Most of us send multiple e-mails each day at work.  Here are a few tips for sounding like a professional.

Make sure your e-mail includes a courteous greeting and closing.  Start with something like “You are my sun and stars” or “I sometimes picture you naked” or “Sup, dickhead?”  End with “Yours in Mohammad” or “Best friends forever XOXOXO” or “Bite me.”

It’s okay to spell a person’s name incorrectly.  They’ll think it’s funny and respect you.

No need to spell-check.  Write quickly and hit “send.”  And writing in text speak is considered cool.

Don’t be specific.  Being vague will get you far in the business world.

Be sure to use plenty of exclamation points!!!!!!! And question marks?????  Because you’re enthused!!!!!

WRITE IN ALL CAPS OFTEN.  It’s perceived as yelling, and yelling commands respect.

Send attachment files so big they clog the receiver’s inbox.  It will force him/her to take you seriously.

Take your time in responding to urgent e-mails.  It makes you look busy and superior.

If there are 50 people copied in on an e-mail you receive, and your response only needs to go to one person, send it back to everyone.  People enjoy reading things that don’t pertain to them.

Use nonsensical subject lines to lighten the mood.  A few examples are “Those dildos you ordered,” “Don’t look behind you,” “Let’s get shitfaced” or “Tyrion Lannister for President 2016!”

Type in sentence fragments and use non sequiturs.  People like to exercise their brains trying to decipher cryptic messages.

If you don’t understand an e-mail you received, respond anyway.  It makes you look confident.

If asked a question, respond with “wouldn’t YOU like to know?”  Again, confidence.

Make your e-mails as long as possible.  The recipient probably doesn’t have anything else to do but read your ramblings anyway.

Never thank anyone for their help.  I makes you look weak.

If possible, use a black background with red text.  It’s easy on the eyes, and you’ll stand out as a creative go-getter.

Comic Sans font is always preferable.

Request a return receipt on every e-mail you send.  People like it when you always keep tabs on them.

Forward e-mails to people who have no relevance to the e-mail.  It shows you’re thinking about them.

Slip extreme political or religious references in whenever you can.  People like conviction.

If you’re really angry, type and send an e-mail immediately.  People like honesty.

If you receive an angry e-mail, reply with a photo of your genitals.  The tension will subside.

Remember that business e-mails are temporary, so rest easy knowing your company can’t retrieve anything you’ve sent to use against you in a court of law.  Happy e-mailing, corporate slave!

Gung-ho creative type looking for reliable, reasonably-priced muse.  Aforementioned creative type needs to unblock artistic passages, and seeks an inexpensive feminine spiritual guide with which to bond.

All applicants must be women.  (Sorry, fellas, unless you’re Lennon or McCartney, you’re not a good muse.)  Intelligence, punctuality and unbridled whimsy a must.

Must be able to start immediately.  These 22 screenplays, 15 songs, 8 TV pilots, 5 novels and hundreds of poems aren’t going to finish themselves.

RESPONSIBILITIES:  Inspiring, intriguing, tantalizing, inspiring, light office work.  I may ask you to dictate while I drunkenly ramble.  But mostly sparking my brain with your womanly charm.  Maybe make a sandwich here and there.

SALARY: Negotiable.  Just remember I got heavy alimony and child support payments.  I WILL provide free cheap vodka and Triscuits.

WORK ENVIRONMENT:  I’m flexible; wherever you feel most charming.  Be warned that I have a horrid fear of tambourines and am allergic to most fabrics.  And I prefer to be around booze.

Interested females should send a list of reasons you’re a top-notch muse to bigstudmuffinwriter@aol.com.  Please write.  I need you.  Even this ad is lackluster.  Really, I got nothin’.

What have you got to prove?

You know what I’m talking about.  There’s always a time when you have to prove something.  Or maybe you have something to prove all the time.  Who ya gotta impress, playa?

Here are the only times I feel I have to impress anybody:

I’m at a job interview.  (I’m totes the dude for the position.)

I’m interacting with my boss.  (Did you ride your Harley in today?  Bitchin’.)

I meet a woman who’s definitely a thumbs-up.  (I’m staring at your boobs, but hopefully I’m witty.)

I’m in front of a judge in a court of law.  (I drink to drown the voices in my head.  Whaddya want from me, yer honor?!)

I’m performing for an audience.  (What’s up with the government?  Am I right? *insert song parody*)

Any other time?  I couldn’t give a rat’s ass what people think.

But some people always have something to prove; some reason they feel they have to impress you.  Why is that?

I have a theory: if you constantly have to prove you’re a certain way, then you have serious doubts you ARE that way, and you’re trying to convince others you’re not insecure about it.

