbidden. The jeans are paired with a neatly pressed, vertical-striped collared shirt, and an immaculate dark-colored blazer on top. Despite this formal ensemble, Bigshot can still be seen trying to take a big booty cutie down low to the floor while spilling his Fat Tire all over everyone within 10 feet. After another hour or so of this it’s time to drain the lizard. This is when Bigshot can be seen in his most classic pose – hunched over the urinal, hammering out a text message with one hand and shaking off the dribbles with the other.

So what’s the quickest way to stop all this madness and put Bigshot in his place? In case it isn’t yet clear, his Achilles’ heel is his Blackberry. “Accidentally” knock this device into a beer or under the wheel of a speeding taxi and Bigshot will instantly combust. Before darting off in glee, it may be worth taking a quick flip through his charred Louis Vuitton wallet to see if there’s any cash or unused condoms to salvage.

Frequently heard saying: “Hi I’m in I-Banking, what’s your name?”

Last seen: Rubbing one out in the office bathroom in between midnight conference calls.


On his way to throw the weight around.

On his way to throw the weight around.

Everyone knows Meathead. He is highly visible on college campuses and in popular nightlife districts where he works as a bartender or door guy. His dedication to the weight room has provided him with legs the width of most people and lats that resemble the wings of a military aircraft. If his massive girth isn’t enough to spot him, look for a barbed wire or tribal tattoo around his bicep. This is a mandatory branding that all Meatheads must obtain once they’re able to comfortably toss up 300 pounds. If his arms happen to be covered, which is rare as he loves showing off his guns, the giant-sized can of Monster energy drink that remains permanently glued to his hand will surely identify him.

Meathead went to college but spent all his time at the rec center so he only just eeked by on Cs and Ds. This may have something to do with why he’s rarely seen in Corporate America – that and the fact that he can’t find a white dress shirt that will button up around his watermelon-sized neck. To make extra money on the side, Meathead fights as part of a local amateur MMA organization. This is an excellent opportunity for him to take out his pent-up childhood frustrations on people rather than dumbbells. It also allows him to get his face pummeled which gives him that bad boy image that the ladies simply love.

Despite his dim persona, Meathead is smart enough to realize that a consistent regimen of resistance training and cardiovascular exercise makes him more appealing to the opposite sex. He also realizes that such exercise provides a number of legitimate health benefits, such as reducing the risk of heart disease and maintaining a keen mental state, but that’s not what’s important. This is all about looking good for the ladies. You often see Meathead grinning as Coke Whore squeezes his bicep and utters a rather sexual “ooooo niiiiice”. This is foreshadowing for later on that night when the distinct sounds of a jackhammer and squeaky tractor wheel indicate that Meathead’s bedroom has been turned into a construction site. In tune with his machismo personality, Meathead likes to maintain full control over his women and does so by demanding B&B the next morning (a blowjob and breakfast, in that order). Presumably Meathead witnessed his father making similar demands on his mother while growing up.

A few days later you see the happy new couple walking hand-in-hand through the park, but sadly this relationship only lasts as long as it takes for Coke Whore to figure out that bartenders don’t make a mil a year. This is when she dumps him for a flabbier but wealthier Sugar Daddy.

Frequently heard saying: “Dude can I bum a scoop of your protein powder? I’ve only had 300 grams today.”

Last seen: Squeezing out a tricep pose while pretending to just be casually leaning up against the bar.


The standard issue eyebrow piercing.

The standard issue eyebrow piercing.

It can be seen everywhere. Not necessarily in high numbers, but you always know when you see one. You know because the utter discombobulation of it is enough to ruin your entire week. The double-take, or even triple-take, you gave It is still not enough to decipher It’s gender. You can’t sleep, you can’t eat, you can hardly breathe. You lie in bed at night totally flustered, thinking back on the sighting and trying to make some sense of it all. You start deliberating with yourself, attempting to reach a rational conclusion…

“Were they breasts or just oversized man cans? It was quite plump, after all. The denim shorts plus sporty sandals and a wife-beater didn’t help either. While such an ensemble would almost always be associated with the male species, It’s legs were sporting a distinct three-day stubble. Did It have armpit hair? Check. A short, spiky haircut? Check. Surely a man! But wait…not a single hair stood on that boyish babyface. One would think that a man wearing such scruffy attire would also carry this scruffiness over to his facial grooming practices. Shit, I’m confused. Apparently so is It.”

