Personal Days

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In an unnamed New York-based company, the employees are getting restless as everything around them unravels. There’s Pru, the former grad student turned spreadsheet drone; Laars, the hysteric whose work anxiety stalks him in his tooth-grinding dreams; and Jack II, who distributes unwanted backrubs–aka “jackrubs”–to his co-workers.

On a Sunday, one of them is called at home. And the Firings begin.
Rich with Orwellian doublespeak, filled with ...

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Personal Days: A Novel

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In an unnamed New York-based company, the employees are getting restless as everything around them unravels. There’s Pru, the former grad student turned spreadsheet drone; Laars, the hysteric whose work anxiety stalks him in his tooth-grinding dreams; and Jack II, who distributes unwanted backrubs–aka “jackrubs”–to his co-workers.

On a Sunday, one of them is called at home. And the Firings begin.
Rich with Orwellian doublespeak, filled with sabotage and romance, this astonishing literary debut is at once a comic delight and a narrative tour de force. It’s a novel for anyone who has ever worked in an office and wondered: “Where does the time go? Where does the life go? And whose banana is in the fridge?”

"Witty and appealing...Anyone who has ever groaned to hear 'impact' used as a verb will cheer as Park skewers the avatars of corporate speak, hellbent on debasing the language....Park has written what one of his characters calls 'a layoff narrative' for our times. As the economy continues its free fall, Park's book may serve as a handy guide for navigating unemployment and uncertainty. Does anyone who isn't a journalist think there can't be two books on the same subject at the same time? We need as many as we can get right now." —The New York Times Book Review

"Never have the minutiae of office life been so lovingly cataloged and collated." —"Three First Novels that Just Might Last," —Time

A "comic and creepy début...Park transforms the banal into the eerie, rendering ominous the familiar request "Does anyone want anything from the outside world?" The New Yorker

"The modern corporate office is to Ed Park's debut novel Personal Days what World War II was to Joseph Heller's Catch-22—a theater of absurdity and injustice so profound as to defy all reason....Park may be in line to fill the shoes left by Kurt Vonnegut and other satirists par excellence."—Samantha Dunn, Los Angeles Times

"In Personal Days Ed Park has crafted a sometimes funny, sometimes heartbreaking, but always adroit novel about office life...Sharp and lovely language." Newsweek

"A warm and winning fiction debut." Publishers Weekly

"I laughed until they put me in a mental hospital. But Personal Days is so much more than satire. Underneath Park's masterly portrait of wasted workaday lives is a pulsating heart, and an odd, buoyant hope." — Gary Shteyngart, author of Absurdistan

"The funniest book I've read about the way we work now." –William Poundstone, author of Fortune's Formula

"Ed Park joins Andy Warhol and Don DeLillo as a master of the deadpan vernacular." —Helen DeWitt, author of The Last Samurai

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Editorial Reviews

Publishers Weekly

Park's warm and winning fiction debut is narrated by a collective "we" of youngish Manhattan office grunts who watch in helpless horror as their company keeps shrinking, taking their private world of in-jokes and nicknames along with it. The business itself remains opaque, but who eats lunch with whom, which of the two nearby Starbucks is the "good Starbucks," and whose desk knickknacks have the richest iconography become abundantly clear. What starts out feeling like a cutesy set of riffs evolves into such a deft, familiar intimacy that when the next round of layoffs begins in earnest, the reader is just as disconcerted as the characters. As office survivors Lizzie, Jonah, Pru, Crease, Lars and Jason II try to figure out who's next to get the axe, mysterious clues point to a conspiracy that may involve one or more of the survivors. By the time answers arrive, Park-former Voice Literary Supplementeditor, a founding editor of the Believerand the creator of the e-zine the New York Ghost-has built the tension masterfully. Echoing elements from Ferris's debut smash, Then We Came to the End, Park may have written the first cubicle cozy. (May)

