Please, please, please shut the fuck up. No please, I'm begging you because I'm literally running out of ideas to avoid being engaged by you. The ipod? The ipod doesn't work - the white earphone in my ear apparently means nothing, presumably I'm just waiting about here for you to ask an INNANE question you could find out the answer to by in about ten seconds if you just looked it up. Sporadic monosyllabic responses appear only to confirm your suspicion that I'm a little deaf and a simple answer like "I don't know" destined to kick-start your daily prattle about... I have no fucking idea what.
So what's with the laughter? You are not the doctor from The Simpsons, you are not required to punctuate EVERY sentence with nervous laughter. I know that slamming someone for, well, laughing, sounds well harsh but Jesus Fucking Christ that is no ordinary laughter. It is, to appropriate Dylan Moran's lovely description of the Geman language, not unlike the sound of a typewriter being thrown down a flight of stairs.
Which brings me to... the questions. So far as I know, friend, we are on roughly comparable wages. Meaning we are both expected to earn our respective pays with hard work. Reasonable questions about things I might actually know about are perfectly fine, welcome even, but what is up with the endless string of questions about things I couldn't POSSIBLY deliver a proper response to? The worst thing is that you have only to look them up on the computer: it would, quite literally, take you less than five minutes. I have no idea what you're doing when the keyboard is banging away over there but, so help me, it's not work.
I know that you are harmless, I know you are probably a sweet person just trying to reach out to someone and, God help me, I have tried to be nice and friendly and patient over the past months but you are KILLING ME. By which I mean that if someone doesn't change I will have to kill you. Then possibly myself.
From your bitter and twisted colleague.