Complicating matters even further, in one of the most miraculous feats in human history It is born with eyebrow and tongue piercings already in place. How the metal weaseled its way into mother’s uterus is anyone’s guess. Anyway, we need more clues…

“So who was It with? Well, It’s friend seemed more akin to a woman, although she wore a neutral-colored polo shirt tucked into baggy jeans that tapered just enough to reveal her Merrell hiking boots. Hmmm, fairly manly. What about It’s voice? Did It say anything? Yes…It was talking to It’s friend about an upcoming Melissa Etheridge concert, but It’s voice wasn’t overly masculine or feminine. Kind of like a 15-year-old midget boy who’s been smoking a pack a day since he was 10.”

It consumes you, like a dozen steel blades slicing through your every thought. You begin slapping yourself to rid your mind of the cloudy spirits, hoping to dislodge even a minute morsel of revealing evidence…

“Fuck. This just isn’t going anywhere. Okay, seriously, let’s think about this. Where did you see It? It and It’s friend were just walking out of an art exhibit. Hmmm…what kind of work was it? Oh oh, yes, I remember now! They were black-and-white photographs of nude women in obscure, artistic poses and locales, such as laying across a park bench with a baguette covering the vertical smile. Wait…naked babes?? Must be a man! Right??”

Sadly, we’ll never know for sure. However, I promise you the nightmares do ease up over time.

Frequently heard saying: “Yes I’d like the GLBT…I mean BLT…please.”

Last seen: Shopping for power tools while whistling tunes from Rent.


Carl prefers glue sticks to staplers.

Carl prefers glue sticks to staplers.

Every office has a Carl. He’s the guy you see doing laps around the copy room for his afternoon workout. He frequently wears flannel and corduroy, and always has a funny haircut – either a dusty mop of disproportionate lengths or the bald on top with a pony tail look. Carl takes full advantage of Casual Fridays by showing up in Crocs and a hunting vest. Despite being a noticeable misfit, Carl’s quirks are tolerated by management because he’s the only guy within a 200-mile radius who’s willing to come in and perform mind-numbing database quality checks day after day with no annual raise. Carl’s cubicle is his first home. His second is an RV.

Carl’s personality mirrors his style, so naturally it clashes with everyone else’s in the office. He’s a tad socially inept, but desperately tries to fit in and make friends. You may occasionally look up from your work and jump back in shock to see Carl just standing there at your cube with a retarded grin on his face. He tends to hesitate for a few seconds longer before jumping into a story about the latest adventures of his cat, Max. He meant to ask you how your weekend went but froze at the last minute and couldn’t remember the line. Most of the time Carl brings his lunch with him to work and completely stink-bombs the entire office with the stench of his latest obscure concoction, like anchovies with lentils and ketchup. However, once every couple of weeks you’ll get the dreaded lunch invitation, launching an office-wide contest for who can come up with the most creative excuse.

His cubicle is his pride and joy, and he decorates it elaborately. Most notable perhaps are the pictures he has up of himself, Max, himself and Max, himself and Max on the merry-go-round, and himself and Max opening their presents on Christmas morning. Scattered among the photos are the articles that make up Carl’s bizarre collection – often comic characters, delicate porcelain animal figurines, or used McDonald’s soda cups. It is not recommended that you ask Carl about his collection unless you have a wide open calendar for the next three hours.

Frequently heard saying: “Hey hey…wanna go to Ponderosa? I’ve got coupons! Please??”

Last seen: Talking to a photo of Max and asking him what he fancies for supper.

Jewel of Denial

On her way to a beating...err...meeting.

On her way to a beating...err...meeting.

Jewel of Denial, or “Jewel” for short, is the third stage in the metamorphosis of a particularly beloved female character. The first was Proud Sarah, then Urban Caucasian Mother, and now Jewel. She is the brash, bossy, boisterous woman who holds a rather senior position in your company’s finance or marketing department. How she got there is a complete mystery to everyone else in the company. She is named Jewel of Denial for two reasons. Firstly, she has a sparkling little gem of a personality that is crystal clear to her but utterly lost on everyone else. Secondly, she’s had a lump of coal wedged so far up her ass for so long that she’s bound to cough up a diamond at any moment. She has absolutely no idea just how obnoxious she is to work with.

Jewel is known for her bellowing voice and dominating presence in meetings. This is to over-compensate for having breasts and a vagina in a predominantly phallic field. When hosting a brainstorming session, the only brain in the room that matters is her own. If a colleague chooses to share an opinion, Jewel will listen and nod approvingly until the person is finished and then immediately dismiss the idea and move on to the next topic. If you are deemed important enough to deserve a one-on-one chat with her, she will assert her femdom confidence by standing entirely too close and glaring at you with wide, powerful eyes. Try not to wince as she showers you with Chanel No. 5 and ripe tofurkey breath.