Copyright © Reed Business Information, a division of Reed Elsevier Inc. All rights reserved.
Kirkus Reviews
An entertaining, if slightly disappointing, debut. The setting is an office. The goods and/or services provided by the company depicted are never defined, but, clearly, business is not good. There have been firings. Using the first-person plural, Park creates a kind of collective narrator to explore the lives of employees still clinging to their jobs. The use of the first-person plural is a bold, distinctive choice, driving home the point that office jobs have the capacity to render the individual irrelevant, but it would have looked a little bolder and a whole lot more distinctive if Joshua Ferris hadn't done exactly the same thing in the National Book Award finalist Then We Came to the End (2007). The two novels are not-despite several notable similarities-quite as indistinguishable. Park's assay is shorter, for one thing, and it closes with a 40-plus page sentence (presented in the form of a letter). This passage is easier to read than one might expect: Park ends his tale of commonplace drudgery by turning it into an office thriller. Dark secrets are revealed, nefarious plots foiled. The ending is both gripping and disappointing. Park is very good at capturing the frustrations, fears and small pleasures flourishing amid the cubicles. His office-party vignettes, meditations on Microsoft products and depictions of people who are trying to retain their humanity in an environment which makes them interchangeable coalesce into a touching, funny group portrait of corporate underlings everywhere. He undermines this accomplishment, though, when he gives his story a villain-an evil madman, no less-rather than letting the bad guy be the office itself. Kind of like if Office Space ended withscenes from the Kevin Costner vehicle Mr. Brooks. Agent: PJ Mark/McCormick & Williams Literary Agency
The Barnes & Noble Review
A former office mate of mine, reporting for duty on his first day at the company, was taken in hand by somebody in HR for a pro forma introduction to the company president. It was around lunchtime, and the chief executive was off having a sandwich somewhere, so the introductions were never made -- with the curious consequence that my friend was left with a mistaken impression as to who the company president was. Deep was his disenchantment, 18 months later, when he realized that, mentally, he had been attaching his corporate allegiance to an aloof, distinguished-looking mid-level nobody, instead of to the short and blandly smiling man who actually ran the place. "That guy," he grumbled, "I could have some respect for. But this guy -- !"

There are stories like this all through Ed Park's debut novel, Personal Days, -- and many much worse. In a nameless Manhattan office, a group of be-cubicled peons huddle in fear on the staticky carpeting. They are proofreaders, perhaps, or copywriters, or fact checkers -- at any rate their work (never discussed) is unfascinating and redolent of squandered IQ. Neon-blanched, sharing an intimacy that cannot thrive -- that dies immediately, in fact -- outside the strange conditions that created it, they have nonetheless made a world: pet names, in-jokes, the minor voodoo of office life. There is a Good Starbucks and a Bad Starbucks. They suck down cigarettes on a patch of sidewalk called The Republic of Smokistan. They blog about their workplace crushes. They might even be happy. But now all that is changing. Their boss, whom they know as the Sprout, is shaking things up: his agenda is inhuman and obscure, but there will be a body count. Firings! First, timid Jill is exiled to Siberia -- "a spacious cubicle on the sixth floor, miles from anyone else, next to the door leading to the fire exit." She soon disappears altogether. Then a man by the name of Graham (dubbed "Grime" by the gang, in recognition of his British accent) arrives, and everything begins to go -- as the Brits say -- pear-shaped.

Readers of Nicholson Baker's The Mezzanine, whatever else they retain of that excellent little book, rarely forget the "loud curt fart like the rap of a bongo drum" that is overheard in the office men's room. There's nothing as startlingly fresh minted as that in Personal Days, but then freshness is not quite the point: Park, following George Saunders, is at pains to mimic the weird consensus idiolect of our time, the little stumps of computer-stained lingo that we get around on. ("Lars had to Google Fleet Street. He could have sworn it was where Sherlock Holmes lived and even bet Pru five bucks, but he was so wrong.") A single truly pristine phrase or image would throw the whole thing out of whack, like a unicorn appearing by the water cooler.

Which is not to say that Park's writing lacks exquisiteness. Any office environment worth the name, as every sentient drone knows, is fundamentally self-ironizing; one moves down the crackling hallways with that sleepwalker sensation of deeds that repetition has made automatic, and words already ritualized by use. Personal Days is almost scriptural in this respect. Behold, for example, the Friday afternoon departure of the Sprout:

There's a spring in his step, a thin jacket draped over his arm, and a bag from the Italian bakery dangling from a finger.

Have a good one, he says to Jenny, closing his door and locking it smoothly.

