Being passive aggressive is a highly criticized tactic these days. I should know, because I harp on that shit all day long. I’m all UGH JUST FUCKING USE YOUR WORDS ASSHAT, and then when they do and their words are just as passive aggressive as their tantrum addled maneuvering, I happily sing them a rhyming couplet about the leaking diaper of their adulting to the tune of Hey Jude. Fuck a passive aggressive sock puppet in its non-ear with a cactus.
I mean…that said, though.
Like, come on. Being passive aggressive intentionally is its own reward. You know it, and I know it. There’s nothing more affirming than seeing someone’s self-righteous clown patronus parading around as a belligerent Facebook status, and then coincidentally posting a series of articles on the unrelenting unfuckability of clown patroni. Particularly if you’ve tried to talk to Chester about his trifling yeti-footed ego and the zero people ensconced with his faux humility I mean endless handkerchiefs, and he was, each and every time, unsurprisingly not receptive.
There’s nothing more freeing than watching Debra futz at the counter because she put her pretzels on it and you hate her so you moved them to the other side of the room.
There’s nothing more invigorating than shrugging benignly at her when she fumes about how she just saw them there.
There’s nothing as uplifting as watching her complain about her low blood sugar and famine while you chomp peacefully on her pretzels from behind the office divider.
There’s nothing as deliciously sweet as offering to lend her a dollar so she can get some skittles at the vending machine for that low sugar.
There’s nothing as magically timed as watching her realize that she must now eat skittles because either her sugar is low or it isn’t.
Wait, what was this post about?
Oh right. Fuck passive aggressive people. Grow up. Gawd.