Trying really hard to let people know how hip and with-it you are?  Guess what, you doubt that you’re hip.  Trying really hard to let people know how funny you are?  Guess what, you doubt that you’re funny (and most likely others do, too).  Trying really hard to let everyone know how heterosexual you are?  Guess what, you’re conflicted.

Then there are those who constantly want to argue and prove their opinion is right.  Reality check:  OPINION IS NOT FACT.  And how many times do arguments actually change anyone’s mind? As Sammy Hagar sang, “To me, it’s all just mental masturbation.”

It all rolls back around to insecurity, a topic on which I’ve posted before.  I’ve never understood adults (kids/teenagers get a pass) who desperately crave attention and validation.  I know it’s cliché to say “love yourself,” but dammit, love yourself, man.

SORT-OF POINT OF THE STORY:  Quit trying to prove yourself.  You have no reason to impress the people who really matter.  They’re impressed with you anyway.  Relax and be yourself.

My brain doesn’t usually work in numbers, but when you’re on a tight budget, the brain’s forced to work in numbers somewhat.

I’m on an hourly wage.  I started thinking about how many hours each month were spent on each expense.  The following is based on a 35-hour week, 140 hours per month.  Here’s roughly what I spend:

Gas = 8 hrs

Food = 13 hrs

Booze = 8 hrs

Rent = 64 hrs

Medicine = 4 hours

Electric = 2 – 7 hrs, depending on the season

Cable + Internet = 11 hrs

Cat food/litter = 2 hours

Entertainment (movies, restaurants, pub nights, concerts, etc.) = 6 hours

Phone = 6 hours

Car insurance = 4 hours

Cigarettes = 6 hours

Sundries = 6 hours

Which leaves me approximately 1 hour to put into savings.  Yeah, right.  I’m throwin’ that in the booze category for an extra twelve-pack.

I admit it, I’m a cat guy.  I like dogs, but I live alone and like to take extended trips, so a dog is a little too high-maintenance for me at the moment.  Leave a cat with food, water, and a clean box, and you’re gold.

I’d say I’ve had about a dozen or so cats over the years.  My favorite, though, I only had for a short amount of time in the late 80’s.

My wife at the time was a high-school teacher in the very, very, very small town of Revere, MO.  One morning, one of her students brought her a gift: a stray kitten he’d found wandering the streets.  The wife, also an animal lover, took the kitten — a mix, but mostly Siamese — and hid it in her desk drawer.  At lunchtime, she brought it home.

I got home from work before her, with no knowledge of this new little white-bodied-brown-faced critter.  I came in and went into the bathroom to take a whiz.

Mid-pee, I looked down and to the left of the toilet.  There was a goddamn possum right there.

I spazzed out and sprayed pee around for a couple of seconds before I realized it was a kitten.

So, because I mistook him for a possum, I named him Pogo, after the possum in the old-timey comic strip.

Pogo was great because he was one of the most affectionate cats I’ve ever had…but he was also a badass.

We had two other cats, Jasmine and Sidney (Poitier).  They were all indoor/outdoor cats, and when Jasmine and Sidney would come in after hard day of cattin’ around, they’d head straight for the food dish.

Pogo, however, would always come in and immediately jump up and snuggle with whichever human was closest.  He’d purr and rub up against you for a minute or so, then head over to the other and repeat the process.  Once he’d loved you up and showed the proper respect, he’d leisurely stroll to the food dish.

If we had leftover “people” food, we’d dump it in a pile out back for all the neighborhood animals to feast upon.  One day, Pogo was out feasting.  A big dog came up and challenged him.  The dog was in growly attack mode, but Pogo stood his ground, arched his back, and hissed evilly.  The dog looked confused and walked away.

Another time, we cooked a chicken but removed the skin.  The entire raw chicken skin, in one piece, was tossed out back.  Pogo, without chewing at all, swallowed THE WHOLE CHICKEN SKIN.  I thought for sure he was going to choke to death, but he only gagged briefly and walked off.

One night we were awakened by some loud animal fight noises.  We didn’t think much of it, but the next day the neighbor called and said, “I think your cat’s in our yard.”

Sure enough, there was Pogo, dead, at the tender age of one.  Nobody knows what happened – he wasn’t bloody or mangled up – but I like to think he fought a badass fight with whatever it was.  The neighbor was nice enough to suggest that we bury him right there in his yard, on the spot where he’d died.  We did.

Great cat.  Very entertaining.  And it’s fitting he went out with a bang instead of a whimper.  Crazy badass lovey-dovey feline.  Peace.  *Pours 40 of malt liquor on curb*

I love betting on the ponies, and last year, I had a spontaneous “let’s hit a couple of races” moment.  I headed to the Arlington OTB.