Later, man, he barks at Jonah while turning the corner by the mail room, the very picture of managerial friendliness.

Any fun weekend plans? he asks Pru, not quite pausing as he heads to the elevator. She says she'll probably see a movie and go to a party in Brooklyn. He nods and says, Excellent plan -- don't do anything I wouldn't do.

Park is a near-clinical humorist and parodist, in a vein that will doubtless have the odd reviewer hailing Personal Days as "LOL-funny!" The Sprout, always in a rush, sends emails of quite startling illiteracy: "Thnaks, for the heads-op! Aprecite it." Jill, out in Siberia, begins a strange compilation of corporate wisdom, carefully transcribing the apothegms of authors like Randall Slurry (Office Politics 101) and M. Halsey Patterson (Yes, I Drank The Kool-Aid -- And I Went Back for Seconds). "Don't be the one who says, I told you so," counsels Slurry. "Tell them so to begin with. Tell them often." And from The Manager's Bible: The New Memory System for Daily Insights, by Wayne V. Hammer with Juliette Earp, Jill draws the following Eastern-tinted consolation: "Confusion is inevitable. Ride the wave."

Park, of course, made all this up; indeed, it's worryingly possible, within the context of the novel, that Jill made it all up too. The fragmented narrative and shaggy-dog tangents of Personal Days operate in the service of a seeping, slow-build paranoia, of the sort that has sustained whole seasons of ABC's Lost. The firings and humiliations continue; the character called Grime takes on unnerving new properties. At an after-work gathering someone gets his tooth knocked out by accident. Inter-cubicle relations are further complicated and etiolated by erroneously sent emails, crashed servers, unopenable documents, and fitful blogging. What is Operation JASON? By the book's final section, which takes a dramatic, Cheever-esque detour into a first-person voice, we are beginning to be acquainted with a deep and lasting level of derangement. These places, in case anyone needs to be reminded, drive you crazy.

Park is one of the founding editors of the literary monthly The Believer, a publication I have always resented for its peculiar and persistent quality of delightfulness, like that of a gifted child whose prattle is distracting his parents from serving the drinks. In the wake of his novel, though, I see that I will probably have to revise this sullen prejudice, because Personal Days is another thing altogether -- neither anxiously nor prodigiously brilliant, but quite maturely and pitilessly so. --James Parker

James Parker is the author of Turned On: A Biography of Henry Rollins (Cooper Square Press). He is a staff writer for the Boston Phoenix.

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Product Details

  • ISBN-13: 9780224082419
  • Publisher: Cape, Jonathan Limited
  • Publication date: 5/28/2008

Meet the Author

Ed Park is a founding editor of The Believer and a former editor of the Voice Literary Supplement. His writing has appeared in The New York Times Book Review and many other publications. He lives in Manhattan, where he publishes The New-York Ghost.
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Read an Excerpt

Personal Days

A Novel

By Ed Park Random House Trade Paperbacks

Copyright © 2008 Ed Park
All right reserved.

ISBN: 9780812978575

Chapter 1

Who died?
On the surface, it’s relaxed. There was a time when we all dressed crisply, but something’s changed this summer. Now while the weather lasts we wear loose pants, canvas sneakers, clogs. Pru slips on flip-flops under her desk. It’s so hot out and thus every day is potentially casual Friday. We have carte blanche to wear T-shirts featuring the comical logos of exterminating companies, advertising slogans from the early ’80s. Where’s the beef? We dress like we don’t make much money, which is true for at least half of us. The trick is figuring out which half. We go out for drinks together one or two nights a week, sometimes three, to take the edge off. Three is too much. We make careful note of who buys a round, who sits back and lets the booze magically appear. It’s possible we can’t stand each other but at this point we’re helpless in the company of outsiders. Sometimes one of the guys will come to work in a coat and tie, just to freak the others out. On these days the guard in the lobby will joke, Who died? And we will laugh or pretend to laugh.

The Sprout
In summer the Sprout, our boss, suggests we form a softball team. His name is actually Russell. We refer to him as the Sprout, because
Russell->Brussels->brussels-> sprouts-> the Sprout.

