Open Letter to the Sisterhood of Batshit Insane Office Women

By Ron R. Clark

Last week, I accepted an offer from a group of coworkers to go for a drink after hours. Apparently I was the only male who did so, as I found myself sitting at a table with six Office Women. Ten minutes or so into the session, our conversation came around to one of our newer co-workers, a young female.

I work two departments removed from any of the conversants and their work teams, so my only contact with them is through e-mail or at these occasional tossbacks. Regardless, the ladies (who shall remain nameless) referred to the new person only by name and insisted I knew who she was. Eventually, one of them bailed me out and described her physically. I conveyed recognition by the following exact quote: “Oh, the new redhead by the filing cabinets. She’s pretty.”

The reaction at my table couldn’t have been more violent if I had called Chris Rock an uppity nigger during his show at the Apollo Theatre. The charges leveled against me in the next ninety seconds could not be adequately addressed in real time, however I will do so herein:

Crazy Woman 1: She’s half your age, you sick bastard!
Ron: True, but I’m not so old that my eyes don’t work. Thus, the woman is still pretty.

CW2: Is that all she is to you?
Ron: As it is, yes. On a personal/professional level, I don’t know her from the janitor. If the only data input I have on her is a physical image, then a physical image is all she is to me. It isn’t unlike when a driver cuts me off on the freeway without using a turn signal. To me, that person is a self-important asshat, whether he or she is a priest, nurse, or fireman. All I know of him or her is his / her driving acumen, and the jerkoff drives like a coked-up ferret with a fiery case of the runs. Thus said citizen is a scourge to humanity, and to Hell with said citizen.

CW3: Ugh! You men are all alike! Is that all you think about?
Ron: I may be reaching here, but such banter historically implies reference to sex as a primary motivating factor in male actions- but all I said was that the woman is pretty. I also think horses are pretty, as I do paintings, flowers and old European buildings. I consider the Rocky Mountains pretty as well, but I’ve never panted or perspired pondering the prospect of plunging my pulsing pecker into Pike’s Peak, so ease up on the throttle, Sister!

There were more comments, but they were similar in nature and in the interest of workplace harmony I’m trying to forget who said what. The fact remains that in a matter of ninety seconds, I went from a respectable co-worker and happy-hour confidant to a facile, filthy-minded, flower-fucking fossil – all because I made a remark sane people would consider benign at worst or complimentary at best.

My story is unfortunately not unique. Office women tend to think the worst of everyone - especially anyone with a penis – and the larger their society, the quicker they reach their ultimately damning conclusions. It is as if there is some sort of Borg–like collective hive-mind for the cubicle-bound female. Fueled by M&Ms and hazelnut non-dairy creamer, its processing speed increases exponentially with each woman who plugs in. Call me a whiner, but the fact is that the automatic assumption of co-worker malevolence manufactured by the engine that is this secret sisterhood of batshit insane office ladies primes the pump for a hostile work environment.

Oh, shit. I can already hear it:

CW1: “CW2 – did he say ‘prime the pump?’” [reaches for hive-plug] *Poink!*
CW2: “He sure did!” *Poink!* “You know what he’s REALLY saying, don’t you CW3?”
CW3: *Poink!* “He’s talking about masturbating himself! Right here in the office!"
CW4: *Poink!* “Typical male! It’s all they ever want to do!”
CWs 5-58; *Poink! Poink! Poink!* “And I’ll bet he’s thinking about that poor little red-haired girl while he’s doing it, too!” *Poink! Poink! Poink! Poinkity PoinkPoinkPoink!*