So how does one topple Jewel off her power pedestal? Well, it’s surprisingly simple. After a particularly obnoxious meeting in her office, throw her off course with some canned pleasantries about her upcoming weekend. Then, just as you’re about to close the door behind you, drop a C-bomb. “Oh by the way Sarah, you’re a real c**t”. Slam. You may now skip and giggle back to your desk without fear of getting fired, for here lies the beauty of this plan. Jewel will be so distraught that she’ll be unable to speak and will resign on the spot. She will then leave that night for a spiritual little town in India to heal herself of the trauma and contemplate the meaning of life on a yoga mat. Now is the time to enjoy your newly appointed title of “Baddest Motherf**ker in the Office”.

Frequently heard saying: “So we all agree that we should implement my idea to leverage our expertise to create synergy in the marketplace? Good.”

Last seen: Pausing to adjust her cleavage and posture before walking past the CEO’s office.


His sensual look for the ladies.

His sensual look for the ladies.

Self-proclaimed King of your city, Papi struts around town with a swagger and style all his own. His short frame is supported by high-top shoes with an extra large tongue that prevents his baggy Fubu jeans from falling completely to the floor. His Scarface t-shirt looks like it surely must have been custom-made for Andre the Giant. Up top Papi rocks the cornrows that show off his enormous diamond earrings and highlight his ex-girlfriend’s name that’s tattooed in cursive on his neck. Considering his status in the neighborhood and haute couture appearance you’d think Papi would constantly have a grin from ear to ear. Sadly this is not the case, as evidenced by the tear drops that always seem to linger just below his eye. The weird thing though is that they’re black. Can’t quite explain that one.

You know Papi’s approaching when you hear the faint rumble of bass off in the distance, which quickly turns to an ear-shattering rattle as his over-sized subwoofer literally shakes apart his car at the seams. Speaking of which, Papi is exceptionally fond of his ride…his baby…and has a serious problem with anyone who goes within 10 feet of it. Which is completely understandable considering it’s a rusty, multi-colored old Honda Civic that sits atop sparkling 20″ rims that are worth about three times as much as the car itself. Needless to say, Papi thinks it’s a lot sweeter than it really is.

Papi enjoys spending his days lingering in the park, seeing what’s up over at the car wash, and hollerin’ at hunnies. Unfortunately, though, his game is hindered every other weekend when it’s his turn with the kids. Friday afternoons can be quite a chore as he navigates through traffic to three different homes on different sides of town to collect the little rascals. Besides his close group of friends, his kids are the only other people on Earth who think his car is cool. And Papi thinks they’re pretty cool, too, as they allow him to make some extra money filming educational ‘look what can happen’ commercials for Trojan and Durex.

Frequently heard saying: “Aye mami! You fiiiiiiiine gurrrrl!”

Last seen: Diving into a bush as the cop car rolls by.


The designer himself...a cliffhanger.

The designer himself...a cliffhanger.

You may need to keep a keen wit about you to spot Cliffhanger, but he’s definitely out there. He’s just hitting that point of transitioning from his late 30s to early 40s, and as such is experiencing a bit of an identity crisis. He is married with a couple of young kids, and therefore is expected to act and dress a certain way, but he’s not ready to accept the imminent Tommy Bahama shirts and deck shoes just yet. Cliffhanger is desperately trying to cling onto every last fiber of his youth, and does so by sneaking in the occasional Ed Hardy t-shirt, or cranking up the latest rap hits in his SUV and glancing around awkwardly to make sure no one is giving him the ‘tard face. In a conversation he rarely waits more than a minute before making a forced remark to let you know he’s still high up in the hipness ranks, such as, “Did you see Beyonce at the VMAs? Man…what I wouldn’t do to that ass.” He may be balding and showing a little salt ‘n pepper, but he can still pop bottles with the best of ’em.

You’ll sometimes see him and his old law school buddies huddled in a booth at an upscale sports bar sipping micro brews and noshing on mini Kobe burgers. This after-work retreat is their time to unwind and grumble about married life, reminiscing about the good ole days when they were 30 pounds lighter and knee deep in collegiate vajayjay. Despite the depressing nature of such thoughts, Cliffhanger and his friends take solace in the fact that they’re all still young on the inside, right? Right??

When he’s not tinkering with his mental time machine or getting hair surgery, Cliffhanger can be seen strolling through the neighborhood with his kids and beloved wife, Cliffdiver. Notorious for delving into the whorish depths of the Nordstrom teens department to find her clothing, Cliffdiver also enjoys keeping one toe firmly planted in her youth and a thong strap firmly wedged in her butt crack. A tight pair of Rock & Republic’s and playful Juicy t-shirt comprise her standard outfit, accentuated by a bulls-eye tattoo on the lower back. Forever 21 my ass – Forever 42.