No one knows who came up with the name first.
We’re incredibly mature.
Also once in a while he has a bit of comb-proof hair sprouting from his scalp’s left rear quadrant.
Jonah says it’s hard to take the Sprout seriously because he’s always using i.e. and e.g. in his sentences, vigorously but interchangeably, a mark of weak character.
He sometimes gives us little salutes when he sees us in the hall. Lately he’s been flashing the peace sign. Sixty-five percent of the time he acts like he’s our friend but we should remember the saying: Friends don’t fire friends.

Sticks and carrots
Sixty-five percent of the time is what the Sprout would call a guesstimate. He’s always breaking things down into precise percentages. He used to be almost normal to talk to, but now he’ll ask if we’re on the same page and say something is a no-brainer, all in a single sentence. It’s not just the frequency of these expressions but their haphazard use. Last week he told Laars to think outside the box. They were talking about which size manila folders worked best. Afterward he said, Keep me in the loop and let’s touch base next week. Pru has wondered if the Sprout, a proud native of Canada, is taking a class in annoying American English. His new thing is a variation on I gave you a carrot, but I also need to show you the stick. So far this month, he’s said it to Pru, to Jack II, to Laars. So show us already, Pru complains to Lizzie.
The Sprout understands that it sounds a little sadistic, and lets us know he recognizes this menacing aspect, at the same time wanting us to understand that he doesn’t actually mean it in that way. Jonah’s take on it is that he must mean it in that way, or else he’d use another phrase.

A league record
Softball is a morale-boosting carrot that the Sprout most likely has read about in a handbook or learned at that seminar he goes to every March. Morale has been low since the Firings began last year. Pru says morale is a word thrown around only in the context of its absence. You never look at a hot young thing and say, Check out that spring chicken, but only use it to describe your great-aunt: She’s no spring chicken.
Pru has a point. We tend to trust her, with her serious eyebrows and inevitable skeptical hmmm. She went to graduate school. We think it was in art history, but maybe it was regular history, the kind without the art.
We decide to give softball a shot. There are eight of us. In decreasing order of height: Laars, Jack II, Lizzie, Jonah, Jenny, Crease, Pru, Jill. We need a ninth, and Jack II happens to bump into Otto, who used to be in IT. He is now working somewhere in midtown and clearly has too much time on his hands.
It might be nice to rejuvenate our comically untoned bodies. Too many of us have been eating bagels at our desks, too many mornings in a row. We look like we’ve been squeezed out of a tube and haven’t quite solidified. Everyone has issues with posture except Lizzie, a corseter’s dream.
Laars and Jenny are the only ones who have ever played softball before—Laars at his last job, Jenny as a seven-year-old. The concept: You try to hit the ball hard but without so much upward arc that someone can catch it. Then you run in a square, or more properly a diamond, making sure to step on each base and not get tagged by someone bearing the ball. There are other rules that we never quite iron out.
Lizzie is having trouble seeing the carrot aspect of the game.
We buy mitts, glove oil, cleats. Laars buys two aluminum bats and two wooden ones. He buys a third kind of bat, a titanium hybrid that looks like a nuclear warhead. Laars can be seen doing push-ups near the storage area, counting off under his breath.
We have jerseys and caps printed with our emblem, a buxom elf winking and holding a pool cue. Jill found it on some Finnish clip-art site.
We prematurely end our season after losing the first game 17–0, said to be a league record. What’s left of our morale seeps away. We never see Otto again. All the gear gets returned, except the jerseys and caps. Autumn approaches, the air too cool for the jerseys, but we still wear the hats sometimes.

