Death By Paper Cuts

There's a guy at work I call Death By Paper Cuts because he's always slightly annoying, but over time it adds up and pretty soon you're dead in the fucking gutter!

I don't want to despise DBPC because he has a speech impediment and the social skills of a Biblical-age leper, but he makes it god damn impossible. Words cannot do justice to the massive scope of this annoyance; you'd have to personally experience the rat-faced bastard to fully understand. He's smart enough to always know the right thing to say at the perfect moment to really piss you off, but he's too stupid to realize that one day it'll get him punched in his weaselly face.

I will say this: DBPC has managed to live thirty-plus years on this Earth without picking up a single friend. He is utterly friendless. Think about that for a second. As anti-social as I can be at times I've managed to con a few people here and there into becoming my friend. Fuck, even the kids who shot up Columbine High School had each other!

Death By Paper Cuts, however, is a solo act. He did have a female prisoner pen pal (it just keeps getting more pathetic, huh?), but upon her release she met him and decided to go back to her hometown of Farawayfromdeathbypapercuts, Kentucky. It's in the far eastern part of the state, I think. Suddenly abject poverty and a 60 percent illiteracy rate didn't seem so bad.

The other day the managers thought they saw DBPC doing something wrong on the store survaliance cameras. It turned out to be a misunderstanding, but EVERYONE was hoping he'd be fired. I feel guilty right this second for wishing that, but later today I'll go to work and he'll say something infuriating and the guilt will magically disappear; not unlike the prospect of someone actually liking him after he speaks.