IN REGARDS to all existence winking out on Friday, I gathered you all here in the conference room for one last meeting, and I hope it helps put things into much needed perspective.

First, whoever it is in here who has made it to their 30s thinking that coffee is made by dumping a whole pound of grounds into the filter, let me tell you how much I'm going to miss my morning cup of hot piss and pencil shavings. Your run of coffee-machine serial killings will sadly come to a close at 13 coffee makers suffocated to death by your cluelessness. On the upside, the impending apocalypse will ensure your reign will never be topped—so congratulations, you tasteless pile of ambulatory foreskin.

Second, I know it won't matter soon, but when you're indoors at a place of business, you keep your goddamned shoes on. You're an adult. I know you don't like to think so. This is Portland, sometimes we let you get away with that shit here. It's the slowest, beardiest marathon race ever run, where we all leisurely chase our adolescence into our 40s. And we forgive your cycling to work in skintight spandex as if your morning commute includes a leg of the Tour de France. But when you get here? You don't get to just pop your shoes off and let your fugly fucking feet just air out like stubby bricks of limburger with toenails embedded in them, radiating the curdled scent of Go Fuck Yourself, as you leisurely pad towards the kitchen like an overgrown hobbit, clutching a sack of what you call kimchee in your hands.

Seriously, do you even know HOW to eat kimchee? Did you just take someone's word for it that you're supposed to shit in a bag, throw some peppers into the mix, bury it in the backyard for a week, and then bring it here, to the office, to microwave it? Did it even occur to you what that might smell like? You're from fucking Boise—just bring some ramen to work and stop pretending you have any real clue what other cultures are like, you spud-rubbing rube. Because I can guarantee whatever it is you're doing with that bag? You're doing it wrong.

And you: Don't think your heinous microwave crimes are exonerated because DJ Potatofucker here is misusing the gift of culinary science. Guess what: Microwaving your fishy leftovers in the office kitchen is just as shitty. You don't microwave fish, asshole. You just don't. Because now it smells like you sodomized a red snapper's scaly pucker with the ghostly remains of Orville Redenbacher's cock. Microwaves are for popcorn, burritos, and day-old coffee. That's fucking it. Can you imagine suffering through a morning of deleting companywide emails cc'd to everybody for no earthly reason, only to have all senses suddenly rent in twain by an olfactory assault of fish dry-humping the inside of my skull? No, you can't, because you're all inconsiderate twatwaffles, and if the world has to end to rid itself of your collective idiocy, I personally consider that a justified suicide.

Now, if you don't mind, I'm going to shit in my pants, flip over this table, and get a head start on the apocalypse via the burst aneurysm that is now concluding as I speak.

I'll see you fuckholes in hell.