The cult of Maxine
Maxine never officially joined the softball team but bought a jersey from Jill, cutting the collar to create a plunging V. She still wears it on occasion, even as the weather turns nippy.
Maxine towers over us in her medium heels. She makes us feel like hobbit-folk, with our stained teeth and ragamuffin outfits. With the exception of Laars, we have zero upper body strength. We are moderately proud of our youthful haircuts and overpriced rectangular eyeglasses but that’s about it.
She smells great and we are all basically obsessed with her. It has to seriously stop, Lizzie says. Crease calls her aggressively hypnotic and can hardly bear to be within a twenty-yard radius. He sometimes crosses himself after she passes.
Her hair! Jack II will e-mail, out of the blue. Everyone knows whose hair he’s talking about.
Sharing an elevator ride alone with Maxine can be intensely disorienting. We try to avoid it. Several times of late, while waiting for the elevator at the end of the day, Crease has sensed Maxine’s approach, her distinctive shoe-clack sending him darting in the other direction. In similar situations, Jenny has been known to mumble to herself, giving the impression that she’s forgotten something at her desk. Jenny likes boys but sometimes when Maxine is in the room she’s not so sure.
Laars says Maxine smells like the exquisite blossom of a rare hybrid fruit that you can only find at this one stall in a market in Kuala Lumpur.
The worst is when you turn the corner and you see her and you want to say Hi in a normal way but all that happens is your mouth opens and you make a little croaking sound or make no noise at all. It was Jules, no longer among us, who first identified this phenomenon.
There is so much to take in. Not just her clothes or lack of clothes, not just her amazing hair, but her entire philosophy of being. You can detect an aspect of the beauty queen in her looks and high-gloss appearance, her attention-yanking laugh and borderline moronic statements. But Pru has argued, in the landmark case Pru v. Jonah, that she’s not only not stupid but definitely more accomplished than the rest of us. We don’t know what’s on that résumé, but it doesn’t matter—she’s got that magic, that spark, utterly unclouded by self-doubt.
Maxine is on a different track than the rest of us. She entered the office at a higher level and we’ll never catch up. By the time we reach her current position—in the event we haven’t burned out, drifted away—she’ll have scaled even greater heights, afloat on a cloud of boundless confidence and even more tantalizing scents. All of this should be illustrated in the manner of a medieval vision of the afterlife.

Lizzie is lying
Empirically speaking, Maxine’s not so hot, according to Lizzie, the nicest of us. This is what passes for dissent in our little group. I seriously don’t see the appeal.
In time Lizzie comes to share our fascination, albeit in a different way. For Lizzie what’s interesting is the phenomenon of Maxine worship, rather than her actual qualities. She compares it to when we all obsessed over that reality show in which ambitious people our age backstabbed and slept with each other in order to become chefs at an exclusive French restaurant, and then the restaurant turned out not to exist.

Let’s not and say we did
Maxine’s latest e-mail bears the subject line Let’s Talk About SEX.
No, moans Pru, dreading yet another sexual-harassment seminar. We never had one before Maxine came to the company. The seminars produce the opposite of the intended effect, making us feel like sex maniacs, but at least they’re better than the mental health seminars the Sprout used to hold. Those made us depressed, even violent—Laars once punched the wall by the bulletin board so hard that his hand has never been the same. He blames this injury for his subpar softball performance.
Today Maxine makes wanton eye contact with the seminar leader, a lawyer named George. She’s wearing a sheer shirt known commonly as that shirt. Pru knows the brand and everything.
George looks like he’s just come back from vacation and is about to go on another one. His relaxed manner is exhausting to contemplate. All of us secretly wonder why we didn’t go to law school, and also whether it’s too late.
It is.
The gist of the meeting is that you should never date anyone in the office, ever. You should also be extremely careful about what you say to someone of the opposite or indeed the same sex. Many seemingly harmless sentences, phrases, even words, and actually individual letters can be construed as harassing. Never say anything about what somebody’s wearing. Also, just to be safe, don’t wear anything too revealing.
We all frown and gaze at Maxine in her flesh-colored mesh number. The hypocrisy, the everything, is too much.
Jonah says, Don’t we need eros in order for commerce to happen? in that affected pensive tone he sometimes adopts, a pause every two words.
Do we? Admittedly, it’s a stumper. None of us really knows. He sits up straight, strokes his chin in agitation. The tips of his ears go scarlet with rage. He should have been a philosophy professor or a union organizer for sooty paperboys. He says that, by the logic of the seminar, the subject line of Maxine’s e-mail constitutes sexual harassment of sorts. He slaps the table—case closed!
The rest of us don’t say anything, partly because we’re afraid the Sprout is taking notes and will fire us, but mostly because we are getting hungry and have lost the will to fight. Usually at these meetings there’s a stack of sandwiches and coffee—what the Sprout would call a carrot—and sometimes actual, literal carrots. But not today. Lizzie nudges Pru. The Sprout is in the corner, eyes narrowed in concentration, chin planted in chest. Jonah’s remarks have sent him deep into thought, so deep that he’s actually sleeping.