I normally bet $2 – $10 on a single race.  That day, I grew a pair.

I looked at the monitors, chose the next race, and bet $50 on the favorite to win.  He lost by a neck.

Damn.  That meant I was close.  I chose the next race and bet $50 on the favorite.  That was my entire bankroll.  He won by two lengths.

I checked the payoff board: $125.  Groovy.  I won $25.

I cashed in my ticket with the crusty old cashier.  The display rang up “$125.”  He handed me a wad, and I folded it up and stuck it in my wallet.

I got to my car opened my wallet.  I unfolded the wad and counted it: $250.  Couldn’t have been another wad, I only had a few other dollars.  And those crusty old cashiers never make mistakes.

Thank you, eight-pound-six-ounce baby Jesus.

Anyway, I wanted to spread the loot, kind of like Jesse in Breaking Bad, so I went to the local thrift store, one I know helps a lot of people in the community.  The plan was to unceremoniously donate a $50 bill.

I walked in and there were about six old ladies in the checkout line.  The cashier was the only employee there.  I walked up and kind of hovered back, trying to politely wait until the current customer left so I could quickly jump in, hand the cashier the bill, say, “just wanted to make a quick donation,” then vamoose.  Here’s what I heard:

Really-Very-Old-Lady-Customer (troubled): But it says fifty cents.

Not-Quite-As-Old Cashier: No, it’s $5.

RVOLC: But it says fifty cents.

NQAOC: No, it says $5.

MY BRAIN:  A damsel in distress.  And I could be Bill Gates for five minutes.

I stepped forward, holding the bill, and said, “you know what?  I can pay for it.”

The customer was flabbergasted.  “You can’t do that.  That’s five dollars.”

I said, “No, it’s okay.  I was going to make a donation anyway.  I can get everybody’s stuff in line, or at least what $50 will cover.”

The hens were abuzz.  “You can’t do that, that’s too much, etc.”

I said, “ladies, I had a good day at the racetrack, and something told me to come here and give this to you.”

A bit of silence, then a lot of thanks you’s and gratitude.

I moved toward the door and said, “I hope you all have a wonderful day.”  Then I vamoosed.

MORAL OF THE STORY:  Even though they may deny it at first, chicks dig it when you buy them stuff.

I consider myself a pretty well-adjusted person.  As a kid, I received abundant positive attention from my parents, family and friends.  As a result, I require very little attention as an adult.

I really have no insecurities.  I’m pudgy, but I’m 49 years old and have to take weight-gaining pills to slow down my defective brain, so who cares?  Gray hair?  Had it for over 20 years; heard all the jokes.  Clothes?  Fashion’s for suckers.  I’m not cool because I haven’t heard of a particular band, haven’t seen a particular director’s films, haven’t read a particular book, or like a particular sports team?  Who gives a shit?

So you really can’t hurt my feelings.  And if you’re just trying to hurt my feelings in the first place, you’re the type of person I’ll describe below.

Let me start by saying that, in my experience, almost everyone craves some type of attention.  Most folks shoot for positive attention, such as giving a compliment, lending a helping hand, or achieving a noble goal.  Others can’t generate positive attention and resort to negative attention.  (I used to teach high school, and believe me, there’s plenty of the latter.)

Bullies.  Drama queens.  Hipster snobs.  Internet trolls.  You know the types.  They’ve all got something to prove:  I’m better than you, I’m smarter than you, I’m more of a badass than you, I’m trendier than you, I’m prettier than you.  Me me me, pay attention to me.

Anyway, I’m a pretty cheery guy, but there’s been one negative thing sticking in my head.  At that thing is all the people who have been insecure assholes to me in my life.

I posted a while back about my last boss, but there’s a long list of people who were just plain cruel and felt they had to show everyone their complete dominance over me.

Why are these people in my noggin?  My friends are all cool and my new coworkers are nice.  There’s nobody in my life telling me what a piece of shit I am.  So why are memories of toxic cretins invading my brain space?

Then something came to me.  I remembered a Simpsons quote.  It’s the episode where principal Skinner, Bart’s enemy, gets fired, and Ned Flanders takes over as principal.  Bart thinks it will be paradise, but he’s unhappy and directionless.  Lisa says (I’m paraphrasing): “Don’t you see, Bart?  You need a nemesis.”  Bart gets Skinner back and all is well.

Maybe that’s it.  Every time a dickhead (I’m using “dickhead” to represent both genders) has come into my life, I’ve taken the abuse, turned the other cheek and such, but I’ve secretly felt really good knowing I wasn’t an insecure got-shit-to-prove dickhead.

So…anyone want to be an insecure dickhead asshole to me so I can feel superior to you?