I’m thinking about retirement twofold. First, there’s putting on my PJs and snoozing my night away. Definitely a worthwhile endeavor.

Then there’s the real retirement. The one where I don’t have to work anymore and I use Medicare and I live as frugally as I can off Social Security. Or maybe I get two, three bucks in the bank enough to eat gruel and thrill to the sounds of the oldies.

Yeah, that’s the retirement that keeps me dreaming.

Alternatively, I want all offices everywhere in America, all of the world, every fucking corner to get a special “fuck you” policy. It’s a magic idea. Simple. Easy to execute. No downside, just catharsis.

Here’s the plan. Every six months say, each employee in an office cubicle, maybe a few offices, but mainly the cubicle rats, they get a free, as in pain free, penalty free, giant FUCK YOU. You just get to tell someone who pisses you off enough, that one simple phrase.

But you only get the two a year, so you gotta fucking conserve. Gotta bide your time, wait to execute. When the moment comes, though, it’s poetry. It’s brevity. It’s the soul of wit and it’s fucking work hell salvation.

Today, I would have invoked mine. I actually probably could have done it, probably could have gotten away with it, escaped unscathed. Could have said my fuck you, and no one would have been the wiser, given the hearer was mobile.

It didn’t roll off the old tongue, though. Instead, I went the route of karma and kept it all civil.

But, if only the world would think of my plan. Fuck you and move on.