Frequently heard saying: “No honey you can’t have a Popsicle…oh this song’s tight!”

Last seen: Hitting on the 16-year-old cashier at Walgreens.

Calorie Nazi

Salad - the most delicious meal on Earth.

Salad - the most delicious meal on Earth.

Arch-nemesis of restaurants and normal people everywhere, Calorie Nazi is the queen bee of picky eaters. She won’t touch a pizza with a 50-foot pole, nor will she be seen in the same room as many foods normal people perceive to be reasonably healthy, such as cereal, pasta, or rice. Without fail, Calorie Nazi manages to make an appearance at every large group dinner, and makes her presence known quickly. She can be seen examining the menu with the wincing concentration of a surgeon about to remove a testicle. Knowing the ingredients of a dish is not enough for Calorie Nazi. No no. She also must know the source of each ingredient, exactly how the dish is prepared, and what other dishes will be cooked within 4 square feet that could make hers fattening by proximity. Calorie Nazi makes everyone at the table want to jab a fork in their eye.

To add fuel to the fire, Calorie Nazi is lactose intolerant and deathly allergic to nuts and wheat. Of course she doesn’t have any clear evidence of this, but she’s been avoiding dairy and carbs for so long that she assumes her finely-tuned body can no longer process such lowly foods. After outlining her allergies and maximum daily caloric intake to the waiter, the two work together to select a meal that’s right for her. Once that’s done, Calorie Nazi makes a dozen or so special requests and substitutions, rendering her final selection more like rabbit food than the description on the menu. More often than not the chef ends up having to stop making everyone else’s dinner to come to the table for clarification of Calorie Nazi’s bizarre demands. She takes this as an opportunity to educate him on the world’s best cooking oil she found at an independent gourmet food shop in some far-away land and how he should seriously consider importing it for use in his restaurant. After throwing up in his mouth the chef nods and returns to the kitchen.

Not surprisingly, Calorie Nazi is also obsessed with physical fitness. When she’s not causing restaurant employees to have heart palpitations, she spends most of her time at a fitness center where she works as either a personal trainer or a yoga instructor, if not both. She has one of those slightly-too-masculine physiques with wide shoulders, defined biceps, and calves shaped like a bone-in Christmas ham. Naturally, though, Calorie Nazi thinks she looks smoking hot and likes showing off her rock hard figure. She does so by running in just a sports bra, and by performing her cheeky party trick of cracking walnuts between her butt cheeks.

Frequently heard saying: “Eww, do you have any idea how much sugar is in that fruit salad?”

Last seen: Doing lunges while exiting your local vegan/organic/gluten-free market.

Cube Monkey

Cube Monkey's Lair

Cube Monkey's Lair

Hiding within the confines of a 6′ by 6′ three-walled box, Cube Monkey is a rather elusive character. The occasional rustling of papers or squeaky fart are the only major signs of his existence. Due to the incompetence of upper management, Cube Monkey and dozens of his friends were hired even though there is only enough work for about three people. As a result, he is forced to find ways to kill about 7 of the 8 hours he spends at the office each day. Cube Monkey is clearly a real asset to your organization.

Cube Monkey starts his day by reading each new e-mail about three times, grabbing some coffee from the break room, and crunching a few numbers in Excel. Around 10 o’clock he hits panic mode – there are 7 more hours until he gets to leave and he’s got bugger all left to do. Naturally, then, his favorite pastime is web-surfing. He enjoys reading comedic blogs and constantly has to stop himself mid-chuckle to avoid revealing his worthlessness. He has a keen ear and is always listening out for the pitter-patter of passing feet, at which point he quickly clicks back to that Excel spreadsheet and punches in some meaningless numbers. I saw the YouTube screen you dipshit.

Cube Monkey is sometimes forced to migrate from his cubicle to the conference room for important meetings. Here he is notorious for adding as much value as a dry dildo, and spends most of the time fiddling with the knobs on his chair. He is also a big fan of the 20-minute bathroom break, where he thinks he is safe from detection. What Cube Monkey doesn’t realize is that, with his pants now around his ankles, the photo ID tag clipped to his belt is dangling in plain view below the stall door. You can hear him tapping away on his iPhone as he thumbs through Facebook status updates while pretending to drop a deuce. Another dead giveaway is when, upon returning to his desk, you see him trying to zoom into a document by “pinching out” his computer screen. Busted.

Frequently heard saying: (To Boss) “Yep, I’ve been working on the Drudge Report…I mean Status Report…all morning.”

Last seen: Picking his wedgie in the elevator.