The outside world
As we’re filing out, George, the lawyer, asks Maxine, Grab lunch?
Just like that.
Two words.
She beams at the prospect. Our jaws fall off their hinges and Crease mimes shooting himself in the head.
Lizzie goes foraging for Claritin and Red Bull. Does anyone want anything from the outside world? she asks.
On the way to the drugstore she spies George and Maxine sliding into his car, a silver BMW.
Maxine is gone for the rest of the day. We have all been monitoring the situation intently. Laars says something critical of BMWs, German engineering, the legal profession as a whole. Laars rides his bike to work when he can. Today he wears a faded long-sleeved T advertising a New Jersey swimming pool company, the white letters nearly washed away, a recent flea market find. What could Maxine possibly see in George? Pru points out that George wears a clean shirt, the kind with buttons.

Is Maxine one of us? One of them? For the first few months we were under the misapprehension that she was someone’s secretary, but then we started getting memos from her, some with a distinctly shape-up/ship-out undercurrent.
She might even outrank the Sprout. The subject merits closer, more fanatical observation. Could it be that the Sprout reports to her?
Pru tells us how all of the Sprout’s issues about working for such a practically mythological creature as Maxine get inflicted on us. His lust for her leads to his hatred of us, roughly. His fear of her makes him want us to fear him.
As Pru talks, she flowcharts it on a pad, little multidirectional arrows and FEAR in huge letters.

The cc game
Against the advisement of George, Maxine will sometimes compliment us on our hair or other aspects of our scruffy appearance. The next day, or even later the same day, she’ll send an all-caps e-mail asking why a certain form is not on her desk. This will prompt a peppy reply, one barely stifling a howl of fear:

Hey Maxine!
The document you want was actually put in your in-box yesterday around lunchtime. I also e-mailed it to you and Russell. Let me know if you can’t find it!

P.S. I’m also attaching it again as a Word doc, just in case.

There’s so much wrong here: the fake-vague around lunchtime, the nonsensical Thanks, the quasi-casual postscript. The exclamation points look downright psychotic. Laars plays what he calls the cc game, sending the e-mail to the Sprout as well. You should always rope in an outside witness in order to prove your competence or innocence. On the other hand, this could be seen as whining.
Maxine never writes back. The Sprout will not get around to Laars’s e-mail for a week. He doesn’t like to deal with the petty stuff, though it could also be argued that he doesn’t like to deal with the big stuff, either.
He will study the e-mail for a few seconds, frown, and then delete it.


Excerpted from Personal Days by Ed Park Copyright © 2008 by Ed Park. Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

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Customer Reviews

Average Rating 3.5
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  • Posted October 8, 2008

    more from this reviewer

    Funny and Compelling

    Initially, the book is funny and the situations immediately identifiable to anyone who's worked in a corporate environment. Much of the first section of the book is dedicated to mockery of modern management styles and the abuses of the English language that often accompany them. But the odd first-person-plural narrative comes off as somewhat gimmicky and, initially, there's not much difference between most of the characters and little sense of plot. But this changes throughout the book and it really picks up some speed and an interestingly menacing tone towards the end. The relationships hinted at in the final section come off as a bit forced and I'd have liked a little more character development in the beginning to justify it - but still, it does come together quite nicely and in general this is a great book.

    1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted May 22, 2008

    A reviewer

    I read this book in 2 days. It's a short, easy, fun read. Having worked in an office for too many years, I totally related to many of the characters in the story. I read fiction here & there as a break from my business and computer books, & this is the best I've read in the last year. I was actually laughing aloud! Alone. Definitely recommend to those who have worked in office buildings. You are the ones who will really get it!

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  • Anonymous

    Posted May 23, 2008


    disclaimer - i don't work in an office environment, so perhaps that contributes to my missing the point. very reminicent of the show 'the office'. almost to the point of it being a rip-off. i expected more than just the typical interoffice drama. was hoping for something a little more disturbing. for me the only disturbing aspect was the entire book being 1 to 4 paragraph long chapters until the last chapter. that one goes on forever and for no darned good reason.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted January 6, 2009

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    Posted May 30, 2009

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  • Anonymous

    Posted September 22, 2010

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  • Anonymous

    Posted February 20, 2009

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